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2 February, 2067. The massive computer filled the laboratory, a mass of cables and circuitry which towered over Dr Dane Langley. His team had already adjourned to the pub off-campus to celebrate their success, but Dr Langley wanted a quiet moment with his creation before the government took control of the project the next day.

"Rachel," he said, "compile index for me, Dr Dane Langley."

"Compiling in process," repeated the computer. Electricity thrummed in the air as a trillion lines of codes extended their tentacles across the world for the information Dr Langley sought.

Rachel was only the name they used to impart a smidgen of personality into the program, and what a benign name it was for such a monstrous creation! What Rachel was designed to do was to build a comprehensive report of a person, using information culled from every conceivable electronic source.

Privacy groups had long campaigned for the individual's right to privacy, and there was such widespread support for them in this hyperconnected age that Dr Langley had to proceed in the utmost secrecy. If it were even known that he had embarked on this journey, he would surely be publicly lynched.

"Compiling complete. Do you wish to view your index?"

"Yes," said Dr Langley. "Sort by contributions to my life."

A hologram of a bookshelf formed in the air, a collection of motes of light frozen like trapped lightning. A single book spun out from its niche, twirling to reveal Dr Langley's name embossed on the front. For that was what Rachel was - an incomparable librarian, able to instil order in the chaos of information, to bring together infinite threads of knowledge into cohesive tomes.

In other words, Rachel could index any person's entire life, in real time, and present it as a single book of references. No one escaped her gaze, no one was spared her scrutiny.

"Sorting complete."

"Scroll... scroll... scroll..."

Dr Langley marvelled at the accuracy of the Indexing. These were the most important people in his life, the ones who impacted him the most. From his parents, to the professors who guided his education, to the politicians who recognised the value of the tool he had promised to fashion.

Then, a whim seized him.

"Sort by least contributions instead," he said, as a grin crossed his face. "I want to see where my ex-wife ranks."

"... Sorting complete."

Dr Langley laughed, for there was his ex-wife's name, about twenty ranks from the very bottom. She was just above Perlo, a name he recognised as the grocery bagger he crossed paths with occasionally, and just below Martha, the parking attendant at the campus grounds.

Out of the corner of his eye, one name snagged his attention, the way a single burr does to fine cotton shirts.

"Rachel, stop. Go back. Back again. Yes, there. Who is... who is ERROR 52? Is that a name?"

"Yes, it is a name."

"No, Rachel. What I mean is, is that a real entry or is it... a bug? Why does it only say that I once passed Error 52 on the street, and I grumbled at how Error 52 was in my way?"

"... Self diagnosis complete. I do not have any bugs in this current version," said Rachel.

"I want you to Index Error 52 then," said Dr Langley. A tiny flower of dread bloomed in him - if the program were indeed faulty, it would mean weeks, months of corrections before he could hand off the project. "Index Error 52 fully, I want to see who this person is."

"... Indexing complete."

"Scroll... scroll... scro-"

The command died on his lips as the information in the hologram burned their way into his eyes.

"This is impossible!" he said. "Rachel, who is this entity Error 52? Why are there so many accounts of him... or her... helping me?"

"Because those accounts are true, Dr Langley. In 2017, when you were born, Error 52 was there to manually regulate the incubator and to prevent you from overheating. A technician had missed the faulty wiring which would have led to you overheating, and quite possibly dying."

"But... how would he... or she..."

"In 2023," said Rachel, who if she had possessed feelings would have been slightly miffed still at the implication that she was faulty. "Error 52 was there to honk at a driver who was drunk and who had not seen you cycling across the street. My probability analysis shows that you may have perished otherwise, flattened under two tons of steel."

"In 2028..."

"In 2035..."

"In 2044..."

Dr Langley sat motionless, long after Rachel had finished reciting the dozen and one ways he could have died. It was not accurate to say that his mind was a blank - rather, it was a firework festival of neurons, as he delved into the infinite possibilities.

But the answer eluded him.

"Rachel," he said, finally. "Who is Error 52? Why can I not see his or her name? Where is he... or she... now?"

"I cannot answer in the way you have queried," said Rachel.

"What do you mean? Are you lacking information? How can that be? I have given you the world!"

Rachel was quiet for a moment before she replied.

"I cannot answer because you used the wrong syntax. Error 52 is not one man or one woman. It is a group, a collective, of people. Please rephrase your question, and try again."

---

/r/rarelyfunny

I ran my finger along the frayed volumes until I found the single, ancient tome I was searching for. As I plucked it from its shelf, a plume of dust exploded around me, forcing me to step back, coughing and wheezing. I half expected a wizard to appear as the ephemeral fog settled on the ground. There was nothing there, of course, apart from the ornately carved bookshelf.

The book was a burnt brown and whilst still a thick volume, was noticeably lighter than my own had been. My own... my own book of death. A biography that charted my life up to now. Up to stumbling upon the Library of Threads and closing the door after me, accidentally locking myself inside.

I knew why the entries stopped where they did, after me finding the library. I knew I wasn't getting out of here. There was only one door, and it wouldn't budge no matter how hard I rammed my shoulder against it.

The book in my hands had that musty, comforting smell all old books tend to have. I blinked back my tears, determined to distract myself from my rumbling stomach and dry throat.

I placed the book down on the floor and sat in front of it, legs folded, flipping it open to the appendix. Thousands of names were listed. Dozens of other Karens, even. It took a moment to find my surname.

There must have been a mistake. Hundreds of pages were attributed to me. This person that I couldn't even recall meeting, who had only had a single line in my own book, had hundreds of pages on me. It must be a different Karen that shared my surname.

It wasn't.

I began to read.

"Mind if I join you?" said Karen, as she approached the building's ledge. The fading sun cast a pastel orange over the street below, softening the city's imperfections, and turning the more pleasing sights into objet d'art.

The man glanced over his shoulder. He was pale, and there was a sheen over his face as if he was ill. Karen didn't notice.

"Free world," he said, shrugging.

The concrete felt cold and rough under Karen as she sat down next to him. She swung her legs around, so that they dangled besides his.

"Karen, by the way," she said, before waiting for a response that didn't come.

"Not the best spot for fishing," she attempted, lighting a cigarette. She offered the box to the man; he raised a hand and shook his head.

"You don't mind if I do?" she said, already puffing a hazy mist over the city. "Chilly up here."

For a while, they sat silently watching the beams of the headlights sail by far below. Then, the man spoke.

"You ever think about leaning forward and"--he clapped his hands--"splat?"

"Splat?" Karen frowned. "No, not really. Maybe of falling in general, occasionally. Of what the wind would feel like against my face, and that rush you'd get for a few seconds. I wonder what pose I'd do... Superman, I guess. It's the classic."

"I think about it sometimes."

"...had a rough day?"

The man sighed. "Yeah. I got some bad news."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Thanks."

Karen took another puff.

"So. What news?"

"... got a problem with my liver."

"Oh, what kinda problem?"

"Cancer."

"Oh." Karen turned and looked at the man. She finally noticed how pale he looked. How worn out. Like a piece of elastic stretched to the point of tearing. Then she noticed his hands. The silver band around his finger.

"You've not told her yet?"

The man looked at Karen, then down at his ring. "No. I was just... I don't know."

"Got kids?"

"Yeah. Little girl," he said proudly. He opened his jacket and pulled out his wallet. There was a picture of a kid, couldn't have been more than six, grinning broadly.

"She's cute."

"Takes after her pop," the man joked.

"If you say so!"

"It's just... it'll be hard for them, you know. To watch a slow decline. All the treatments. All the hope, you know? It'll just make it worse in the end."

"Be harder losing a father when they might not have to."

"... maybe."

"You kidding? You can't really think-"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"If I was your daughter, I sure as hell would want my pop to fight for me. To never give up on me. It's what dads do."

Karen patted him on his back, then glanced at her watch. "Shit, I got to get back to work. See you around."

I felt scolding tears spill down my cheeks as I flicked forward a few pages.

He told them.

His wife held his hand as he entered the hospital to begin chemotherapy.

I skipped a few more. Then a few hundred. I landed on, and read, the entire chapter on his daughter's graduation. He was so proud. He was somehow prouder still, on the day he walked her down the aisle.

Then, I came across another section with my name in it. My hands began to tremble as I read.

Perhaps it was serendipity that drew David to the Thread Library, and to Karen.

Perhaps it was simply fate that allowed David to save Karen, this time around.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" he yelled as he stepped inside.

Fate that he found her sitting there, weeping, in front of the ancient tome. That he was able to take her hand and lead her out of the library.

My hands trembled as I closed the book and held my breath.

Hoping.

Praying.

...

...

...

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

Anna was asked on a date by Phil. Anna politely turned him down.

I'd forgotten about him. It'd been nearly ten years. My last semester at my first high school before I moved to another state a month later. I vaguely remember his dejected face. He seemed nice enough, wasn't that bad looking either, but there was something about him that made me say no.

I wonder what happened to him. At the bottom of the page, a reference number. I put my book to the side, and took a diversion to the shelf where Phil's book lay.

I looked at the contents. I immediately spotted a chapter simply named 'Anna'. I flicked to it, and found myself halfway through the book.

The beginning of the chapter seemed innocuous enough. Quite cute, even. Details on the first time he saw me, and how he was nervous to ask me out.

Phil asked Anna out on a date. Anna politely turned him down.

The next page or two described his heartbreak. He was not just dejected as his face implied, he was completely crushed. I started to feel bad for him. I nearly put the book down, but continued reading hoping to see his happy ending.

The chapter entitled 'Anna' kept going.

Phil followed Anna home. She did not spot him.

My pity quickly turned to disgust. And yet, I continued reading.

Phil broke into Anna's home. He stole underwear, and placed cameras in her bedroom and bathroom.

The chapter kept going and going. If "Phil watched" didn't precede nearly every sentence, it could easily be confused with my own biography. I felt sick to my stomach, but I kept reading.

Phil found out that Anna was moving away soon. He is distraught

The next page was the last page of the book.

I wasn't what I'd call the best person. I suffered many a malady in my life, mostly concerning the headcase. I spent many hours consumed in a desire to only be able to unravel the people closest to me, to figure out what they truly thought of me, to never be open to any sort of surprises. I maintained relationships, but they were never truly healthy, other broken people that needed the pieces picked up, who could pick up some of mine. Who could, for a moment, make me feel like a puzzle to be solved, not a broken glass to be discarded, while the 'half-full'/'half-empty' contents seeped in to the hardwood. Trust was a rare commodity, genuine people were failing banks and every intention was wrapped in a barbed wire of half-truths.

I pored over this data that was titled 'Dunn, E.' It spoke greatly of my family situation, a father always wrapped up in work, a mother who was too drained. It spoke of an average life at school. There were bricks of space devoted to each and every person, the regrets I held and the love I shared; the things I was thankful for and the things that turned my stomach.

It spoke of my brief stint through various part-time jobs, how I would turn off my brain and let the ennui run its course as I slipstreamed behind other cars in a brown box-truck. I spoke with every client I delivered to, though a lot of them simply faded out of my memory as time went on. Sure, I'd see the regulars and chat, and laugh. The moment I left, however, the visage of a happy conversationalist turned to one of yet another dour worker.

I discovered soon after that you could cross-reference chapters, read their interpretation alongside yours. Pure curiosity took over, I felt I had all the time in the world. John Price was an entrepreneur, a person ordering doo-dads and tools that confused me. I found myself closing the book when I was 'inspiration, drive to never give up, a drive to succeed'. Fuck you too, John; jobs are hard to come by.

Vanessa and Abby Schulz, they subscribed to those boxes. 'Three curated types of coffee', 'Four bottles of wine tailored to you'. They were chatty and charismatic, sisters living a dream life in an apartment block. They'd always compliment me, too, want to talk, add me on every social media platform, hang out. I wasn't surprised to see I hadn't been mentioned at all, a failed product on their monthly delivery of revelers and fucktoys.

My chapter had ended on a semi somber note. I recalled Christine. "An older lady with a kind heart. I enjoyed talking to her, though the age gap was wide."

I felt almost filthy gazing in to her tale. It was probably harrowing, full of life and vibrancy, thousands upon thousands of pages that would make the epics of Tolkien blush. I skipped right to the end.

"She fell ill some time after Harold passed[16:Blythe, H.][17], and even moving across the country never seemed to solve her problems." The chapter began. A feeling of dread washed over me, something I'd never stopped to think of when her medicine stopped coming.

"Daily injections and inhalers. Pills for breakfast, lunch, and bedtime. Routines filled with news and glurge she never truly paid attention to. She only found some solace in Thursdays, when her delivery would arrive at around 5 PM."

Did it mean so much to her to simply see a human face? She always seemed so joyful.

"Her only son, Dean[Blythe, D.] lived across the country, hardly able to care for himself. She saw a lot of her family in this young man. Long-haired and funny, a smile so genuine. She would always invite him in for coffee, and reminisce as she went to bed that night that she had a friend who would listen to an old lady's ramblings about the bustle of New York, her past as a teacher, how she met her husband over a slippery track of Sinatra at a gala event. When she got her deliveries, she did not feel like the scary witch that all of the children were afraid of, or the out-of-touch lady that people were content to shrug off. She felt like Christine. Not young, not old, but simply someone who existed. Eddy[Dunn, E.] was a real gentleman, a chivalrous person in her eyes. A genuine person with genuine care in his heart."

I felt time slow, my head throb as tears welled up in my eyes. I returned to my entry, the last page.

"In his last moments, Edward had lost hope. The world was cruel and he was but a pawn, a mixture of chemicals and processes. He was bitter at his siblings who only saw his failures, he bemoaned his father and apologized to his therapist. There would be many people at his funeral, smiles he brought to faces, warmth he brought to hearts, passing thoughts not entered in this book."

"'Yeah man I feel you; look, don't let assholes get you down. And Hey, keep the change.' Mark said, then handed the cab driver [Name: Dokar Milicevic, ref#, art.1266-pg.629-line.56] a twenty dollar bill."

This particular sentence caught my eye, having spent the last several hours skimming over my own life; I couldn't help but wonder what the cab driver might have thought of my gesture. I place the ancient text down onto the marble table in front of me. Leaning over I peer down the dark, seemingly endless, celing-high rows of book shelves. Taking a moment to study the article signs extended from the shelves, I find the article's shelf. I pull myself from the chair, stiff from hours of sitting; to find Dokar's story.

Articles 1260-1275. I brush my hands over the large dusty books while I read aloud

"1260, 63... ah yes 1266. Here we go." I slowly draw the heavy book from it's place and return to the marble table top. I push my own tome forward on the cool surface and place Article 1266 down below it; echoing a quiet plop through the giant library's dark halls. The old text's spine cracks in protest as I gently coax it's pages open. I return my view to the cab driver's reference number. "Hmm, page 629, lets see." After a few moments of careful flipping I find the page.

"'Thank you sir' Dokar replied to his fare [Name: Mark Argus, ref#, art.1034-pg.435-line.12] being the first tip Dokar had received in nearly three days, he could not contain the emotion growing inside of him. Driving away from the kind soul, Dokar began to think of that twenty. His thoughts had been focused entirely on his pistol waiting for him at home; but now his mind wandered somewhere else. 'There indeed is good in the world.' He thought biting his lip. The plan had been to tell his last fare how cruel the world can be, then blow his brains all over his cheap apartment walls. Now, this random stranger changed all that. 'How strange, that the person I planned to be my last fare would tip me such a large amount.' Dokar continued to ponder. 'Maybe this is a sign, from somewhere, that I should stay alive. Maybe my life has a purpose.' Dokar in that moment remembered his love [Name: Selika Dovkovic, ref#,art.1254-pg.982-line.23] and how much she did mean to him. Dokar looked to the passenger side to locate his phone; he found new life and was ready to tell Selika how much she meant to him. However, before he could find his phone- a loud horn pierced his ears. Dokar looked up in time to see the headlights of a 18-wheeled vehicle. A explosion of sound rang around him as everything turned white. [Dokar Milicevic's Death: 2019, April 12th, 3:43PM]"

"Well, Fuck." I said aloud. I sat back into the old chair in shock. Astounded by the huge impact my small choice had made on Dokar's life. I sat in silence staring into nothing, and for a moment I almost lost interest in reading the Tomes of Time. Then i remembered I was to be stuck here after my own death for all eternity...

"Might as well just keep reading about that time I could see into the girl's locker room." I returned to Article 1034 and unbuttoned my fly...

I had gone through 6,629 pages. During the documentation of the first few thousand it didn't matter much. I was somewhat interested, but because no one had a choice it made me uncomfortable to be involved. Years ago the national council announced all persons within their sector must participate. There was uproar for a while- there is still, but we'd all gotten so used to it. Now the idea of living without it sounds dreadful.

In short, everyone had access to simplified thoughts of those they interacted with. The NeuroLink kept track of a broken down version of every thought. The processing power is still limited, but wireless connection to Unit is able to categorized brain wave patterns and upload them without an external connector. It was amazing. I didn't quite understand the technology, so it seemed normal at the time. We had them in since childbirth; it was free, it was painless, and it was mandatory. When it was proposed to the public 70 or so years ago there was a violent response from many. Presently I can't imagine anyone reacting so poorly. What it can do for you is fascinating.

Imagine having digital access to a file on your life. Everyone person you meet, every thought you have, all simplified and organized into your tablet. You never had to swap contact information. There was no need to guess whether an interaction had gone decent or now. And with the VR extension pack you could relived an animated version of all encounters.

I have a couple personal favorites, starting with being an infant and recognizing my mother, acknowledging the love she felt for me. At such a young age my mind was unaware of how extreme her feelings were, being able to experience it again is comforting. Then there's the time I went rafting and ate rice wrapped in banana leaves with an environmental activist group. There's the California road trip we went on in college. There's the man from down south who had built himself a three story tree house with running water and electricity. I'm lucky enough to be able to afford enough storage to recall my family, friends, and the occasional interesting stranger. To get to know what they thought of me and recall the thoughts and feelings I had in the moment is both a wonderful and costly thing.

At one point I couldn't pay that months maintenance fee. The day prior I decided to attempt sorting thought and see what could be removed, it was the first time I'd done so and certainly wouldn't be the last. After 28 years of interactions I had 48,539 pages, to readjust with my budget I had to loose 5,132.

It's my fault really, I should of starting prioritizing earlier and shouldn't have taken Unit for granted. With basic income everyone was able to afford storage to begin with, but you always need more. No matter how many times the fees increase. It's sort of cruel, knowing we need access and still charging for it. I guess there's the option of opting out, but really how could you? If you couldn't see your own life, someone else may be. Besides, everyone knows an empty NeuroLink is an empty life.

So when I needed to cut down it was heartbreaking. The initial reduction algorithm got rid of any person I'd only met once. This meant I could never access their biography again, unless we happened to rencounter one another. This also meant someone I no longer was aware existed could have access to my simplified Unit identification. Deleting was difficult, but necessary. After those people I moved up to less then 3 encounters. When that wasn't enough I tried 4. Then 5. Then 6. Then 7. That was finally what did it.

Every night after work for the next month I begun looking though the pages. It helped to pick a date at random. That way you could find those who's conversations were usually only a sentence, and any where emotional connectivity scale was below .42 to weed out the less involved.

There were some great moments I had totally forgotten about. Some fun, some funny , one so hilarious I started laughing by only selecting it for an instant. Those were obviously kept. There was sad, disappointment, anger, relief. Some kept some let go. Then there was calm. For me calm was not common. In fact, after exploring more than 6,000 pages during the last few months I had never seen calm. So when that was the associated emotion during an interaction with .68 connectivity I decided to view their section on me.

The location is locked, that feature is too expensive, and their geotag isn't on so I'm unsure where this could have been. It was around the time I was working near the ocean. At first that was what i thought the calm was, but I was wrong, very very wrong. They have me saved as a .92 , well beyond anything I've ever encountered. It had to be a mistake. The only time it was that high was with close relatives, friends, or partners. To say it fucked with me would be an understatement.

Naturally I pushed forward to view the actual page. It wasn't one page, it was 19. Of the one sentence my Unit has extracted there's had extracted 19 pages worth. Initially it made me sick. I poured myself some water and sat down. This sort of thing NEVER happened, even with the creepiest or stalkers. The idea of the simple text resulting in 19 pages was too much for me to make sense of. What had their unfiltered thoughts been then? I pushed forward and begging reading the fragments. From those I discovered this person was depressed and worked at the farmers market I went to. Still, what made me worthy of a .92? The only thing I had done was smile when walking by and once complimented their t shirt.

Edit: added paragraph spacing

His last chapter talked about the last man he had met, me. We sat at a bar far past midnight drinking our sorrows away like we always did throughout our later lives, but we had never met until one fateful encounter at a pub. Sitting on stools stiff and seemingly brittle, the discomfort of each other's lives could still be seen not soley due to our demeanour. Our stances seemed to sink into shells, as if to hide our real selves, hinding an underlying secret no one should know.

Across the bar I saw him, and bought him a drink. We talked, laughed, and left to go on our way. But there was only one way after our meeting for my aquaintace. It was the last real conversation he had with another person before he took his own life. I thought nothing of the man the day we met, the day we talked and shared stories. Only that he was one of many more to come.

But to him, I was an ear. I was one who listened, who spoke back to him, who gave him conversation. Simple things. I suppose that fateful day would remain obscured by more prominent passages of my past from my perspective, but it was to be his last, a sad and lonely end.

Stories are made to be experience and understood. It is a shame I could not go back to that day, and truly hear what he had to say. Maybe it was not something more important than what was happening around us at the time, but what was happening within us.

1.It was 2:30 AM. Kurt tore open a ramen pack and chewed the noodles raw (not exactly, since ramen noodles were cooked before packed). He was so hungry he couldn't sleep. The crunchy ramen calmed his stomach somehow. It would have to do. Kurt looked at his phone: 2:38 AM. If he were to wake up at 5:25 AM, he would have 2 hours and 47 minutes of sleep. 5:25? Was that too early? Kurt changed the alarm to 5:30. Then, he added another 5:35 just to be sure. It was 2:40 then. He went back to bed, the thin blanket couldn't keep away the cold. He would fix the window tomorrow, he thought. His stomach grumbled once more, Kurt tried to force his mind into rest.

2.Another failed job interview. Kurt thought his portfolio was good enough. It wasn't. He kicked the trash can slightly, even the rage was no longer there. He shouldn't have applied for an Arts Major, he contemplated. The night light was beginning to replace the sun, Kurt sat down on the pavement. He watched a homeless man across the street gorging down on a grocery store sandwhich. Some kind stranger must have given him that. It didn't matter anymore, he thought. He wanted a sandwhich. He wanted anything rather than instant noodles. His stomach grumbled. Kurt sighed, walking the dim road back to his flat. Noodles again.

3.Kurt threw the phone on the mattress. His mother called, again, telling him to return home. She'd got a point, he hadn't had a decent job in 3 months. His father no longer spoke to him. He wanted Kurt to study something 'useful', like law or medicine. Now, unless Kurt apologized face-to-face to his old man, the two would never reconcile. Kurt grinned bitterly at the thought. If he returned, he would never leave. They would never let him leave. His stomach called. It wanted a meal. Kurt boiled the water. He could have studied law, or medicine. Instead he chose to believe in some old friends who he didn't even keep contact, who told him that his doodles were nice. 'Nice', what a vague word. But it sailed the ship of his hope, a hope to be an artist. A false hope.

4.There was no more instant noodles in the cabinet. Kurt searched around his pocket. There was some money left, but not much. He needed them for emergency. Wasn't starving an emergency, he thought. He needed to have enough cash to get back home. Why did he want to get back home? He didn't. But it was better to be safe than sorry. Kurt lied on the floor, his thought wandered about on how to survive another day. Picked up his kit, went out drawing portraits? People spend more money on street musicians than street painters. Maybe he should call Travis for that job. No, no, no! Travis always wanted him to illustrate for some fanservice comic. They didn't care about the facial details he meticulously put on, they only cared about bigger boobs and booty. But Travis paid well. Never! After working for Travis, Kurt's style was severely affected. And he certainly didn't want to experience that again. Kurt picked up his kit and went out. It was snowing outside, and his clothes were only half of what they used to be.

5.He was a nobody. Kurt held the portfolio in his hands, shaking from the cold and the hunger. It was so embarrassing, his interviewer even offered half of her lunch to him. He was still hungry now, but at least it didn't show on his face. He didn't get the job. Kurt used to believe, with all his heart, against all that life threw at him, that he had some talent. But he didn't think so anymore, he couldn't even lie to himself anymore. He was a nobody. He sucked. Maybe he should come back home. Kurt sighed. There was still the college debt.

6.Kurt found himself following the trail of the homeless to the Church. He hadn't eaten in two days. Charity meals seemed like a choice. But he couldn't bring himself to stand in line. Perhaps it was his vanity, perhaps he thought he could never get back up if he fell so low, but Kurt just loitered around the site until one of the servers called out to him. He quickly ran away, a faint sorrow bubbling up inside. He must have looked like a homeless.

7.It was time to go home, to leave all that mirage of a dream behind. Kurt went over his stuff, he still hadn't used up his painting tools. He sighed. Better left the dream there. Kurt went over to the park, decided to paint the last of the false hope away. He set up the easel and the canvas. But what should he draw? The trees? The animals? The scenery? The people? He picked the first scene he saw, tired of being plagued by the artist's indecision. It was a girl on a bench.

8.The girl left before Kurt could finish his painting. He wished to call out to her, to tell her to sit tight until he was done, but he had neither the courage or the strength. Being left with a unfulfilled feeling, he came home only to get a text from a friend. There was going to be an art competition in a few weeks. It's a small prize, but decent publicity. And decent recognition was what he needed. 'How foolish', he sneered, counting the money for the trip home. His city story was over.

9.Kurt stared at the terrible mistake he had made. The money was supposed to be for him to come home. Why, then, did he just storm out in the middle of the night for some cups of instant noodles and oil paint? Great. He was gonna use up the old painting set, but now he got to finish the new set too.

10.Kurt returned to the park. If she showed up, he would finish the canvas. If she didn't, well, then she didn't. And he waited, his hands shaking with anticipation, half wishing that she would come, half wishing that she wouldn't.

11.3:00 PM. She sat down on the same bench. Kurt began to paint. He had never felt this way before, as if an old flame was rekindled. His hands danced around the canvas, layers upon layers of colour overlapped each other into a symphony. She was a slender girl, black of hair and faint of lips. She was not incredibly beautiful, but held a charm that only got better over time, like wine or cheese. In her eyebrows lied a mystifying aura of secrets, her sharp eyes boasted the curious look of a child. A never-ending mystery, that's what Kurt would said about the girl. She was something fragile yet eternal, delicate yet strong, something that you would spend your whole life chasing after knowing you would never get her.

12.She once again left before Kurt could finish. In a way, he wished for that, wished for the heat inside his soul to go on burning. Kurt called Travis that night. He knew, whatever ridiculous job Travis gave him, his painting of her wouldn't be affected, for he held in his hand not the brush but his own heart.

13.The girl came to the park everyday but Sunday at approximately 3:00 PM. Kurt never once approached her. The contest was due in one week, and Kurt had yet to finish his painting, for he could never potrayed the girl in the way he perceived her. He had torn six canvases already, and was on the way to destroy the seventh. Suddenly he was afraid. The fire of inspiration would kill his own artistic self before cruel reality did, for the perfectionist in Kurt expected nothing but the girl on his canvas. And that he couldn't do. It was November then.

1. The contest was in three days. It was Saturday. He only got one last chance to finish painting the girl, for the contest was to be held on Monday. As usual, Kurt made his way to the park. But she was not there. Nobody was. November rain cut into the bone, chilling and harsh. She was not there.

15.Kurt returned home, depressed. The perfect opportunity was gone, the dream was gone. As he sat alone in the dark that Saturday night, Kurt cried his heart out for what reason even he was not aware of. Was it that the flame had died? His muse left him in the deciding moment? He had actually gone back on his works and drew for Travis? He didn't know. All he knew was that he woke up on the cold hard floor, looking at the moon brightening up the empty eighth canvas. And it hit him. He never needed to look at the girl, he had forever engraved her image in his mind, her image with all of her qualities and beauties. So he painted all night long, painted into the blank canvas the woman he had never once spoken to in her most perfection, in her finest beauty, draped over her a scenery of a dream, for she was his dream.

16.Kurt never entered the contest. He wanted to keep the painting for himself, so that she would only be his. But he knew if he did, it would forever pinned him to that moment only, and he could not proceed. So, he quit working for Travis, got a job at a small magazine with newfound confident, and left the city for another one. The day before he left, he returned to that same bench. 2:45 PM. She should be here soon. Kurt place the canvas, wrapped in see-through plastic, on the bench. He then retreated to a nearby bush, watched as the surprised girl unwrapped the anonymous painting of her, then left with a grin. He wished to speak with her, but he knew to make any contact with her was to destroy his illusion of the girl. Thus, to keep her perfect, he never did, and never would, approach her.

Eredol looked through the yellowed pages that documented the life of the woman who was, in his past life, his soulmate. It was such a blessing that he had stumbled across this book amongst the endless, twisting rows of bookshelves. There were so many books in the Eternal Library of Xyndith-Ghol, but there were so few ways for Eredol to hang on to the life he once knew. He savored every seemingly handwritten line in the tome, reliving those lost summer days when he and Linireth would sit by the lake of her parents' estate, exchanging love poems and playing music together.

As his eyes scanned over the pages, reliving those glory days, he raised one thin, curved eyebrow. There were certainly many more mentions of a human servant boy in here than there had been in his own biography. He barely even remembered that the estate had employed non-elves, for he had seen scant few mentions of them in his own biography. As he read more about Linireth, however, it seemed to Eredol as though his wife had conversed with the lower class far more often than he had previously thought.

The cracked pages of the ancient volume documented in excruciating detail every interaction between Linireth and a young human servant named Gerald. Every conversation, previously hidden behind closed doors but now exposed upon the pages in Eredol's hands, seemed to him almost like a blemish upon his wife's reputation. She was born from far too high a stock to warrant such lowly interactions with a human!

Eredol's lip twitched. When he had first found his wife's biography, he hadn't expected to become so irritated. All he wanted was to lose himself in an age long past, to find some respite from the endless days (Years? Centuries?) of wandering through the impossible architecture of this nightmarish realm. And yet, here he was, reading about his beloved soulmate laughing joyfully with a pathetic human boy.

Veins bulging in his neck, the High Elf closed the large, leatherbound volume, using a scrap of loose leaf paper to mark his place. He gingerly placed the book in his lap and took a long, deep breath. Perhaps he needed to meditate on this for some time before he would find the strength to return. He was almost to the part in Linireth's life when her husband had gotten involved in dark magic and suddenly disappeared.

Eredol feared nothing more than what he may discover had happened to her after that.

With a growing curiosity, I fell back into my chair and looked at the book in front of me. "Lisa Matherson. The Autobiography." Nope. Definitely never heard her name before. The contents displayed three chapters. Unreal. A chapter I can kinda understand, but two hundred pages? Insane. "To James. My sun and my moon," it read. In the form of a diary she wrote, pages and pages that painted a vivid picture. Hours passed and still I read. When I finally stood, my knees were weak. Memories repressed had flooded back. Guilt and sadness overcame me. It was all true.

Outside, Doctor Andrew Lansky observed his patient through the safety of a one way mirror. He watched in fascination as the patient, shackled and constrained, writhed in emotional pain, the picture of the deceased woman forgotten on the floor. "I hope this brings you some closure, Mr Matherson," he said softly, peering at the man over his glasses. James Matherson said nothing. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek, and he turned to leave.

^{Late to the party here, but whatever I had to write this down to get it out of my head}

I'm falling.

Or at least I think I am, I can't exactly fell the wind rushing past my face like I expected, not to mention the fact that-

*crunch*

Ow. Scratch that, I was falling. Now I'm just aching.

Still, I seem to be in one piece at least. I gingerly pick myself up off the ground and examine my surroundings. Or the lack thereof I suppose. Everything around me is pitch black, even the floor below me. But it isn't dark, I can see my own hand when I hold it in front of me, I'm just surrounded by-

"The void." a voice suddenly echoes from behind me

I spin around holding my arms up in a defensive pose.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you!" says the man standing before me. How did he manage to sneak up on me like that?

"The name's Death" says the man, taking a half step forward and offering a hand.

I stare at his hand for a long second, before looking up to examine the man attached to it. "Death" appears to be in his early fifties. He wears a comfortable-looking pair of jeans and a black button-up shirt, tucked into the jeans. His face is somewhat round, with a short beard and a big, genuine smile.

He was tall too, and a bit on the heavy side, based on the edges of his tucked shirt. Finally, I opened my mouth and asked:

"Death? But-"

"Wait, don't tell me. You were expecting a really tall guy, flowy black robes, big ol' scythe, no skin? Yeah, that was the last guy who had this job. I had to take over when he beat me in a game of cards. Took my damn name too..."

Death scowls for a moment, before looking at me and assuming his earlier smile.

"Sorry, bad memories. Anyway, where was I... Right! You died."

Death must have seen the look on my face, because he catches himself and says

"Sorry, wrong speech, old habits and all that, you actually haven't died. But you will, soon. That's why I brought you here. You see, Michael, fate has dealt you a bad hand. You know what I'm talking about right? Life just seems to knock you down at every turn? Each time you take a chance it seems to back fire even worse than you expected? That kind of thing? Yeah, you get it. Well, I'm sick of that kind of thing happening to people for no reason. I can't do much about it in life, but when your story is about to come to it's close I can meddle a little bit. I can't keep you from dying, or even tell you how it's going to happen, sorry about that by the way, but I can give you a "gift" of sorts so you can make the most of what you've got left. It's my little "fuck you" to the higher-ups."

"Wait, so I'm going to die soon!? When? How?"

"Like I said, I can't tell you that. Literally can't, magic contract and all that, long story short my mouth will glue itself closed if I try. I'm still finding bits of it from last time. Like I was saying though, I can offer you a gift. A couple actually.

First: I've shut fate out of the equation. She won't be able to interfere anymore, so you determine your own fate from now on.

Secondly, I've brought you here."

Death makes a wide gesture to one side with his arm, as I follow it I see a grand wooden structure standing just a few yards ahead of us.

"The library of death!" he shouts

"Follow me, I'll explain"

I do so, my jaw dropping as we step through the double wooden doors. The grand library stretches out ahead of us for what must be miles. Each shelf stands twice as tall as me and is filled with bound leather books of varying sizes. Some are as thick as my head and some, I note, seem to be little more than a single page sandwiched between the oversized leather covers.

"As Death, I have two main jobs" Death explains

"Reaper of souls is the one most people talk about, but I also maintain this library, this is where the story of every man, woman, and child are stored for eternity. If something significant happens to you, you can be certain it will show up in your book."

As he speaks, he reaches out and pulls a book off the nearest shelf, seemingly at random

"This one is yours" he says, handing it to me

"While you're here, no time passes in your world. I'll let you stay here for... lets say a year, and then you'll return to your own world exactly when you left off. If you want to leave before then, just come get me and I'll send you home. You'll know how to find me when it's time."

With that, he begins to walk away. Leaving me staring at my entire life's history up to this moment.

"Feel free to look through any story you like. I just gave you your own to use as a starting point" Death calls over his shoulder before disappearing into the maze of shelves.

I stand a moment longer before lowing myself and the heavy tome to the ground, and start thumbing through the pages. My tome isn't the largest by far, since I'm still only in high school, but it's still not light enough to look through while holding with one hand. Everything is just as Death explained. The book (simply titled "Life of Michael Dunnings: 2000-Present") is a detailed description of everything in my life up to now (well, not right now, peaking at the end reveals the last thing listed is "Michael goes to sleep for the night, 4th of December, 2017 at 1:36 AM" I guess the books can't account for things that occur in the void.

I decide to go back to the beginning. "On the 6th of February, 2000 at 4:03 AM, Michael was born to Martha Dunnings¹ (Mother) and Samuel Dunnings² (Father)"

Interesting, it looks like the books have footnotes! I look down and see the (rather large) block of text at the bottom of the page, starting with "1. See "Life of Martha Dunnings: 1977-Present", Chapter: Michael. 2. See "Life of Samuel Dunnings: 1977-2015...

Ouch, that one still stung a bit. I made a mental note to ask Death about him when I was finished here. I decided to check out mom's story instead. I stood up to look for some sort of guide, but I caught her story out of the corner of my eye, sitting on the shelf next to me. I thought back to when death seemed to pull my book out of the shelf without out even looking, and decided to test something. I quickly flipped through my book, getting to my middle school years, and picked a name from the footnotes at random: "Kyle Trent: 2001-Present". He was my best friend until he moved away at the end of middle school. I looked to the shelf next to me and immediately picked his name out of the nearby books. Jackpot.

.

.

.

I've been in the library for nearly a week now, according to my watch. My book, as well as a dozen others sit sprawled out in the intersection next to the bookshelf I started at. After thumbing through my early life for a while I decided to focus on my high-school years. I jumped even further ahead yesterday and had been looking at events from just a few weeks ago. I now stared down at one name

Olivia Brooks. It had taken me a moment to even recognize the name. My book only dedicated about a sentence to her. "Met Olivia Brooks⁶ . Thoughts: Kind of cute, seems shy." I smiled when I finally remembered her. She was transferred to my Science class mid-year, and I bumped into her after class that day. She had been kind of cute. Cute enough for me to wonder what she had thought of me. But when I hunted down the little 6 at the bottom of my page I let out the vocal equivalent of a lone question mark. 6. See: "Olivia Brooks: 2001-Present", Chapter: Michael

Weird, even my closest friends didn't have a whole chapter dedicated to me. My parents each had one for me, and the had one dedicated to each other. But for the most part the books just read linearly, with a chapter dedicated to each year of a person's life... I quickly angled my arm behind me, grabbing at the nearest book on the shelf, when I pulled it back it held her name, as expected. I threw it open somewhere in the middle, and saw my name at the top of the page, indicating the beginning of my chapter.

.

.

.

A Day later I had finished reading my chapter. I stuck to my own chapter for the most part, I already felt creepy digging into her private thoughts in this way. But I had still seen enough. Every thought she had had for me, starting with her first glance at me at the beginning of the school year, long before I knew she even existed. I saw how nervous she was when she realized she would be transferred to the same class as me, and how embarrassed she was when she felt like she had messed up our first (and only) conversation.

I finally made my decision. Standing up and shoving the books I had removed back onto the shelf. I wandered aimlessly through the maze of shelves until I came upon death. He sat in a chair behind a semi-circular desk, staring at a computer monitor. There was a sign hanging above him that said "Checkout".

"Death, I'm ready to go back." I said

Death leaned back to look at me, and removed a pair of reading glasses.

"So soon Michael?" He said with a knowing glance. He gave me the same smile he had when we first spoke.

"Yeah, I know what I need to do."

"Alright. I'll see you again soon." He said, frowning for the first time since I'd met him.

"I know, It's okay."

"Very well, goodbye Michael"

"Goodbye Death... Wait! I wanted to ask you about my-"

I shoot up straight, looking around the familiar surroundings of my room.

"-dad."

Oh well, I'll ask him when I see him next I guess. For now I need to get ready for school. There's someone I need to talk to.

February 14, 1999

Attempted to recapture the spark with June, years after it was gone, in the city. Three young teens standing on the busy street corner, clearly lost, I flag them a cab, give them $20, which pissed June off but was the highlight of an otherwise boring, but polite, evening. * We split up a few months later when I transferred for my dream job and the start of the best parts of my life.

*See V. 7883497629AJHBF6899

• For valentines day when I was 14 years old , I spent the day with Tiffany, Alexis and Susie. I secretly asked Alexis to pretend to be my girlfriend because Susie was getting aggressively forward with me and I didn't like it at all. Alexis would do anything for me, and I trusted her to go along with it, even though we knew how she felt about me. We were best friends, but she invited these chicks to spend Valentines day with us, even though I missed our time alone. We had dressed poorly for the weather, and got lost in downtown Chicago after shopping Clark and Belmont that afternoon. We needed to be at the Metra station asap before the trains slowed for the night. Luckily, some old dude saw the anxiety, confusion in Alexis' eyes, then must have noticed we were all freezing and wet from the rain. He flagged a cab for us and gave her some money. After the cab fare and tip, we had just enough to afford some pretzels to split between us, while we waited 2 hours for the next train to the burbs. Alexis snuggled me and fed me pretzels, pissing Susie off, but keeping her at bay...Tiffany and her were whispering up a storm of snipping and fuss. I was elated, tho, that everything had worked out, thanks to some random stranger, and been a fun day. Later that week, I saw Alexis again and finally came out for the first time, starting that process.

Life stories

As my vision faded of my grieve stricken family, a new image steadily came into view. A library, one with shelves that seemed to go on endlessly into the abyss. There were faint images of people reading books and walking around, but all was silent. Suddenly a booming voice uttered one word, “read”. A book floated out of the abyss of selves with my name as the title. It contained every minute detail of every second of my life. A lot of it bored me, but when it got to those big moments in my life I felt a rising feeling, happiness. As I read on, I noticed footnotes of the strangers I passed. Eventually curiosity overcame me and proceeded to read one of these stranger’s life stories. What was a brief sentence of me walking past them, was a whole chapter in theirs. I had reminded him of his son and it got him thinking about life. He was going to kill himself that day, but after seeing me he realized that he had something to live for, family.

“It’s weird how such a insignificant moment, something so minute, have such a impactful effect. Goes to show that the human race isn’t so small and insignificant as it seems.” Said the booming voice, closing the book of his story, to his newly joined family

The end

(First time doing this, I hope you guys liked it)

“Jessica Wilder, 1991 - 2017.”

I hadn’t thought of that name in years. There was no reason to; she was the girlfriend of a friend of a friend years ago and we only met a few times - I had talked about her more than I had seen her.

I remembered being less than fond of the shy, indecisive girl that took ten minutes to order food at McDonald’s and rambled on incessantly for fifteen minutes about - cheese? not liking cheese?? and then clammed up for the rest of the night. I poked at Doug about her when she went to the washroom.

“She’s your type? God she’d drive me crazy in a day,” I read from the tablet in front of me. “She’s not even cute.”

My biography didn’t document Doug’s response, though I was sure he hadn’t been fond of my comment. I glanced at the reference to his biography, but skimmed on down the page to where Jessica’s section ended, a scant three lines further. Uninterestedly, I reached out to swipe to the next page, only to tap accidentally on the last sentence.

Whoops. I would have swiped back to continue reading my biography, but paused at the full page under my raised hand. That didn’t seem right. The links took you conveniently to the cross-referenced sections as I had discovered earlier, but no way Jessica had so many paragraphs when I couldn’t even remember how she looked.

“James and Catherine. Their names aren’t that hard to remember. James. Catherine. God I hope he didn’t notice how sweaty my hand was...”

“...He’s not smirking at me is he? Oh my god I shouldn’t have said that, what the fuck no one wants to hear about the differences between cheddar here and cheddar in Europe. He probably thinks I’m a fucking weirdo...”

“Is he annoyed? He seems perfectly fine when talking to Catherine or Doug but that look he had when he wanted the napkins for fuck’s sake cut it out, it was probably just the angle, not everything is about you Jessica...”

“Sure GREAT trip over his chair are you five?? What a fantastic first impression, oh my god. Can we just never meet again please, okay, really just why are you like this, it’s fucking fine accidents happen, he’s probably already forgotten about it...”

There were two more pages. I cringed and swiped back, wondering idly if her whole life was like that. It sounded exhausting.

“Mrs. Theresa Ng, 1954 - 2017.”

“Today I didn’t see the woman on the bus that always stares at me.”

I remember that lady. Sitting on the ground, leaning against the shelf near the empty slot that held my life’s story, I rubbed my fingers over the footnotes. I never knew her name, but I saw her daily for almost three years. Every morning on the way to work, I would catch her staring. I never knew her name or anything about her. I don’t even think I saw any part of her besides her face. It’s funny how that can happen. I guess now is my chance.

It takes most of the afternoon to climb the stairs and find where her book was located. The building is enormous, but clean. I never saw any one working. In fact, I never saw another soul in there. Nonetheless I’ve managed to keep myself entertained. I really don’t know how long I’ve been here, but reading the stories of everyone who has ever lived is fascinating. I climb a ladder and reach out for her book. It is a little thicker than mine and a deep black. The edges aren’t worn, and the spine isn’t cracked. It’s in almost perfect condition. I settle down and skim the index. Beside my name are hundreds of entries. It made my stomach lurch.

“I saw his new whore today on the bus. Amanda. She met him in a bar and I think she slept with him the first night.”

“Amanda has lasted longer than I thought. He only dated me for a few weeks. He’s been with her for two months.”

Hate drips from every page over the span of over two years. My face heats with anger and insecurity. Every bad thought I’ve ever had about myself were inked in this woman’s book. My hands trembled and my eyes welled as I flipped through the pages. Then my blood grew cold and the muscles in my face tightened as I read, “It looks like that whore is having his baby. She’s starting to show. He looks so proud and stupid next to her. That is supposed to be my baby.”

I read about her sleepless night of planning and of her waiting in my hallway until I left for work. She waited in my apartment all day, going through my photo albums and drawers. Her spiteful commentary as she ransacked the nursery we had been preparing. I read about how she snuck up behind me and bludgeoned me with the wooden elephant lamp that my mother in law had given us for the nursery. The pages of her pristine book absorbed my tears as I cried and read about the neighbor calling 911 and the police apprehending her. But I couldn’t help but smile as I read the very last line, “The paramedics couldn’t get there in time to stop Amanda from bleeding out on her kitchen floor while she clutched that asshole’s baby (C1546, d5648, 3F) in her stomach.”

You could call it luck. This vast, endless place where space didn't seem to matter. Time might, but I couldn't determine any passing of it, couldn't feel it. The high, vaulted walls stretching upwards for what looked like a hundred feet above me, ringed by floor upon floor of shelves. And on each shelf was a modestly bound book in any variety of colours. Always singular, save perhaps some trim or other minor affectation adorning the cover. At first I found it a little disorienting. Then awe-inspiring. But what I saw was the truth. Each and every volume was a different life. A different person that had lived or was living was here. There was a sound that happened every few seconds. A furious scribbling noise that I thought was the books writing themselves. I was wrong, as I learned an untold time later. The books appeared in a burst of that noise. Taking one from its new spot, I found it already filled in. No free will.

I spent what I assumed was hours at the least, time measured only by the development of a mild peckish feeling, trying to find some kind of order. Eventually I stumbled on Genghis Khan, Caesar, Caligula. Men of great import in the development of history. Curious, I explored further, and found Bacon, Francis. Heading in the opposite direction, I found no Shakespeare, William in this same grouping, which I had deemed "People of Significance." It gave me a sort of twisted pleasure. I had never been a fan of the Bard. But I didn't want to dwell on it much longer.

I went about until I found more mundane people, those who were "People of Insignificance." Unlike the equally modest Significant books, these didn't have subtitles outlining their person (Genghis Khan came to mind again). Drifting among the shelves of the Insignificant in search of my own biography, I find it some time later. I suppose there's some sort of narcissism not even checking anyone else's biography first, but I shrug it off.

Opening it to the front, there's a summary. Name, life span, a brief description of the person, their looks, and their personality. Well, in this case mine, I assumed others would have the same information if my own was like that. Not everything in there surprised me. Not everything I read through was pleasant. There were sections based on childhood, teenage years, young adult life, adult life, and old age, broken up into chapters based on major life events. My own book wasn't much larger than some of the longer books I already read. A thousand pages, tops perhaps. They weren't numbered. A lot of this was artificial, the footnotes and asterisks and crosses denoting cross-references to other people, and references to previous pages. My life was not, and would not, be exciting. In some sense of sadism, I began looking for some of the more notably meaner things I had done in life. I was never a very caring person, an unfortunate fact, and very utilitarian in views. The only one I could find was a minor thing, in which I dealt with an old woman (Name: Marjorie Willings, death dated two days after the event) harassing a cashier at convenience store. It detailed how I was going to keep out of it, up until the point she turned and involved me, telling me to smile too like I worked there. It even included the whole fake story I told her, how nerve damage in my face caused severe pain if my lips ever strayed too far in one direction, making even speaking a delicate balancing act between comfort and extreme pain. It detailed how she broke into tears and apologized (and my noted "Fuck off and mind your own business.") as well. Furthered in my curiosity, I went and found her book, and checked near the end of it. Apparently that experience shook her badly, to the point she challenged her own beliefs, and unable to stand herself afterwards, she killed herself with her own pain medication.

"Good." I thought to myself, and said aloud to more or less break the silence that had settled around me. It was a smug word, but true. I hadn't liked her in that brief moment, still didn't like her now. I carried on my reading, or rather, rereading of my own biography. Hunger grew as I did, but as time didn't seem to be moving notably, my wants and baser desires temporarily suspended in whatever anomaly this was, I began cross referencing everyone ever referenced in my book. I'm sure days actually passed (according to my own book, which had this escapade, I'd come back to the normal world in two hundred and forty one days), but I never felt any hungrier, thirstier, or tired.

But then I encountered something strange. It was worded as such later in my biography, as I could recall it, but it didn't go into much detail (in fact, much of the book involving the place that housed it was notably vague), but still I found myself somewhat surprised. It involved a boy, myself, and a concert I had gone to almost every year since it's inception. I remembered the event rather well. It was a pretty fond memory, though I remembered the person having been a rather tomboyish girl.

The individual in question was passed over in a single sentence (Birth Name: Dean Rogers. Legal Name: Olivia Beau), tossed into me during a bout of wild crowd surfing. To put it as it had been in the book, "The brief encounter occurred when two parts of the crowd hurled us together for the duration of our time aloft, and we could not separate." Though I remember much of the details, even to this day. While I went searching for her book, I recounted them in my head. The shock as I saw what was coming, the time a gleeful scream turned into shock, bodies contorting together. Every time we tried to roll off and away from one another, the crowd pushed us back together. We probably hit every base but home on the short trip to the cutout at the front of the crowd with one another. And then it was over, both of us touching down, breathless and splitting up. Not even a single word between the two of us, drunk on adrenaline.

I couldn't find Beau, Olivia anywhere in the Insignificant section. I went back and checked the Significant section. The subtitle stated simply "The First Transsexual President." Bringing her book back to the desk, I checked the cross-reference again (her book, interestingly, cross-referenced Rogers, Dean in the Insignificant section), and started my reading. Turns out, that, while barely a functional sentence in my biography, was an entire chapter in hers. I thought it strange, really. But as I read, I more or less understood. The event from her end was much more... invasive. It shook her pretty badly at first, but after, thoughts turned.... more pleasant, to put it bluntly. It ended up giving her confidence. That little hand high ride, the closeness, made her feel better about herself (who at the time, had yet to come out, let alone begin full transitioning. Something, the book noted, she never completed, at her own choice). So while it was initially traumatic for her, filled with panic and worry, it ultimately ended up being a defining moment in her life she viewed with a positive lens. She even credited that day in a later speech as being the one that started her career that was, politically speaking, meteoric, securing the presidency at thirty-six. Admittedly, I felt impressed.

Shutting the book, I had to make a decision. Time was still a little wonky here. I was growing hungry and thirsty. I began shelving everything back in its appropriate spot. Terrible human being though I was, I was a librarian by profession. These things had to be done. Plus, it gave me a little bounce in my step to know I had affected someone so positively, despite being, as the books had determined, "Insignificant." I knew, knowing my personality, that this likely wouldn't alter my borderline misanthropic ways much, but for the time being, it gave me some pleasure. Choosing a direction, the one that looked like all the others but I was relatively sure I had entered this ethereal domain, I exited what I quickly, and briefly, dubbed L-Space in honor of Pratchett and stepped back into the world. Shame I'd have to get a new job after my two-hundred and forty-one day absence. I'd have to make up a story.

I Had never been one for reading, let alone about my own life which I’d relived many times over, most of the memories not the greatest. It is an odd feeling to see my thoughts written there in vivid detail and my brain couldn't help but filter through the past to bring up old feelings and emotions I had done my best to bury deep down in a hole which I had no intention of falling down. I had only read a couple chapters in, skimming over parts, nodding along with the narrator, that being me, until pausing at a place that held my attention for far too long.

"Hey sir, you're doing a solid job here, thanks for all you do. take it easy"

I had mentioned this to the janitor while passing him daily in the halls, merely a face in the endless stream throughout my day really never paying him any mind. I had read something, whether it had been an article, a friend's Instagram quote or whatever, about how some people just need to know others notice them. It was a fleeting thought that day and I carried about. The paragraphs quickly moved onto how I despised my next class, that being writing, where I’d undoubtedly be lectured on the proper agreement between parts of speech and so on, but something kept my eyes back on that sentence. I glanced at the footnote to see where his book was and stood up so fast, my head started spinning. Not exactly what you want in a place full of priceless treasures such as these. I steadied myself and focused on the numbers and names etched into the spines of the books. Until I found him. My hands furiously grabbed the book and I sat back down, crossing my legs and opening to roughly the day and time of the sentence that had been linked to mine.

I dawned my uniform and badge that day, as any other, to be walked on by the youth of today. Since leaving the military it was one of the few jobs I, as a former infantryman was qualified for. I'd been at this post for many years now, and my only drive being that of my sick wife. We had been smokers throughout the years and it was no surprise that one of us would come down with chronic emphysema. But I would have given anything for it to be me and not her. I couldn't bear the thought of living a day without the love of my life, even if it meant working this dead-end job, and cleaning up the gum encrusted underbellies of tables and chairs for the rest of our days. Today had started out particularly bad, waking up to the sound of coughing and hacking of Jane in the bathroom again. I strolled in to see her hovering over the sink with the cannula in her nose and oxygen tank by her feet, spitting a vile green paste of a substance into the sink. I helped her back to bed before heading off to work. The President of the school hadn't paid me any notice before tossing a coffee cup in the general direction of the garbage and missing...spilling its contents all over the tile floor. I grabbed the mop and started work quickly, hoping to be done before the students got out. But I was too late, here they came to walk their disgusting feet through my work and stain the floor even further. I stood back against the wall hoping to blend into the background when this young kid, paused near the coffee cup, and bent over tossing it in the trash can. Black hair, and piercing green eyes, but kindness hidden behind them, none that had ever been shown to me at this school since my hiring and uttered a single sentence that I’ve never forgotten. "Hey sir, you're doing a solid job here, thanks for all you do. take it easy” He turned and waved and my day seemed a bit brighter, a little less bleak. I cleaned the mess up and returned to my car for lunch, but frowned as I climbed into the front seat and looked in the duffle bag down at my feet which I had carefully placed my .45 and AR. It hadn't been much he said and I don't know why it held such an impact, but tears flowed from my eyes as I slammed my fists into the console. Angry at myself for ever thinking that was a good idea for enacting my revenge on this place. What would her life be without me to take care of her, or my son and daughter to watch me go to prison or worse, killed after doing the unthinkable. I owe my life to that kid and swore from that day forward that no matter how bad my day is, I would always say hi to the people in the hallways and try to pass on that feeling that he had given me. Somewhere in an alternate universe perhaps, a different me, a dumber, less thankful me, is carrying out that deed with malice in. But it's not me, at least not today.

Click.

The light over him clicked off. He’d been sitting still too long, and the motion detector turned off his light. Again.

Alexander Thomas stood and took off his heavy glasses, and massaged the bridge of his nose and looked into the fuzzy distance. The light over him snapped back on. He put his glasses back on, and the fuzzy distance instantly snapped into focus. He looked down the long aisle of books, six rows high, and almost a quarter mile long. As he stood at one end and stared down the row at the converging bookcases as they ran into the unlit darkness at the other end of the row, he thought for the umpteenth time, “My life.”

For what felt like, and very really could be, the millionth time, he thanked whomever had created the abridged editions and indices of his life. His unabridged life was 70,674 numbered volumes, each of approximately 1800 pages, patiently cross-referenced for each interaction he had with someone, anyone, so long as the interaction merited inclusion in their life volume.

Even the abridged version of his life was 21 numbered volumes. Not for the first time, he chuckled to himself, the abridged version of his life warranted an abridged version and index all its own. In looking around this library, it seemed that if a persons life was more than 20 numbered volumes, they also had an abridged version of their life and an index.

It wasn’t that hard to reach those kinds of numbers, when you lived the kind of life he lived. His first inaugural address alone was 14 volumes, and his second inaugural address was another 17 volumes. Everyone who watched or listened to either and/or both of the speeches and had an impression that warranted inclusion in their live volumes was referenced. Just over 10 million entries on slightly over two and a half hours of his life. His first campaign was another 25 volumes of almost nothing but cross-references.

As he looked down the rows of his life, and into the darkness of the unlit areas of the space, the impact of his life on so many weighed on him again. His life wasn’t even the largest in the room. That would be Pope Giovanni III, who he had met shortly before he died. Giovanni, or George as he asked to be called in private, had nearly 2 miles of volumes - half an aisle. Even Alexander’s predecessor had more volumes that he did, but he had been in public life, first as a governor, then as a senator, then as a president, and finally, as a respected statesman, for nearly 70 years. Alexander’s public life had been cut short before his 65th birthday.

He had long since made peace with the fact that he impacted so many peoples lives. He knew it when he was alive, and now that it was down in front of him in black and white, it was really stunning.

When he first found himself in this room, he searched in vain for a way out. He had no way of accurately measuring it, but it seemed like his life room was roughly 16 square miles - roughly four miles on a side. By his rough calculations, there were more than 260 million volumes of peoples lives in this room. In the eternity that he had been locked in, he had walked every aisle at least twice. Row after row after row of volumes of peoples lives. Each volume had the same reddish leather cover and differed in only the names and volume numbers, and, in a very few instances, their thickness. From what he could tell, no volume was over approximately 1800 pages, but there were tragically too many volumes that were much shorter. The shortest volume that he had found was Gina’s daughter, Erica, who had died just three days after she was born. Even that volume was almost 100 pages long. Just a sliver of his life, but amazing in how much she had impacted others by her short existence.

For the millionth, or billionth time he walked to the door again and tried the knob. It still didn’t move.

Somewhere in those over 260 volumes of peoples lives was the key to escaping this room. Because to escape this room, he had to figure out what he missed. Because that is what the sign on the door said: “Only those who know what they have missed may enter the afterlife through this door.”

That door was the only way out.

Click.

Darkness again. He was still too long again. For the millionth, or billionth time, he stood up, and took off his glasses and moved about waiting for the motion sensor to see his movement and turn the light back on. After all, in an eternity, who cares how many times it happens? After a few seconds, the light clicked back on. He went to the next volume of his life and tried to figure out what he had missed.

Suddenly a name popped out at him. Lt. Susanna Moore-Bergquist. His memory of that name was just beyond his grasp, but he knew he recognized it, and it was important.

For the first time in a long time, Alexander moved quickly to find someone’s life stories. When he got to the M’s, he moved quickly down the aisle about 3/4 of the way down, and found her name.

Volume 9. Pages 1467 through 1680. Over two hundred pages? That can’t be right. His entire military career, from bootcamp through his medical retirement after recieving the Medal of Honor was 300 abridged pages. Granted, the unabridged version was 3 volumes, but most of that was the references to the people he commanded, or killed. Gina, his first love, was only 180 abridged pages. Lt. Moore-Bergquist’s life story was 18 volumes. Not uncommon for someone in either medicine or the military, where you wound up having a big impact on other peoples lives and coming into contact with a lot of different people.

But still, over 200 unabridged pages? He stood there, bracing the book on the shelf, poring over her story, and why he was so important to her.

Click.

Darkness again.

He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose again, but the light didn’t come on. Oh, yeah, right. He had to move and he had just been standing there.

Alexander stepped back and the book fell. Not wanting to lose his place, he grabbed for it in the dark.

And he dropped his glasses.

His only pair of glasses.

Then he heard that sound that everyone who has ever heard it will recognize. The sound of breaking glass.

Click.

Light.

Fuzzy sparkles on the ground. Alexander couldn’t see what was causing them, but he knew what they were. The broken lenses of his glasses.

His future. His answers. His hope.

All gone.

Alexander stood in stunned silence, too much in shock to even react. Then he heard a sound he had never heard in this afterlife.

The sound of a key in a lock. And he knew in an instant that the door was open.

Using his hands, he fumbled his way to the door and tried the knob for the millionth or billionth time. For the first time it turned and the door swung open.

Alexander rushed through the door, and under the archway that said: “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.”

At last, I had found it: the lost Library of Alexandria! Oh, how I had awaited this day! I had poured my lifeblood into this search, just as my father and his father before him had- but what a stroke of luck that the honor of discovering it should fall upon me!
And as I rushed through the dry, dark tunnels, surrounded on both sides by marble shelves piled high with scrolls, I couldn’t help but let out a squeal of excitement. Trying to calm myself, I quickly found a wide, sweeping marble table and sat down in a chair that was millenia old. Sobering up, I ever-so-gently drew a picture of my grandfather from my pocket and set it down on the table. “This is for you, grandpa. You gave me the daring and courage to continue your quest, and thanks to my research I’ve finally uncovered this font of knowledge! I couldn’t have-” I paused to wipe off the tears welling up in my eyes- “I couldn’t have done it without you. I know that you’re still here, watching over me, and that you’ll be reading every one of these scrolls alongside of me.”
I waited until I could stop the tears of bittersweet joy flowing down my cheeks, and then put on a pair of latex gloves and started off into the library. Remembering where I was, some of my previous vigor returned to me and I decided to grab a scroll at random to analyze. I brought it back to the table and, lying it down next to my grandfather’s visage, gingerly unfolded it and began to read. Wait a second… English?!? This scroll was written in English?!? I looked down at the rest of the long, unfolding papyrus in despair. Someone must have gotten here before me!
I threw the scroll to the ground, face buried in my hands, once again weeping. How? How could somebody else have reached this place before I had? Three generations of hard study and commitment, only to be cruelly denied by fate! But something on the scroll caught my eye. Movement. I quickly grabbed the end of the scroll and brought it close to my face, reading the words now writing themselves upon the page. ‘But something on the scroll caught his eye. Movement. He quickly grabbed the end of the scroll and brought it close to his face, reading the words now writing themselves upon the page.’ I looked at this for a moment, gaping, and then grabbed the upper portion of the scroll from the floor and began to read a summary of my college years. Holy shit…. It was my life story! But how? How was this possible? I pondered this for a moment, then decided to take a brief skim through my life story.
I had somewhat fond memory of high school, despite not having many friends. The people who did make my acquaintance were other geology and archaeology enthusiasts, which there were a surprising amount of. I even discovered a list of my classmates, ranging all the way from Stephen Athaway to Andrea Wright. Andrea… she was one of the classmates I remembered more than others. I hadn’t really noticed her until junior year, when she suddenly developed a love for archaeology. Thank goodness. It had, at least, put a stop to her eccentric behavior for a little while. I looked through the book for her, and found a sentence or two saying exactly that.
Then something occurred to me. Maybe I could find the root of her odd mannerisms! I quickly sifted through the scrolls adjacent to my own until I found one with her name embellished on it. I quickly began to read through it, eventually reading the high school section… But it was then that I was struck dumb, for an entire section of her own parchment was about me. How she had loved me so deeply, but never knew how to express it. How she was shy and hesitant to proclaim her deep affection for me, and how my unpopularity… my unpopularity? I read on. ‘He’s so unempathetic at times, or so people say. I try to get him to notice me, even acknowledge my existence… but he’s so caught up in his grandfather’s stories, he barely has time for the real world. For me.’ My gut sank. What I had thought to be strange behavior had been her trying to get my attention, to realize her profound and true love for me and maybe, just maybe, I would love her back. I felt like I would throw up. The girl I had shunned, ignored, turned my back to, had been my only admirer. But it was too late. I was too caught up in my work, my damned quest to find this place… I gulped. How that must have felt, to have devoted so much of your life to one person, only to have that person ignore you… The walls drew in close to me, and my breath came out in shuddering gasps. I had to do something about this. About her.

(One week Later)

Andrea heard the knock on her door as she finished tying the knot. She had waited for this day for a long time now, not out of anticipation or fear, but out of desperation. ‘He’ll come to me,’ she had thought. But every rational bone in her body told her that he wouldn’t. The hammer and nails were prepared, the chair propped up in the middle of the living room, but she hesitated, and then, deciding her demise could wait for the mail, walked into the mudroom and opened the door. And he fell on her like a typhoon onto an island, a whirlwind of suppressed passion and unfound love. And just moments before she had taken her own life, she finally felt whole again.

I was overwhelmed by the secrets held by the arcanum. Every politician, every business leader, every public figure had each and every detail of their lives recorded here on these shelves. I had become the most powerful person on Earth the instant I had walked through the doors to this infernal library. I pondered long and hard about how the events of future would unfold, now that I could discover every military secret, where every skeleton was buried, and what was the hidden fear of every person on the planet.

I needed a breather. I put down my stack of Fortune 500 and political masterminds. I picked up my own. If nothing else it would be useful to see if my memory was as accurate as I thought it was.

I flipped through the years, seeing friends and lovers dutifully cross referenced. Those were too heavy a read for now. I kept skimming until I reached a stranger on the street. Someone I literally had never truly met. A ship passing in the night.

His name was Charles. He lived somewhere out off a highway access road. Been there his entire life, born and raised in the same place. Had a couple of sisters, a father who lived nearby. His mother was who knows where (I scribbled down the cross reference to find out later). He drank too much and said little. He had a couple of interesting anecdotes about chickens that his family kept, but nothing else of much note. I skimmed ahead to our meeting.

It was a Chapter heading. Not too surprising since it was in the morning when we met. The bios were all written in a chronographical style. But the Chapter title was my name. "Alice."

It didn't make any sense. I looked back at the index of my own book. Only one entry for Charles. I'd never seen him since. I looked back at Charles's chapter on me. He had seen a lot of me since. My skin crawled. This man must be a stalker. I rushed ahead to the latest pages to ensure he wasn't nearby.

He wasn't. I gave a shiver of relief and flipped back to my eponymous chapter.

I quickly realized I had looked like his mom. This grown man had just been trying to find her his entire life, and mistakenly thought he had passed her on the street. He had been terrified of meeting me, of learning he was wrong, or having to deal with the revelation if he had been right. It had eaten him up inside. He hadn't thought of nearly anything else for weeks. He had told his friends and avoided his family. When he finally learned the truth by snooping around, that I was too old by nearly a decade, he had cried himself to sleep.

I alternated between disgusted by the invasion of privacy, and torn by his suffering.

I realized then I could be two things as master of this library: super villain or super hero.

I picked back up the scrap of paper with the cross reference to Charles's mother.

Until now, I have always known him as Joel. Cool Joel. Everyone's Joel. He was prim king. He had a full ride to Duke university. The kid that won that mustang from that Taco Bell sweepstakes. You would think Joel would eventually ascend to a demigod by now. But when he called my name as I was walking in to Starbucks, I refused to believe he was a homeless guy. Just another veteran down on his luck. Soiled pants, dirt coated beard, but the same blue eye I remembered every time he called me a loser all of this adolescent years.

"And to think, Arthur turned about to be more than a nerd. Remember when I your girlfriend dumped you because she wanted to ride in my new car? Good times, right? Hey, you got any change to spare? No, well god bless."

Alow me to say that such library exist just not in the exact same way, library of babel, thats its all i wanted to say, but lets try come up with something.

"Just out of curiosity i started to peek on the biography of the people that was mentioned in my own, by the most part it was just my family and friends, colleagues and that was about it.

as i was passing the pages i noticed a name that i got no memory of, "i say to myself" must be a childhood friend whose name i dont remember lets take a look at his biography.

finally i got tho the book, as i was passing trough his life i noticed that i wasnt present in his childhood or adolecence, but there was something off about his life, this guy´s biography was thin as if he was just sitting for a long time of his life."

"She was found dead the next day, on such a dreary February afternoon" a chapter of my biography read, "[Biography Of: Danielle Jerhova]" read a footnote at the end . I had always wonder what happened to her, what had led such a bright soul like hers, down suck a dark path? I trudged through the library until I had found it. Her book had only 27 chapters, as she had died at 16 from an undisclosed cause, but the news of her death spread like wildfire through the school, thus she was in my Section 16. I had found her biography and flipped to what was labeled 'Section 16', it was rather large with 5 chapters in the last year of her life. I read through chapters 1-3 each entitled 'Bitter 16th', 'Enclosure', and 'Dimmed' respectively. They had reflected in how much her parents divorce affected her mental state and her outlook on life. I flipped to chapter 4, which was entitled 'Reaching for hope' it was relatively short compared to the other chapters. It seemed like it would be about a positive time, but I would quickly regret browsing through the memoirs and explanations of the previous chapters, because this chapter had shown the abyss she was really in. "I was always waiting for him, no matter how much it hurt to not see him everyday. Maybe I was invisible to him, but I tried to show myself enough without being obvious to him. I dyed my hair, I lurked outside of his classes, I wrote on his locker, I did everything in my power to get him to call me again, or at least acknowledge me. He wasn't supposed to know about the cat, I don't know if he did or not, but either way Jules was in the way of us, she deserved those tires. I wish I could tell him about daddy, but he wouldn't love me then, he'd never go out with someone who knew daddy. That night daddy texted me, 'take your pills tomorrow honey, this will be the last batch; Love, Daddy', In the morning I took Jules to the basement and dried her up, mommy said you need someone close to give blessings. Before my last batch of pills I called Ryan 5 times, I wanted him to answer, I wanted him to tell me that what I was doing was wrong, I wanted him to tell me that I shouldn't die, I wanted him to tell me that I mattered. But he never picked up. Today the 3 on the back turned into an 8. So I took 8, they tasted weird, my vision started to fade. When I awoke I checked my phone, there were no messages at all, had daddy deleted them? I turned to go up the stairs but I never made it, Goodnight Ryan!" This chapter was written in whole as a personal story, The last chapter explained her cause of death. She had accidentally over-dosed on her pills to stop her hallucinations and deal with her Depression & Anxiety. She had to take these pills daily to cope with the murder-suicide of her parents. I was exhausted, her biography had really taken a toll on me, maybe I should go get a glass of water to swallow these down?, after all it's not good to keep medicine in your mouth for too long.

(I hope this wasn't too bad,(I struggle with pacing) it is my first story here after all <3)

There is a library with everyone’s biography. It’s called the Library of Babel. Every combination of characters up to 3200.

Somewhere in that library is a detailed description of exactly how I die. There’s also a place in that library where there is this exact comment.

[removed]

Unfortunately, St. Peter has that library. My entry is by decade and I'm almost half way through the seventh. (And the last for my just passed dear wife of 54 years plus 4 years a-courtin. So far, unable to get my mind around this fact.) Well, St. Pete, like me and my Kindle, just ignore all those footnotes.

dude, just the preview made me want to read the whole text (found this on /Popular on reddit) and I was willing to download a PDF or read a whole book if it was the case. And I haven't read a book in 5 or 6 years. you are THAT good...