Vintage.

There was this, writing exercise, that we had to write an opening scene for a ‘fairytale like’ story. Basically, the ‘Once Upon a Time’ up to ‘One Day’– and, that’s really the only way I can think to explain it. Anyways, I’m relatively certain this sucks, because it’s all exposition and build-up that … nothing happens with… but yeah.

All original credit for the idea is credited to Kristi, the amazing.

Vintage.

It was a vintage banner. Vintage was a word I used often, describing things that were old, but not yet classics. It was my librarian who’d taught me it, describing something I held dear. A scarlet banner- with it’s proclamation of the library’s national reading day- it had hung in the same spot for nearly twenty years. Stained and ripped, it saved the exact same purpose as always. It lured kids into the shelves- where lived stories of adventure, fantasy, romance and horror- spiriting away reality for a short time to the young readers. Yet with the two million volume library, with its stained sign, there was not a single book like mine.

Where my book came from, I never knew. On one such occasion, when I was but five, I’d stumbled across it on the corner. It was smaller then, the pages far less dusty. The book aged as I did, at triple the speed. Its’ spine was now cracked in two separate places with yellowing pages. There was no title, or if there was, it had long since been rubbed off. Though it was weary, I didn’t go anywhere without it. Inside the book remained everything important; it was faded, but there yet. The first pages were a tale of an old female genie that granted a young girl’s wish to know everything. It was filled, the tale related, by way of the very book that contains the tale.

When I read that, I assumed that Anonymous was having a joke with me. A book could hold a lot, and a library more, but nothing could possibly hold the answer to everything. I had laughed then, at the absurdity, and turned the page to see what the next story was. Instead of a story, I found an essay explaining the importance of believing, lest the magic would waste away. My childhood filled the book with fairytales, and as I grew, the fairytales were replaced with non-fiction, which yielded to a step-by-step procedure for everything I could imagine. I could fix every conceivable device, any awkward situation, any riddle, by flipping a few pages.

With a book dictating my life, I was safe. I never had a cop pull me over when I got my license, as the book told me when and how to avoid them. When I was twenty two, and pulled over for the first time, the book revealed ‘How to Talk Your Way Out of a Ticket.” Upon following these rules verbatim, I was let off with a warning, and ignored when I sped away, a maniacal grin on my face.

Life was simple, with my book, and I praised the genie from the story for the book. If I was able to visit this genie, my word might have been ‘necessity’ to describe it, but the magical tome could offer me a better way to show my gratitude. I knew the tome had it’s own life, but I never imagined that it might get up and walk away.

Now I stood outside the library again, my frown set. I hadn’t seen the vintage banner before now in seventeen years. Sure, I’d passed it, but why bother looking at the library when the worlds’ knowledge sat in the palm of my hand?

“Dear.” The old librarian inquired without inflecting a question. I was astonished, but scurried underneath the banner, ignoring it now.

“Yes, I…I’m looking for a book. I got it here…and it vanished on me…I…I need it.”

“You mean you lost it? The library’s overdue policy—“

 The same riff had been played for me already; first by the library’s answering machine and then by the sign tacked up on the cork board outside. Carelessly, I looked away, ignoring what she said. I needed my book, and I couldn’t think of where else to find it.

“No.” I cut her off. “I actually bought it on your National Reading Day…seventeen years ago. Its’ frayed now, I’m afraid. The pages yellowed. Ink faded. I’m sorry.”

“Title? We have a lot of old books, dear. No matter, as long as you help pay for us to fix them if you are returning it.”

“I’m not returning it.” I said. “I’m seeking it. And I, don’t know the name. It’s not just old…It’s…”

I swore under my breath, searching for a way to explain my book. I needed my book. More than a necessity, I decided. It was the way I survived, a reliability that I’d come to depend on. My book was everything to me.

The old librarian seemed perplexed. A kindly spirit, she was, undoubtably, but apparently this was too much for her.

“Dear?” This time the inflection was clear. I lifted my eyes up to hers, and spun around slowly. Seventeen years ago I’d found it here. I should be able to find it again.

“Dear- it’s…what?”

My eyes alight determinedly on the old sign, the crimson sign of promise, nineteen and a half years old.

“It’s vintage.”