“We are an ancient society of record keepers who brought words to your world,” she smiled when she added, “and contrary to popular writings, we are in fact, the curators of the oldest profession on earth.”
Although the conversation could not sally forward without the required history lesson of the role of The Writers; she was reluctant because of the urgency of the Reader’s quest. “There is precious little time to dabble in wordsmithery,” frustrated by him asking. “And you have weakened your gift by removing your hair; the history is in the strands!” Her anger was becoming apparent but she had just learned that although he appeared strong on the outside, inside, he was a fragile soul.
She rose from the chair and lightly touched his ear. His vision became blurred with tears as a protective coating covered the retinas and the brown irises became an iridescent blue. Inside of her pocket was a feculent paste that would regrow the hairs in record time. Three rapid swipes from her left hand covered his head forcing Akins to gag at the scent. The coffee beans from the display were quickly placed under his nose to keep him upright.
Standing upright was the least of his concerns as the itching began on his scalp. The Reader reached up to scratch his head or attempt to wipe away the foul goop but she stopped him touching the cream, “unless you are a Hobbit, I don’t think you would wish to voyage through this life with hairy palms.” She smiled at the reference to Tolkien, one this world’s more famous scriveners.
The itching only intensified as the hair began to rapidly sprout from his scalp. Once the hairs had achieved the length of yesterday’s growth, she doused him with the cold coffee rinsing away the residuals of the unguent.
“What the hyperbole was that?” he wanted to know.
“Your hair is important, it holds many truths, and you will be blind without it,” she stated in a much sterner voice that she had intended.
“Hell, I am almost blind now, what did you do to my eyes?”
Her only answer was to take him by the chin and turn his eyes back to the wall.
He could see it.
He could see the history.
The writing on her wall came to life in the form of an almost three dimensional Zoetrope. The Reader saw early man with colored berries scribbling on the walls of caves. The cave drawings morphed into early European Slavic and Indo-Germanic words that continued to dance into cuneiform as Nordic trade ships landed on foreign shores. Markings on cloths were recorded to capture the profitability of the trading. Hieratic symbols appeared which turned into hieroglyphs which evolved into Greek alphabet that the reader could identify.
Akins lids flickered as the phonetic alphabet flashed on the screen then Qin letters followed by Sanskrit. She was standing close enough for the Reader to feel her breath upon his neck. It was a struggle for the Writer to holster her need to prevent her essence from meshing with him. It was too soon. He was not ready.
She explained that it was still 200 years before Christ when the Tamil language separated words into verbs and nouns, “It was in that same time frame that the Romance languages were developed as the Romans spread throughout Europe.” The words which appeared on the screen made him pause. She knew they were running out of time. “The Rosetta Stone held three languages, Reader, Greek, Demotic and Hieroglyphs; these are the three important languages you must remember.”
Her manifestation was starting to fade. In the background he could hear the clatter of dishes as the café began return from it’s unmoving hiatus. The light show and people on the wall are moving faster and 1936 flashes in red letters on the wall. “A.J. Ayer said that language is a shared awareness. This familiarity, Akins, is confirmed through experience.” She continued on by telling him that his suspicions were correct, “you are being watched, every day of your life.”She helped him to the seat.
Then she dropped the bombshell. “In the last twelve years, languages have been disappearing from your world as commonly as nearly every two weeks.”
He turned his head to make eye contact with the apparition, “It is now up to you, but first, you must run, and now!”
The café was again in present time, three people had entered and the Writer’s things were gone. So was she. A cold pierced through his rib cage as he looked out the window and saw the figures identify him through the window. He reached for his glasses but quickly realized that what she had used to treat his eyes had given him perfect vision.
He could see he was in imminent danger.
I know right! It is getting more interesting every day. Check back for more, and you can follow along on my Facebook wall in the notes section, just in case you have missed an entry.
- The Writings on Her Wall: A Facebook Novella, Entry #2 (assistaugusta.wordpress.com)
- Entry Number 3: The Reader and Writer Meet (assistaugusta.wordpress.com)
- Something To Think About, Seriously, for Readers, Writers, and Publishers . . . (nfaa.wordpress.com)
- How to Anger English Majors (reflectionandchoice.wordpress.com)