Dystopolis: 1.1

dam pulled books off the shelf quickly. Bradbury, Huxley, Forster; they were like old friends coming home. He sniffed the spines, not bothering to wipe the dust away first. The delicious sneeze that followed echoed off the library's stone floors.

Adam looked around, but the sound died and he shoved the books into his backpack. Another few aisles, he thought, and I'll be done. He repeated this to himself as he walked to the poetry section. He kept his eyes on the floor, on his feet, and only stopped to be sure his were the only ones making the click-clack, click-clack, that bounced back at him from darkening walls.

The title he was looking for all but fell into his hands. He pushed his glasses up on his sweaty nose and turned to his page, as he called it.

 Whose woods these are I think I know

Adam closed his eyes and the rest of the poem seeped out from him instead of the pages in his hands. "Promises to keep," the words left his mouth unbidden, and again he looked to his left and right until the sound of his own voice faded. The snow of the poem melted at his next thought. Deep breath, Adam. He secured the final book and walked.

The circulation desk lay beyond the rows of computers where They sat. Chills ran down his spine at the thought of it. They would see him, and though they wouldn't walk after him, it was enough to have to pass them at all.

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Check out the rest of the A-Z crew here! And come by tomorrow for 1.2 of "Dystopolis."

Read about the idea for this April's posts here.