Library of Lives

2021 Rising Stars Flash Fiction “Freeform” Winner (1,000 words maximum)

The doorway was shrouded in shadow. I had to lean over to read the faint inscription, Biblioteca de Vidas, on the small brass plaque.

“Alex, what are you doing?”

My friends stared at me. Well, Mitch and Leslie did. Becca and Carter were enjoying an enthusiastic public snog.

“It’s this place. I heard about it on some website or Reddit about urban legends. Let’s check it out.”

“You’re joking!” Leslie exclaimed. “With everything else you can see in Barcelona, you want to go look at books?”

I glanced back at the door. There was something compelling about the place, with its ancient wood door, the tiny brass plaque, and its isolation amidst the labyrinth of cobblestoned alleyways.

“Seriously guys, I want to check it out.”

“Aw, come on, dude. We’re exploring! You don’t have to prove you’re literate,” protested Mitch.

“You go. I’ll catch up later.”

With a laugh, my friends waved and wandered toward the faint honks and rumbles of Calle del la Ribera. I was alone in the alley but for a grey and black tomcat that prowled nearby. It didn’t even deign to hiss as I turned the brass doorknob and stepped inside.

A wizened old man with a shock of silver hair, spectacles, and brilliant green eyes looked up at me as I entered.

“Buenos dias,” he said quietly.

“Buenos dias,” I replied. “Habla usted Ingles?”

He nodded slowly.

“Gracias. My Spanish isn’t so good.”

“May I help you?” His words were slow and deliberate but not halting as I sounded when muddling through Spanish.

“Yes. I…I’ve heard about this place. This library. I was hoping I might have a chance to look about.”

The old man stared at me for a time. Then he blinked slowly, once, twice, and stood up. He was far taller than I’d assumed, a multi-jointed mantis unfolding from his seat behind the counter.

“Of course,” he replied. “I am always happy to allow someone new to experience our collection.”

I nodded.

“Please, follow me. I am Señor Recaudador,” and he vanished through a pair of tall, intricately carved doors.

Books behind glass, ancient tomes of cracked leather, lined the narrow hallway. Señor Recaudador entered a new room and stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter.

“This is but part of our collection of tales and histories. Stories of people’s lives, young and old, ancient and recent. Some mundane, some juvenile, some grotesque, and some godly but all true as related by the teller.”

It was remarkable. The room felt as though it was vibrating with life and energy.

“May I read some of them?”

He nodded and led me to a desk where a pair of white gloves lay. “You may immerse yourself in any of these books. There are others over there that I would recommend you avoid as they are, as yet, an unknown quantity.”

He withdrew toward the narrow hall. “Please enjoy. I shall check in on you later. It is easy to become lost in the books.”

Dropping my backpack with a thump by the chair, I put on the gloves and perused the shelves. I grabbed one book at random, then another. There were so many stories.

“The small house was a haven after Madeline’s death…”

“My father left us when I was eight. It was the best thing that could have happened to us…”

“Charlotte’s kiss left me gasping…”

“For it was in the court of King Louis XIV in the year of our Lord 1695 that I came face to face with my first blackamoor…”

“It was an accident. Truly it was. I didn’t mean for her to die.”

When I finally looked up, the faint light through the high windows was fading and yellow lamps had been lit, apparently by Señor Recaudador without my realizing. I glanced to the right and saw the books of unknown quantity. I know the old man had suggested I skip those, but I grabbed the stack. It was odd that the spines of all were blank. I opened the first and the scent of the paper and leather unlocked memories of the old printing press I’d seen as a child. Where did that memory come from? Then I glanced down at the page and read

I’d always been fascinated by the sea, by tales of whalers and spars and canvas. That trip to Mystic Seaport when I was nine was a dream come true…

I read on and the extraordinary book was filled with images and thoughts, scents and feelings that I hadn’t remembered for so long. Eventually I came to the end and moved on to the next. It, too, appeared blank at first, only to see the words flow across the paper with each turn of the page.

“Her name was Alison. I was so nervous that first time…”

“Sure it was stupid, but when given the opportunity to walk across the frozen Mississippi, you can’t pass that up…”

The book was taken from my hand and another placed before me.

“Enjoy another book, my young friend,” purred Senior Recaudador. “There is so much to remember, so much we never want to lose.”

Remember? What was I supposed to remember? I could feel gaps but what went there? There was a growing stack of books to my left and a dwindling stack to my right. So many more stories to tell. I kept turning the pages, on and on.

Later that evening, Señor Recaudador entered the dim reading room, his stick-and-joints shadow writhing across the shelves in the lamplight. He picked up the stack of new books up from the table and gently, lovingly placed them on a shelf.

His long pale fingers caressed the final volume, A Summer in Spain now picked out in gold on the spine, before he turned and swept up the abandoned backpack. It wouldn’t do to have the next author find the belongings of the last lying about. No, it wouldn’t do at all.

Photo by Gabriel Ghnassia on Unsplash