The Journal of the Novelist
The Library houses all sorts of written works, I’ve found. Beyond your basic grimoires and the disturbingly high volume of monster-on-human kamasutras lay also a vast array of patents for retail amphetamines and tablets both of wax and stone. One of these tablets seemed a part of a pair, with a pointed list written in Hebrew. A bit of nibbling left me with cracked teeth, not even the bookworms could find that tasteful…
Miskatonic Occult Literature Library & Unusually Special Collections
(MOLLUSC Dept.)
“I’m not one to disappoint!”
3 February. Bedroom.—“Success but a breath away! Twist-to-Believe is the secret to a right mind and a healthier, happier life. Made with the love and care you deserve, Twist-to-Believe is your “good morning” before work! It’s the pat-on-the-back study aid for your children. It’s the right choice for clearing mental-fogginess in the elderly. The pack-a-punch canisters are your pocket-sized pal! The smell of success can be yours today, it’s Twist-to-Believe!”
It’s not a bad portfolio piece, right? That’s my first commission since joining the MOLLUSC Department, and it’s a darn good one too! It must be the books, or maybe it’s pressure from the overwhelming number of Specialists, but my pen seems to move on its own! One day it’ll be my own name etched across those spines. “Bookkeeper” is such an ill-fitting title, call me Novelist! That’s the name I’m fighting for, and I’ll scribe until my hands bleed to prove I’m worthy of it.
7 February.— Hear me, I’m not a liar. I’ve been tempted to huff on one of those canisters lately. The thought’s been clawing at me since the ad hit papers. It’s already been a week since my employment and all I’ve got to show for it is a measly paragraph. These passing days now weigh on me like cinder blocks! A coworker of mine, the only one aside from me to survive our orientation, already has his nose buried in the labyrinth section. I heard that place was restricted! He’s taken the dive towards earning his name while I’m holed up in our bedchambers curled over sheets of blank paper! It seems as if my own brain’s run out of ink. Now even the evening roe has taken on such a gritty, calcified texture. Surely it must be karmic... Perhaps I could find inspiration in one of the Specialists’ own publishing? That and some fresh air. I truly hope for the best.
9 February. Gehenna Quarter.— Sweet ether! The skies stretch without end. I’ve found myself in the garden today, fresh parchment in hand and accompanied by Specialist Janitor’s ‘Serenity and the Absence of Filth’ (The pages are laminated and machine washable!) This visit of course being after my daily duties, though such sights threaten to dull my fidelity. Youth is in the air, and my feet melt away into the soil. I feel myself a lily amidst family. Ah, we are all brothers under the Sun! There are faces in the petals that smile to me, and thorny branches hold me tender under shade. Finally set root in a blanket of earth, I am at last without sin. Knowing peace for but a moment before the metal shears of Specialist Gardener knock me awake with a loud “clang!”
I was four-legged, sweet enlightenment trickling from my forehead with a fresh dent firmly planted into my faceplate as Gardener watched silently. As blunt as the hunk of metal swung over her back, its rust explained the overgrowth. Admittedly, I’d heard tales of Gehenna Quarter being a place of punishment and atonement as early as my first day. Though with how easy it was to slip through the wards, it was as if it were open to the public. I’m not to be blamed for thinking as such. After a number of pride-swallowing apologies, her hollow gaze finally drifted back to the trees. She was a phantom, all Specialists are, in some way. They live on different planes, you can’t talk to one without feeling like an idiot. That is if you can even find one retaining the ability to converse. Such is the case with Gardener, it seems. Though as soon as she began to slither away, I took notice of the strange markings peppering her back.
Fumbling in and out of her shadow, it was a miracle she had the restraint not to turn me to fertilizer. Or perhaps her head is as empty as her sockets. Papers tight to the chest, I scribble out the sparse detail visible from a reserved distance. Still unsatisfied, I persist. The Sun buries itself as I orbit Gardener’s blind spots. At last, the incoherent linework begins to weave itself legible. My toes are to her heel.
Tiny canyons paint their way across all of Gardener’s uncovered. Straight and deep, tracing my fingers along each letter connects a constellation of tearful memories. It was a touching story, the price of admission was my left hand.
10 February. Bethes Clinic. —Dawn breaks, though I already find myself yearning to watch the stars once more. I’d heard the clinic beds are often left unwashed, I wonder if Gardener has suffered any recent injury? Nevertheless, I find myself absolutely brimming today! Bandages swarth my left arm and feet, though the roots sprung from my soles seem to have already wriggled their way to freedom. I smell an excuse out of those stuffy plate-laden boots! If only such leniencies were commonplace. Swiping my manuscript from the end table, I hastily scribbled a title for my debut fiction. The fresh air has cleared my mind better than any study-drug, and I know just the one to assist in peer-review!
