I ain't submitting that **** until 12:00.01 AM. I don't like this woman and also I haven't started yet.
I am actually going to write a story, though. Sorry, Hermit.
EDIT: Here's what I got so far. Not sure where I actually plan to go with this.
The library was quiet. Too quiet.
Okay, yes, fine, I know it’s corny, but I’d always wanted to use that line, and it was true, dammit. Anyone who’s ever worked in a public library knows that if the ambient noise drops below “holy ****fuck” levels something is seriously wrong. At best, it meant the A/C or heat had stopped working. At worst, it meant that someone had been murdered.
Given that this building’s A/C was a purely hypothetical proposition; its heat was provided mainly by the gas fireplaces in the reading rooms and the occasional blowhard who wouldn’t stop ranting to everyone nearby; and that the cops, when they got off duty at the station not a hundred yards away, came here to hang out; I didn’t think any of them were the issue.
I was in the Rare Books Room, which occupied a primo position in the back of the house, its windows shaded by trees and away from the sweltering heat of the upper levels and the ever-creeping damp of the basement. The room was usually pretty quiet anyway, being as it was away from the road on the other side of the house, and all the really high-traffic areas were at the other end of a long hallway, past the staffroom and offices, but now I couldn’t even hear the bloodcurdling screams from the children’s section—Ms. Antoinette was doing her annual week-before-Halloween storytime, and there was no way those kids would get through it without shrieking almost constantly.
I went to the door and looked down the hall, and saw nothing I didn’t expect. Curious, I turned back to what I was doing, grabbed the stack of the material I needed to photocopy, and headed out. The door locked automatically behind me, and I went back to my desk in the main workroom, which was deserted. The room was tiny for a room, and made tinier by the eight desks squeezed into it, but was huge for the closet it had supposedly been once upon a time. I glanced at the desk next to mine—it belonged to Henry, our token male librarian—which was unnaturally clean, as he usually kept it. In the middle was a big, metal, very old-fashioned key, and note.
The key was your stereotypical “old-fashioned key,” a long cylinder with a big, blocky tooth-thingy at the end, and the note was in handwriting I recognized as belonging to our curator. Sam—the other token male, since apparently female curators were slightly less prevalent than their librarian counterparts—maintained what he referred to as “the old ****-orium” out of a pair of outbuildings in the back, one a renovated, climate controlled, painstakingly neat museum, the other a dilapidated hole filled with the junk of centuries. Sam was slowly working his way through the crap back there, and occasionally he found something that he thought was interesting, which he would pass on to Henry to put in the display case out front.
I had no idea why he thought the key was interesting, since recognizing his handwriting wasn’t the same as being able to read it, but I picked up the key and the note anyway. Henry was working the front desk, and I could ask him to interpret while I went to see what had brought on the sudden bout of silence.