I was recently involved in the death of a man right here inside the Free Library.
He began making bird sounds near me. The cawing and trilling made it impossible to concentrate on my writing. When I moved, he followed. The bird songs grew louder and more long-winded.
My father, a Marine, told me that bird noises reminded him of a battle he fought inside a dark nameless jungle. Birds, he learned the hard way, unintentionally telegraph your location to the enemy. I am now older than my father was when he died inside our garage.
When not in use, I store my notebook inside a plastic time capsule to protect it from the ravages of weather and war.
I was sitting at my favorite wooden table, writing.
Songbird suddenly grabbed my exposed notebook.
It was a cowardly and unprovoked attack, and I instinctively reacted.
My sharp screwdriver purposefully missed the back of his hairy hand by less than an inch before tearing into the wood. It was a shot across the bow. Songbird released the notebook, and the bird calls immediately ceased. He silently left the library, but I knew I hadn’t heard the last from him.
Three days later, he was waiting in ambush inside the restroom. I displayed a sufficient degree of surprise and distress that immensely pleased him.
Rapid fire chirping declared his malevolent intent. His splayed fingers repeatedly clenched and relaxed. He stepped closer. His face was lifeless. The chirping intensified. Songbird’s awareness of the screwdriver tucked inside my field jacket did nothing to discourage his confrontational actions.
Songbird’s arms erratically flailed. I barely touched him. He lost his balance and fell backwards. A muted chirp escaped his throat. There was blood — lots of blood — on the concrete floor, and I strategically retreated.
It wasn’t until I entered my hidden encampment that my brain caught up with my survival instincts. I remembered carelessly leaving the time capsule and notebook next to the restroom sink. The screwdriver was also missing.
It was a dereliction of duty.
I didn’t have the energy to improvise a strategy. I fell into a deep sleep.
Screeching crows woke me. It was dark.
My father said that there is nothing in the dark that isn’t there when the sun comes out. He also told me to embrace the unknown.
I heard a distant siren on I-81. I reheated a can of Dinty Moore beef stew.
I showed no fear when I returned to the scene of Songbird’s demise. No one, not even the library regulars, looked at me. There were no waiting policemen. The librarian, stooped over the card catalog, was obliviously filing.
I walked directly to the restroom, somehow believing that my notebook was next to the sink, having been overlooked by the frantic ambulance crew as they hurried to get Songbird to the emergency room.
There was no time capsule.
There was no notebook.
There was no screwdriver.
There was no blood on the floor. I thought I detected the faint smell of bleach, but probably not.
I needed to record my fresh observations about the harsh realities of life and death, but the fog of war was already wracking havoc.
The librarian emerged behind the reference desk.
Nothing in the library appeared to have changed since Songbird’s death. His existence and sudden absence had left no discernible wake.
“Carry on!” barked my father immediately after Songbird was toted from the library and everyone meekly obeyed.
I never visit my father’s grave.
I approached the librarian and calmly made eye contact. We didn’t exchange words. She reached beneath the reference desk. The notebook was perfectly preserved inside the ziplocked plastic time capsule.
I withdrew to my favorite wooden table. The deep gash made by the missing screwdriver was gone.
Leland Neville
Rigid Plastic bag with zip- image from Google.
literally stories 
This powerful but understated tale shows that some nightmares just repeat and repeat forever. The age and era of the MC is unclear. Could be his father, who took his own life by inhaling carbon dioxide “in our garage” was speaking of the unpronounceable jungles of Vietnam, but he could have meant islands in the Pacific in WWII. The narrator’s nightmare of killing a man could be a rehashing of his own war experiences or simply a manifestation of mental illness. The differences in the two written accounts by the writer were subtle but meaningful. I’ve seldom read more affecting stories on the horrors of both mental illness and war. Thanks very much for writing it!
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Oops! I meant “carbon monoxide.” Sorry about that.
bill
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Leland
Wow there’s an echo in here! That sometimes happens and in a few minutes this sentence will not make sense.
This is a brilliant example of a fine tale told by an “unreliable” narrator. Extremely effective and difficult to pull off this well.
Leila
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I really enjoyed getting into this guy’s head for a few minutes. His military-like thought pattern alongside the absurdity of the situation kept me hooked. First line was superb as well.
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Do “unreliable” narrators automatically make us unreliable readers? And isn’t that a good thing now and again?
Thanks for the treat! — Gerry
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Leland
This swift, surrealist story was haunting and vividly written. The way it transported the panic-fears of war into the library setting was like an Edgar Poe nightmare, or one of Goya’s Black paintings. The way it took the beauties of birdsong and turned it into the funereal chimes of death was chilling. The way the narrative leaps around in time keeps the reader off balance, and yet the prose is clear and clever enough to keep the reader moving forward, wondering what will happen, like a short Hitchcock film created for the 21st century. The mystery of the piece resonates within a reader’s mind. This piece is unnerving like an Ambrose Bierce tale (in a good way). “I am now older than my father was when he died inside our garage.” The deceptively simple language is very effectively done, and it reveals added layers on repeated readings. The one-sentence and short paragraphs create a hypnotic rhythm. Thanks for creating this intriguing piece of short fiction. Really well done.
Dale
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I also enjoyed getting into the MC’s head, but was also glad to get out. Mysterious and well-crafted.
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somehow I thought the MC was a woman. Her story (or their story) was raveled and unraveled. I ended up with the feeling I sometimes have when captivated by a story that later comes into doubt…and that is my sense of the story expands. Great work!
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I tried to make a case for reliable narrator – couldn’t do it board chipped or not chipped – unless there is a compicated conspiracy for which there is no evidence.
So what is true and what is not? Dead soldier father? I don’t know. She was in a library? I don’t know. There is no corroboration.
I conclude:
Former mathemacians should not become critics.
I have no idea what happened outside of the narrator’s head if anything.
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To me, a well paced and philosophically tinged story told from the library patron’s perspective…..a man haunted by his father’s voice and influence. We know a lot about this character just from a few paragraphs. There’s a deep gash, all right, but it’s not in the table. At least the protagonist’s notebook and the time capsule were still there…. to a writer, these could both be essential!
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Hi Leland,
I enjoyed this visit to whoever and where-ever!
The beauty of this is summed up by Doug – ‘I have no idea what happened outside of the narrator’s head, if anything.’
You showed a confidence in letting the story run to wherever it took us.
The tone and pace was brilliant and you controlled what you revealed or didn’t superbly well.
All the very best.
Hugh
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This was, as others have said, a thought-provoking surrealist piece that, for me, seemed to delve into the topic of mental illness in a very effective narrative style.
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