By: FRR Mallory

© All Rights Reserved, by FRR Mallory 2003

Mallory @aol.com

  Quiet, quiet.
  Robert sorted out the two words from the battering mindless sounds pounding on the inside of his skull. He willed his eyelids open, then blinked furiously.
  The sterile, acrid harshness of the hospital room was gone, impossibly replaced by a tiered platform sitting on a vast dirt plain. On top of the platform was an old heavy wooden library table with a massive stack of dusty papers covering almost half of it. Behind the table sat a prim faced old woman wearing a faded print dress with an upright starched white collar. Her gray hair was drawn back into a tight bun and a pair of Benjamin Franklin glasses perched firmly on the bridge of her nose. She peered at him without smiling.
  Another loud roar of sound brought Roberts head around. Facing the strange platform was a long extremely heavy metal fence with razor wire wound along its top. Behind the razor wire were hundreds, maybe thousands of people, animals and creatures of unknown, bizarre and even terrible description. They milled about, sometimes pressing against the fencing as if eager to get out. His eyes traveled upward. The sky or background was an unfamiliar flattened gray color. Drawn upon this surface were partially constructed landscapes, scenes, images, planets and even star systems as if the gray surface were just a backdrop for some insane painter. Each of these bits and pieces appeared torn or ripped away by some giant hand.
  Quiet, I say, the old woman was scowling at the massive crowd yet somehow her voice seemed to carry above the noise.
  Robert pushed himself up off of the dirty ground, he looked down and discovered to his horror that he was utterly naked. He immediately tried to cover himself while looking helplessly around for his missing clothing.
  So, you are the cause of all this mess and noise? The old woman spoke abruptly.
  Robert looked up, his hands cupping his genitals defensively. Who, me? He shook his head negatively.
  Robert Bruce Conrad, born June 12th, 1952 of Ethel Marie Coop and Bruce Allen Conrad III in Great Hope Arkansas, United States of America. She looked up from the paper she was reading from, that is you, correct?
  Robert shuffled uneasily, then nodded. Yes, . . . Ma'am.
  The crowd behind him roared ominously again.
  The old woman scowled at him then looked back down at the paper and continued, unpublished writer, lazy, shiftless, no account hackneyed paper waster. The old woman snorted, sound familiar?
  Robert flinched. I am not a hack. He tried to draw himself up straighter but found that it was impossible with him cupping his crotch.
  Reject! The crowd behind him seemed to expel the word in one mean, nasty communal breath.
  Robert flinched again sensing their truly hostile mood. He edged slightly closer to the library table, eliciting another glare from the old woman.
  What do you want anyway? What is this place? He tried sound confident and unruffled.
  Me, I want to clean up this mess. The old woman peered at him, her eyes taking on a hint of gloating. This . . . She swept her hand to include the crowd and strange scenery, this is the Library of Wasted Ideas.
  Reject! The crowd sound increased to swell as if subtly alive.
  Robert angled his head slightly, picking out individual faces in the milling crowd. What he saw was bonechilling, an almost voracious malicious hunger and something else, something about the faces was familiar although he could not quite put his finger on it.
  What do they mean, reject? He jerked his eyes back around to face the slightly less frightening face of the old woman.
  She seemed to enjoy the anxiety Robert knew must be reflected on his face. She smiled, showing bright little sharp edges on her teeth, then she lifted her hand and pointed upward.
  Roberts eyes followed her finger to see a long chute emerging out of the flattened gray sky surface, ending just above the massive mound of untidy papers.
  Final Submission. She answered calmly.
Robert frowned. What do you mean? The pit of his stomach began doing flip-flops. He didnt feel like he was dreaming or drugged. He felt like he was very much awake. He was cold and beginning to shiver and the almost gravely surface of the ground was very uncomfortable under his feet.
  Writers Obligation and Duty for the request of and usage of ideas. Paragraph 321 C, subparagraph ii, as follows, should said undersigned writer fail to obtain publication of all requested and used ideas then said writer, after determination of performance of any lingering final submission should that submission fail to engender publication agreements will then be subject to termination paragraph 4,922 for conclusive resolution of this contract as per all other noted and agreed to provisions. Said resolution to occur forthwith.
  Robert felt icy cold fingers creeping into the pit of his stomach, a dread unlike anything he had ever known before. He really didnt like the sound of the words termination, resolution and forthwith.
  The noise of the crowd continued to steadily increase, causing him to twitch and jerk.
  I dont understand. He stepped closer to the raised platform, not quite daring to climb its two treads.
  I dont know anything about any such contract. He lifted his chin stoically, determined to find some way out of whatever this situation was.
  The old woman spun what he could now see was a thick edge bound black book toward him. She flipped through to the last page and thumped her knarled finger down.
  There, that is your signature isnt it?
  Robert leaned closer, his eyes focusing on his name scrawled signature covering the right half of the bottom of the paper. It looked like his signature, even in red. All bold and strong, full of confidence. Maybe he had signed something like this when he was young, he didnt remember doing it but so much had faded from his memory over the years that he couldnt quite be sure.
  Well, I dont know. Maybe. But I still dont understand all this. He edged his eyes around, trying not to see the agitated movements and raised fists of the increasingly volatile crowd.
  Who are they? And, what do they want with me anyway?
  Reject! It was louder now, closer.
  Robert shuddered.
  Them? Those are your creations, the ideas you wasted, started, stopped, used or forgot, tossed away as worthless, lost in some pile of rotting paper. She pointed toward the papers on the desk. Then she leaned forward, helpfully. Should Final Submission be rejected, then protection of writer by the Library of Ideas shall cease.
  Protection from what? Robert felt his throat tighten until he could barely speak.
  The old lady smiled again. From them dear. Her knarled hand lifted and pointed toward the seething crowd pressing and straining against the fence.
  Robert shook his head. The whole business was impossible, it had to be a drug induced hallucination of some kind. He was no doubt lying back there in the cardiac intensive care unit of Mercy General Hospital, all pumped up and dreaming.
  He nodded to himself. If he closed his eyes, this nightmare would fade back into oblivion and when he woke up he would be fine. Just fine.
  He scrunched his eyes closed.
  Far above him a bell chimed. Reflexively he opened his eyes.
  Ahh, we have Final Submission. She looked up at him, are you ready dear? she began to laugh.
  Robert glanced down at her hands, to see one clutching his contract firmly and the other with one finger hovering over a big red button mounted on the table surface.
  The crowd descended into hungry silence, waiting.
  Robert stared at them, seeing the characters from his first science fiction epic, the murderous villain he had never figured out how to catch, the beautiful but evil Queen of Andromeda. All waiting. Eyes, everywhere hungry, furious eyes.
  He turned around to face the old woman, panic taking hold. No. You cant!
  She looked up at him her smile widening, Why of course I can dear, I am the Librarian. Her knarled finger jabbed downward gleefully upon the red button.

  A single pink paper drifted down from the mouth of the chute.