God Save the Wanderers' Library
Sometimes I hear humans call the Wanderers' Library "the real American Dream." It's everything anyone could ever ask for: boundless knowledge, peace and tranquility, freedom to be yourself… all without the shit of reality. I can't say I disagree. Its tantalizing to walk out of your macabre homeworld and waltz into the halls of the greatest scholars from around the multiverse. Some, like I, choose to leave the old behind entirely and spend the rest of our lives here.
… Yeah, that all sounds great, but it's only part of the story. Let's get a little more real:
My name's Erma Ellis. Currently, I'm trying to squeeze through a crowd of hungry patrons as they queue for greasy noodles in the Food Court. My right shoe is sticky. Somewhere, a baby is crying. The smog of magical pollution turns the lamplight into hazy beams and my breath into barely-suppressed coughs. I weave left, right, stooping low, stepping over, punctuating every step with "sorry"-s and "pardon me"-s, and still they shoot me foul looks. This is the real Wanderers' Library: crowded, filthy, and uncaring.
What am I doing here? Simple: a man named Michael has a book of mine, and he's somewhere in this court. It's also due in three minutes.
Following profuse apologies to a stepped-on octopus, I finally make it through the congestion and into a slight clearing. To the right, a line of busy food stalls continuing far into the distance; to the left, a stage with a jazz band. Everywhere else are benches and tables and patrons and staff bustling to-and-fro. My heart drops- there's no way I'll find him in this mess.
"Michael!" I shout, holding my purse up. "MIIIICHAEL!"
My words are lost in the clamor.
Swearing under my breath, I pick a path and start combing through the seating area, scanning every face for that sneerish grin. Maybe he didn't come. Maybe he's in a different area. Maybe I got lost and went to some parallel universe's food court. Maybe—
I fell in love with love one night when the moon was full
I was unwise with eyes unable to see
Deep, soulful singing floats by on the breeze and stops me in my tracks. It's the kind of voice that makes your heart flutter like the wings of a Fairy Dragon, the kind that speaks to your body more than your mind… Mission forgotten, I look around for the singer in a daze, finally finding her on-stage: tall, eyes lowered, brushing the microphone stand with delicate fingers. Her dark dress seems to flow down her body as a waterfall would, sequined fabric glittering with every sway of her hips. She smiles to the audience and sends shivers up my spine, the saxophone acting as wingman, and she sings:
I fell in love with love, with love everlasting
But love fell out with me
End of Sentence
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