Inventory of Quarantined Works:
The Neverending Story by Michael Ende. Fiction.
A narrative concluding after 13 pages with the protagonist Bastian discovering a lengthy and uninteresting volume on the morphogenetic cycle of book mites, and deciding not to read it.
The Library of Alexandria by Charles River. Factual.
A historical study of the Library of Alexandria, ranging from the politics of its construction to its eventual infestation.
The King In Yellow by Robert Chambers. Fiction.
A collection of short stories concerning the powerful psychotropic effects of a novel fungal spore which feeds on the faeces of script-mites.
Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov. Fiction.
An intricately interwoven narrative in which a mad professor acquires a collection of rare index-card mite eggs from a deceased acquaintance, hatches them, and adjusts their diet as they undergo metamorphosis.
House of Leaves by Mark Z Danielewski. Fiction.
An intricately interwoven narrative in which a young man supposedly discovers index-card mite eggs on a collection of index-cards written about a video documentary concerning “video mite” eggs, and writes comments about the writer’s comments as they all hatch.
The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown.
A narrative concerning a professor’s search for previously undiscovered species of book mites, attempting to find a match for a sample of novel book mite faeces discovered on the pages of a King James Bible.
The Golden Bough by James Fraser. Factual.
A comprehensive essay comparing the treatment of metatextual parasites by cultures throughout the ages.
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Fiction.
A cautionary tale about an inhumane, irresponsible, and, ultimately, ineffectual overreaction to a minor infestation of book mites in the near future.
Inventory of Quarantined Works. Meta-Fiction.
A metatextual nesting site for the humane control of populations of book mites, word weevils and erroneous apostrophes within The Wanderer’s Library. To be displayed in a cabinet of tempered glass and well charred ash wood, fitted with a polarised, ideoconductive grounding strip.
Front Page Prompt
Magicians are, by and large, an AV set. Spells are understood through reading text or hearing old words and are often manifested as flashy light shows or howling maelstroms. But what about the other senses? What about spells that can only be truly understood through taste? Or a spell that manifests as tactile sensation?
This prompt's tag is "av08." This prompt's start date is December 11th, 2017
Odour Memory
“Excuse me sir, I’m very sorry to bother you. This is little embarrassing, but please could you, uh, could you tell me where I am?”
“This is the perfumery. Welcome.”
“Oh. However did I.. My apologies, I’ll just..”
“No, no, please, take a seat Basil. I’ve been developing some new scents just this morning; I’d be honoured if you could have a quick whiff. You’ve always had a fine nose.”
“Oh. Oh, well, yes, certainly. If it helps you out.”
“Fantastic. Here, try a little of this one. Just a spritz; it’s rather potent.”
Pssht.
The gentleman closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A broad smile crept across his wrinkled face, and his eyes stayed firmly shut. The perfumer looked on, toying with his wedding band as he awaited a response. Several minutes passed before the silence was broken.
“I take it you approve?”
“Oh, my good fellow. My apologies, I was.. I was transported, momentarily. I’ve smelled something like this before, long ago. My father’s aftershave. I’d forgotten all about it. Your scent took me right back.”
“I’m glad. This is my recreation of a classic. They just don’t make them like this anymore. Tastes change; fashions change. People change. Well, in my experience things tends to cycle through. This kind of a scent, it’ll come back around.”
“My father was a real traditionalist. I guess I’ve turned out a lot like him, in that respect. Even back then he felt our world changing for the worse. He believed that the old values would have their time again some day though. He was passionate about it; I remember the speeches he’d give over the breakfast table. A brilliant man. I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear all this.”
“No apology necessary. I like to see my work appreciated, it’s my raison d’être. Ready for another?”
“Yes. Please.”
Pssht.
The fragrance married the sticky sweetness of pine sap with earthy notes of leaf litter. On the second sniff a subtle hint of petrichor came through and lingered. A third sniff and he was back outside his childhood home, hunting for bugs in an April shower. He’d wanted to discover a new species and name it after his mother. It’d be a butterfly ideally. It had to be beautiful. All bugs were beautiful, he remembered. She’d told him that once, before..
“Another?”
Pssht Pssht.
He smelled many smells that afternoon, with each unpacking some precious memory that he’d thought forever lost. Though every one was greatly dear to him, not all brought him joy. Along with the sweat and engine oil of the job he’d adored, and the surgical smell of his first son’s birth, there was the sickly sweet waft of the girl he had loved but let down so sorely, and a sample with an odour reminiscent of freshly laid tarmac. They’d been doing roadworks right outside of the clinic on the day he received the diagnosis. When he’d come out he’d just sat and watched the workmen working- churning; spreading; churning; spreading- until the fumes made him giddy. One of them had offered him a cup of tea from their thermos and asked him what was wrong. People were nice like that, he’d often found. Not always, but often enough.
The sun was setting by the time the perfumer produced the final sample, a sleek little bottle of jet black glass, fragile and reflective.
“This is the final sample. I’m sorry Basil.”
Pssht.
“This one.. I can smell smoke.”
The perfumer nodded gently. The old man spluttered.
“I smell smoke. I.. Oh. I think I need to wake up now.”
The perfumer held the old man’s trembling hand, and he looked him in the eye.