To that Stranger Who Stole My Book

To that Stranger Who Stole My Book by Anne Macachor
I’m a nerd as geeky as can be. With verses and words, I squeal with glee. Books are friends to me. Despite my peculiarity, they do not flee. So I went out one day, off to the bookstore with hardbacks on display. Inside I went and immediately I sense, the scent of stories quickly descend. 

My hands brushed through spines, feeling every tale in their skeletal divine. I was in my element and between massive shelves I went. Drowned amidst piles of books, I sat down on my favorite nook. 

One author from another, one saga to the other. What’s next? A dreamy realm or a deadly hex? My confused mind was itching. My scalp, I was scratching. What story would I drown in? It seems like to every tale I have been. 

I picked up a random cover. There must be something in it to discover. A tale of strangers and of luck, chances and a ticking clock. It was all thick and pretty beguiling. Oh, how intriguing. 

I sat bolt upright, only to meet your eyes. Oh dear stranger, surprising me ain’t wise. Down the cup of coffee went, spilling its guts without consent. The crimson carpet is now stained and wet. I started to fret and worry began to set.

You said sorry for causing an alarm. You meant no harm. With a hankie, you cleaned up the mess so I panicked less. Your eyes darted to the book on my hand. I tucked back a loose hair strand. 

“May I see?” You asked me. I held the hardback out, arms outstretched in doubt. You dashed off away from view. Book stealer! Who knew? I was fuming, annoyance all consuming. 

And then out of the blue, you came back into view. You tried to speak but your voice cracked and shook. On your hand, you held the receipt to my book. Then you smiled and wiped the sweat that trickled down your forehead.

“I’ve seen you around but you’ve always fled.” You casually said. “I got this book for you in exchange for that spilled coffee brew.” My heart hammered in my ribcage as I see you flip through a page. To a chapter you held it open. “Hi, I’m Chace” was written in pen. 

My heart did a somersault. This is all your fault. Now, which story do you want told? The one of the book or about that dude who stole my book?

As I've mentioned in my interview with Drift Stories, "As crazy as it may sound my high school dream was not to go out to prom with my true love but to get myself published on the school paper. I have always been a frustrated writer with the dreams of a NY Times Bestseller.

I've been working on a novel for the longest time now. If memory serves me right I have been trying to write one since high school but I never got to finish it. Either I lose the mojo or I outgrow the plot. Last year though (8 years after... Whoops there goes my age! Haha.) I've decided to finally write a new one and this time I swear to stick to my chosen plot. 

For some reason I got a whole pang of writing juju that day. I was experimenting on certain ideas and this piece here is one of the drafts that didn't make it. I totally scraped it off because I don't think it would fit the concept at all so I decided to just play with it and incorporate rhymes. This has been sitting in my computer for a year now and I thought why not share it on the blog instead of letting it rust in my archives. What do you think?

More "Open Letters" and "Short Stories"
To That Guy in My Dream
To the Girl Who Ran Away
The Salty Coffee
Love, Sweet and True (Part 1)
Love, Sweet and True (Part 2)

I make up stories in my head. I'm a dreamer and sometimes perhaps a lunatic. Writing keeps me sane and while I'm no New York Times Best Seller (yet), I'd love to call myself an author. This blog serves as my digital manuscript. I've kept countless poems, stories and whimsical thoughts for years but never got to share them publicly for fear that people would steal them and take the credit. (Which someone already did by the way! If you're planning to do the same then scoot. I can track you down like a bloodhound.) But it would likewise be a pain to keep them for myself. I'd love for people to enjoy them as I did writing them. Open Letters is a compilation of mostly fictional messages dedicated to whoever finds themselves ensnared within the context while Anne Writes Shorties is a collection of one shot stories that were built to tickle the imagination in one sitting. — Anne Macachor


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