Obscurely Obvious: A Collection of Short Stories by Robin Lythgoe

Author:Robin Lythgoe [Lythgoe, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-12-17T00:00:00+00:00

Deliver Me

“Deliver me…”

Such a small whisper couldn’t even begin to penetrate the weighted air holding the room in thrall. Dust motes made timid forays into the single, narrow beam of light sidling in through a clerestory window. Books—beautiful, enchanting, influential, fabulous books—crammed the shelves from floor to ceiling. They teetered in stacks on chairs and on the floor. They balanced along the window ledge. Every one of them had assumed the tight-lipped silence of a group of curmudgeons. Traitors they, refusing to offer even the slightest, most fragile means of escape. Even the glorious maps of places far and near, real and imagined, curled away from their duties. Mute. Contrary.

The clock, though… The clock reigned supreme, posing on the mantel like a little mechanical general. If it owned legs, it would strut. Puffed with self-importance, it shrieked out the seconds with the voice of a shrew. Tick… tick… tick… Each announcement of passing time banged on the eardrums, a frantic reminder and a jeering skeptic all at once.

“Deliver me… Deliver me… Deliver me what? Mail? Pizza? How about a surprise package from—Oh, I don’t know. Godiva Chocolate. Barnes and Noble. No, not them. Unless they’re sending music. The last thing I need is another unhelpful book.” Leslie paced the small space behind the desk, one hand on her hip and the other rubbing the back of her neck. Deliver Me was the required title for the new short story challenge—also required. She’d like to take a baseball bat to the head of the person who’d thought that one up. “Deliver me from evil. Plenty of that going on around here,” she grumbled uncharitably. “Evil books. Evil deadlines. Evil publishers setting deadlines. Somewhere in here there has got to be inspiration.”

Another desperate examination of the room’s contents yielded nothing whatsoever. The books, the maps, all the eclectic little odds and ends, and the clock—certainly the clock—collaborated with the muse. The muse was the most evil of all, though the conviction remained unvoiced. Muses had uncanny hearing and delicate sensibilities. They were also easily distracted and capricious. They’d disappear at the merest whim without even a microscopic attempt at consideration. Couldn’t they at least leave a note? A little scrap of paper somewhere, anywhere, that might read: ‘Off to _____.’ No signature necessary. No polite apology tacked on.

“Deliver me from this wasteland of words, this desert of the imagination!” she implored the sulky atmosphere. Dragging her hands down her face distorted her features into a mask of tragedy.

“Oh, that’s good,” came a fragile voice from the corner of the desk. The fragility didn’t keep it from wielding disparagement like a lethal weapon. “Been reading the thesaurus, have we?”

Leslie sighed and closed her eyes. Experience had taught her that the reappearance of the muse didn’t necessarily ensure cooperation. It might well be stopping in for the sole purpose of baiting her and entertaining itself. “How lovely to see you. Did you enjoy your holiday?” she asked, striving for a hint of enthusiasm.

“Is that

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