Fiction logo

Burn Baby Burn

Book Club, Not

By Cleve Taylor Published 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 4 min read
3
Burn Baby Burn
Photo by Jonny Caspari on Unsplash

Burn Baby Burn

Of course history repeats itself. Apparently those genetically endowed with the ability to see and understand this are seldom in a position to do anything about it. “Some history is so egregious that under no circumstance should it ever be allowed to happen again,“ Berry thought to herself, as the blistering heat from the bonfire of burning books threatened her and the cheers from the buffoons who were gleefully feeding the flames with texts and novels rang in her ears.

She coughed while salty tears rolled down her cheeks and acrid smoke assaulted her lungs. “How could they? How could they?” she murmured to herself as book after book were sacrificed to the flames of idiocy.

Before the Great Destruction, before society broke down under irrational laws based on faulty assumptions that purposely eschewed any dependence on science, people had not been burning books. They had achieved the same purpose by belittling and ignoring them. That behavior tore the very fabric of civil society and triggered unsustainable consumption and human hurt when consumables disappeared.

There was no organized revolution. Angry people just stopped obeying laws and cultural rules of decency. Unfortunately, they were also armed and urged on by opinion leaders, ready, and even anxious, to shoot each other for imagined grievances.

But now they were at the book burning stage. Roving gangs, led by men and women whose authority was vested in them by the AK 47s they wielded, after sacking the libraries, were now going house to house seeking private stashes of books, and did not hesitate to beat and maim anyone who tried to stop them.

Berry slipped away from the mob and returned to her hideaway. In a mostly burned out townhouse, apparently modelled on the inside after a medieval fortified home, she discovered a huge still standing fireplace, which had inside it an entrance to a priest’s hole. It was small, but it had a chair, a small wooden table, and a straw mattress on the floor. She would have preferred a foam mattress, but apparently neither priests nor beggars could be choosy.

On the floor in a corner were a stack of books and a box of dripless candles with, thank goodness, a lighter, that Berry had been able to hide away from the book burners. This helped her keep her sanity and moral compass as she read by candle light.

That evening Berry looked over the small store of barterable bits that she had salvaged from smoldering ruins across the city. She had risked her life in the process. Falling walls threatened and merciless thugs, who preferred robbing to scavenging, lurked around every corner. She selected a damaged bracelet which had silver markings on it and a dented pewter mug that might be traded for a can of peas. She considered taking the necklace with the small silver heart shaped locket on it, but that had belonged to her sister and she was loath to part with it. She knew, though, that should she get hungry enough, even the locket would have to go.

Satisfied with her selection of trade goods, she headed to the empty lot ten or so blocks away where traders had started setting up tables. An impromptu market was slowly moving toward permanence. Canned goods, she knew, were traded quickly and at a premium because they were hard to replace, so she hurried to get there early.

Passing what had been a novelty shop, she heard a weak cry, “Help.” Wary because thieves were known to lure victims to within their reach, she hesitantly peered into the ruins of the store. She saw no one, but she heard the cry again, “Help me, someone, please.” Seeing an opening to a back room, she cautiously dodged broken cabinets and shelving and sought out the source of the cry.

In the back room she found a young brutish man lying on the floor, his eyes closed, with blood seeping from a gash in his head. His right leg twisted unnaturally beneath his body, and had he not been passed out, he would undoubtedly be experiencing severe pain. He had, as best she could determine, been climbing to look on the top of empty shelves, had found a book hidden there, and had fallen as he retrieved it. By his outstretched hand a fallen book lay open, its print pages down.

Looking at the man more closely, she recognized him as one of the men from the book burning who had shouted, “Burn baby burn,” as he fed the fire.

Berry was in a hurry to get to the market, so she did as best she could.

She took the book, one she hadn’t read called “West With Giraffes” and put it in her bag. Then she moved a couple of pieces of furniture to make it more difficult for the man to be seen by anyone looking in the room, and left him as she found him, broken and in pain.

Over her shoulder as she exited the room, she shook her head and said, “Asshole!”

At the market she not only traded for a can of baked beans, she also snared a can of Bumble Bee tuna. That night she ate beans while she read her new book by candle light.

Fantasy
3

About the Creator

Cleve Taylor

Published author of three books: Ricky Pardue US Marshal, A Collection of Cleve's Short Stories and Poems, and Johnny Duwell and the Silver Coins, all available in paperback and e-books on Amazon. Over 160 Vocal.media stories and poems.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.