The book is spread with a thin layer of dust. Its ripped cover seems ancient and is partially cleaved down the spine. The cover bears no title, or, at least it doesn't at the present. The book's old appearance makes it hard to decipher whether it ever had one. Maybe it had, but has simply faded with time.
The book changes with the one who holds it. When one person holds it, the book may begin to rip slightly, but when another places their hands upon the ancient book it may appear as if it has just come off the printing press. For one, it may be no thicker than a pamphlet, yet for another the book may appear fair in size. It is very rare that the book stays exactly the same size for two different people.
Inside, just opposite of the cover, appears the name of the present reader. It is printed in the exact style of the reader's handwriting. The pages, too, are covered in the same style of lettering. Depending on who holds the book at that particular time, the lettering will change.
Looking at the book, seeing page upon handwritten page, and examining the "title-less" cover, one could only possibly guess that it is a diary. It is a diary of a person's whole life. Who wrote it, no one knows. It is not even certain that anyone wrote it at all. All that is positive is that when placed in the hands of a particular person, the diary changes to their life story.
Another, more peculiar thing about the book is that the front pages are usually new, they look youthful and healthy. The middle section is usually more crisp, but not too extreme, and the last pages are often torn and tattered. Now, remember that I have mentioned this is the usual case, but not the only. Sometimes the pages in the beginning and end may be pristine, leaving the middle pages fragile. In the hands of a rare person, the beginning and middle pages are brittle, and only the back pages are worn. Still yet, in the most sad and upsetting of cases, in the hands of one with tears stained upon their cheeks, all of the pages are withered. Depending on the reader, the pages will change.
The newer pages are usually those times when a person had not a care or a worry in the world, a time of no obstacles, and the hardest choice they had to make was that of which flavor ice-cream they wanted for the day. The crisp and slightly yellowing pages tell of days that have fears and worries, but hold tales of emotions that are not yet so very painful. But the old and tattered pages display the memories of one's greatest and strongest times of anguish. Therefore, one person's book may contain more discolored pages than another's. And when picked up, not everybody's book is going to be as fat as someone else's might be. Think then of the fear that must run through the troubled mind that picks up the book to find it thin and tattered...
Outside the wind blows, threatening each man with its coldness. Many little houses stand, snow-covered and still in the midnight hour. The houses look like tiny little cottages that might shelter little dwarves in an old-time fairytale. The wooden sign that was long ago dug in the ground bearing the village's name has long since blown over and is now concealed under the heaping snow. The name's remembrance had been lost with the post, and so too it seems the real name, for soon the citizens began to associate their town as the " Little Village," and that name soon spread.
The village is nestled in a beautiful valley located in the state of Maryland. A small quaint house stands in the middle of the village. The abode is the home of a righteous old man. His cheerful reputation is known to all of the community. Even his house has a friendly atmosphere that is cherished by his frequent visitors.
Hanging on his clean, cream-colored walls are beautiful pictures, as if they were painted by angels from Heaven. The soft eyes of the various painted saints and angels look upward toward the heavens as they so often do in reality. Hand-carved wooden crucifixes hang on the walls, a significant sign of our Savior's love. A fireplace, built from generations past, was built on one side of the room. On the mantel is placed a statue of the Blessed Virgin and replica of the Crown of Thorns. Beside the fireplace is a short, redwood bookshelf that is supplied with many books, including the most important, the Bible. A rocking chair sits in front of the fireplace, and a small couch draped in a brown woolen blanket sits in the far left corner. Resting on the arm of the couch is a pair of finely handcrafted rosary beads. Across the back wall from the couch, stand two small cabinets. Prayer books and pamphlets are spread over one of them, while the other holds a lamp. It is on this cabinet, a book in perfect condition is leaning against the lamp. The book stands polished and pristine. Its well-kept cover is trimmed with the finest of shining gold. The inside, too, is written in perfect golden calligraphy. The book is bristling with pages, making it very thick and heavy. It is the book that now belongs to a holy and devout Catholic man. It is his diary . . .
Joseph H. Karzikan
The fire flickers, dancing across the shadowed walls, it casts a light upon the motionless body lying asleep on the couch. From the light of the fire, you can recognize that the man is still young, twenty-six to be exact. The fire's light wavers upon the man's dark brown hair, which is sprawled across his face. His frame, though not too muscular, is neither frail nor delicate. He is somewhere between one extreme and the other, finding him just rightly proportioned.
Born from Italian stock, the man's face is dark and handsome. His face is smooth, spare the fresh stubble sprouting across his cheeks and chin. His nose is perfectly sized, not too large nor too small. His chin is slightly forward, but not to a noticeable extent. Although his eyes are closed at the present, the instant that his eyelids open you can see the piercing beauty of his deep brown eyes. His eyes have an alluring glare that in times when his temper is at its highest, can grasp hold of yours, preventing you from pulling away from his stare.
The most expensive of high quality dress shirts is buttoned up his chest. He is wearing fine dress pants in the like. On his feet are well-polished dress shoes, tied, never taken off even after his day's work has ended. The scent of valuable cologne drifts from his body and into the air, mixing with the smoky smell of the fire.
The man lives in an upscale apartment in a high-class part of town. His apartment is decorated in only the most modern motif. Leather and black shellac furnishings run consistently throughout his residence. His apartment is clean and uncluttered.
The man is the CEO of a major jewelry enterprise. He also owns a chain of stores, known as Karzikan's Jewelers, where he sells his finely hand-crafted jewelry. He makes and sells only the most artistic of necklaces, bracelets, anklets, earrings, and rings. His high-priced items are made of the best quality of gold and silver and topped with only the most perfectly shaped diamonds and gems. His stores are run like the rest of his life with precision.
The man's name is Joseph H. Karzikan. He is a controlling lout that wants to be in charge of every situation at all times. When not placed in command, he tries to make the situation worse than it was before, out of sheer pity for himself. Like many people, Joseph gets easily upset when things don't go his way. But, instead of ignoring it and moving on, Joseph acts upon his anger and rage. His manners are uncouth and utterly rude. He is a rich fool who wants to believe that money can buy him anything. He is about to find out how wrong he is!
Samantha Marie Louyer
In the far corner of a friendly little café sits a petite girl absorbed in an adventurous novel. Her deep brown eyes swiftly glide through each row of sentences until they reach the bottom of the page. Her long, beautiful black hair has been twisted up the back of her head and clipped into place. A few strands lay against her face. Her eyes, still immersed in the book are wide and glassy. She has smooth, unblemished skin with a few freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose. Her soft hand slowly releases the book and searches the table for her glass of water, her eyes still focused on the book. She raises the glass to her lips and sips the water through a plastic straw. She then swipes a few wisps of hair behind her ear, exposing a small diamond stud earring.
She is wearing plain black work pants and a white button-up shirt. Pinned on her shirt is a name tag, "Samantha Marie." Her full name is Samantha Marie Louyer. She is the youngest of Stephen and Elizabeth Louyer's six children. Her age is twenty-four, but her slightly rounded nose makes her appear a few years younger. She occasionally works at Kristina's Café, owned by her aunt. Her main job, however, is teaching English at the local high school.
Samantha has a love of the language arts, especially the field of composition. Actually, she has written many stories and poems, but only as a hobby. Her artistic talent of writing has not been displayed for the public's eye. It remains a secret gift, exposed only to her dearest of friends, siblings, and of course, parents. Recently, this gift opened a new door when one of her students wrote a paper on ancient and odd books. With this new enlightment, her studies on old and unusual books began
Joseph Karzikan half ran and half stumbled down the slim red carpet. For what now seemed like hours, he had been engaged in an involuntary chase from an "invisible man." Glancing back, he tried once more to catch a glimpse of his pursuer. He saw no one. Still, that strong sensation of being followed lingered through the air, chilling his every bone. It seemed as if Joseph had overcome miles and miles of carpet, but just a little farther ahead waited the end. With his side aching, Joseph urged himself forward toward his goal. At the end of the carpet a bright light was shining. There was no ceiling, walls, or floor. All was replaced by the brilliant light. Coming to the carpet's edge, and without hesitation, Joseph ran straight into the light. He seemed to know that his predator would fail to continue his chase beyond this point. And true to theory, as he was engulfed in the extraordinary blinding light, his pursuer's presence lifted. Using his hands as a shield, he covered his face from the light's overwhelming brightness.
Slowly at first, then picking up speed, he began to fall backwards faster and faster through the light. With his eyes shut, his body met the ground with a loud thud. Upon opening his eyes, Joseph found himself, body aching from the fall, on the floor of a library. His eyes still adjusting to this new lighting, he examined his surroundings. He had never seen this particular library before, nor any like it. There was row upon row of bookshelves, and each filled with books of different size and color. Dispersed around the room, books lay on the floor unorganized. Straight down the middle of the room stood a long table with heaps of haphazardly scattered books. By the looks of the covers, the books all seemed to be for children, therefore Joseph guessed that he was in the juvenile section of a library. Then, one book, in particular, caught his eye.
The book, hanging in a golden-framed glass case, was suspended from the ceiling above the middle of the table. Walking toward the book, Joseph climbed the table. He was yearning to know the book's importance as to be stored in such a unique case, apart from the other books that were worthlessly scattered about. A few books thud to the ground as they were kicked aside by Joseph's shiny black, dress shoes. Reaching toward the glass case, he carefully detached it from the hook on the ceiling. Joseph clutched the box against his chest in a protective manner and gently lowered himself down onto the table. Now sitting on a pile of books, he could examine the book through the glass more clearly. On the front cover was a picture of a rabbit. Turning the case over as to reveal the books back, the cover displayed a rabbit's hole dug in the middle of a field coated in thick, rich green grass. At the bottom of the book are two small latches. A sense of power extends from this "child's" book and Joseph frantically searched the case for an opening. Seeing not a hinge or access into the case, he retrieved another book to break the glass. As gently as he could manage, so as to not damage the book that lay within its interior, he struck the glass. The glass remained firm, however, without even the slightest of scratch. Joseph repeated the gesture, this time with a little more pressure. To his disappointment, the glass remained unbroken.
Greed crept over Joseph and a stronger feeling of the book's great value pulsed through his every vein. He slammed his fist on the book's case, with his only reward being that of an excruciating pain running through his clenched fist. He examined his now bleeding and raw skin. Grabbing the case, Joseph slammed it against the table repeatedly, his desire for the book increasing with every slam. Never did he release his grip from the case. Anger and selfishness flared in him like fire in a torch as he stumbled from the table and hammered the case against the wall with every bit of strength that he possessed. The glass remained undaunted. Joseph felt his neck pulsing in loud beats as he dropped to the floor and pounded the glass. With this unbeatable challenge he clenched his teeth and situated his full body weight on the glass. He looked again at the case's perfect condition. There was not the faintest of crack.
Stronger and stronger Joseph could feel his want, his desire for the book. Feeling the hatred burning inside him, he thought of the injustice of not having the book, nor of ever having the opportunity to open its pages. The feeling of the book's power grew even more intense, so he gasped as the glass of the case loosened, and began to crumble in his hands. With excitement running through him, he grabbed for the book when it, too, began to crumble and slip through his fingers. Joseph hopelessly tried to gather the dust in his hands, but to no avail. The book's dust melted through the floor leaving only the two locks behind as proof that the book had existed.
Joseph's eyes snapped open. His heart was beating fast. He lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling allowing his body to recover from the frightening ordeal. He didn't dare close his eyes in fear that he would suddenly return to the library with its scattered books and the strong feelings of frustration and hate. But as he laid there deploring the nightmare that caused him to lie in fear, something in him pulsed for the book with its power ... and Joseph slowly closed his eyes.