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The Smoke of Time (standard:science fiction, 3876 words) | |||
Author: Uri Meir | Added: Jul 15 2007 | Views/Reads: 3209/2182 | Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes) |
A 36 Year old Israeli goes back in time to 1980 | |||
The Smoke of Time A. In Twilight The smoke of time, it rises to the fore, A muted day is dying and still fair, It lies behind the tightly locked door; The book of poems sleeps upon the chair. It dreams in silence of the hands, Those have once washed the whiteness of its pages, And in its wrinkled lines still stays, Their oddly smell, a memory of the sages. A small vibration goes from page to page, And hush... above the sleeping book they pend, The shadow of the lamp – a man of age, It dreams that these must be his hands. Leah Goldberg Terry Pratchett once wrote that from time to time, bookshops selling magical books suddenly turn up in the center of town, on a side street, without any explanation whatsoever. People accept their appearance with equanimity, as well as their disappearance, which, is inevitable at aome point. Even before entering, I was hoping it won't disappear too soon. It seemed nice – a pleasant surprise for the last day of the first month of the New Year. I examined its sign carefully, trying to guess what I may find inside, and got in. My eyes rested on some poetry books, which themselves rested on shelves, as if expecting someone to touch them. Poetry books by Good old Alterman lived side by side with break the rules Yona Wallach and it didn't seem to matter to even one of them. I couldn't understand why some thin dust was getting into my eyes there seemed to be no smoke in that bookshop. One poetry book wanted me to read it more than the others. I took it from the shelf and started browsing, yet wasn't able to connect to it. Shame, I do love poetry, but it's a matter of clicking. I closed the book and asked myself whether I will ever open it again. Then I noticed the owner, a small cheerful woman, who kept staring at me. I asked her why the bookshop is called The Smoke of Time, and without saying a word she pointed to a Leah Goldberg poem hanging on the wall. I read it. This time I did connect. Perhaps she talks about herself. Perhaps she's a book, dreaming that each shadow on the wall is a man wishing to hold her and read her. And perhaps she's talking about me, about the book yet to be written... That's how I tend to be at bookshops a little philosophical. When I left the shop it was already dark, and I went home. Not until the next day did I notice anything strange. The wall clock had the date on it, but I checked again, just to be sure: Thirty First of January, 2007, also on my cellular phone's display. It can't be. It can't be the same date all over again! Wasn't yesterday the last day of the month? I must be more confused than a boy whose parents were the only people who called him Shmulik. And why did I suddenly think of him? This must be the first time since I was ten. I got up, dressed and left the apartment. I had a couple of things to do at the university, but instead I found myself going to the bookshop at lunchtime. I managed to squeeze the rest of the day, through skipping some clearly important chores, in order to create some quality idle time. After all, I did earn a day, didn't I? Immediately after that, I decided, I'm going to Haifa to another bookshop, downtown just below Herzl Street. All the rest can wait – what can be done tomorrow can also be done the day after tomorrow. Jasmine Translations will survive even if I send them all the stuff next week. After all, it's only some boring translations of some boring reports on some boring companies. No one is going to really miss me if I disappear for a while – certainly no one special. I walked around the shelves – they keep adding new shelves all the time – and read that piece about The Smoke of Time once again. Peeking at me from the shelf I saw Momo of the Time Thieves, reminding me that although time should be managed efficiently, every once in a while you should give yourself some time for sheer fun. It was already Thursday afternoon, so I left for Haifa. It sounds much simpler than it actually was, since I thought I'll just go to the train station, and so I did, but Beer Sheba, where I haven't lived long and which I don't know that well yet, suddenly looked different, more desert,like, and I couldn't find that station. So I took the large, red white bus, and stood in front of the driver gaping. In the end I gave him a few pounds and sat down on the blue seat, a sort of cloth coated latex, somewhat torn, with a yellowish foam, torn as well, peeping underneath. The sign on the window requested that I don't smoke or spit. Traffic was very Click here to read the rest of this story (233 more lines)
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