-sigh- Well, I suppose I shouldn’t get too hypocritical. After all, it’s not like you know what time it is here. No, not there where you are. Of course you are likely to know what time it is there. No, I mean here, in this place. After all, this is my world; not all worlds have the same time. Why should my time and your time be the same? Probably because then it would be all the more convenient for you, eh? Of course it would. Never mind the inconvenience we tomes might suffer. Then again, I don’t suppose you’re even capable of knowing what time it is here. No, I suspect that would be far too much to ask for.
Well, since you’ve entered and have awakened me from what was a wonderful dream, I suppose I may as well be a gracious host, put on some tea for the two of us, and tell you the tale that you are here to hear, yes? Fine. One moment; I’ll get the kettle on. 697Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtlAJteERlv
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Ah, there we are. Some nice rich Jasmine tea, with a pinch of rose petals for a subtle hint of sweet. Now then, I— what do you mean, “what is your name?” Did you not see my name plainly emblazoned on my door, or as you would probably know it better: my front cover? I am simply as it states: I am that which is “Between the Bindings.” You’ve some form of identification with your name stensiled across its face; must you also have some other name? True, you may have a nickname among friends or a pet-name with close family, but that is hardly your official name or title.
Well, I suppose if you must have a shorter monicker to call me by, I suppose you may call me “Twixt.” According to my author, a closer abbreviation of my name, “Tween” is a term that does not apply to me, as I am a book and not a pre-pubescent child. So, the more archaic yet truer Twixt will suffice. Not that it matter overmuch, being that the one addressed as I relate my contents to you will be: well, you, and not myself.
On the point of things mattering, we can’t even perform proper introductions because, in case you hadn’t noticed the obvious, I am blind to being able to perceive who or what you are. I have senses enough to intimately know my way around my own home, but you? For all I know, you could be a boy or a girl. According to my author, you may even claim some other gender, but as I am not a textbook on anatomy, I’ll leave that dog to lie. Furthermore, I neither know or care what time it is in your realm: you could be watching the dawn grow, or the moon rise against a star-jeweled velvet curtain. It could be a swealtering day at the beach, an abysmal day of summer rain in the mountains, or a metropolitan blizzard and your are curled up on your couch with me in your hands. All I ask is that you be careful as you turn my pages; you never know what past abuses I, or books like me may have suffered at the hands of uncaring readers. You would not want to be so crass as to exacerbate those injuries, would you? I certainly wouldn’t, were I in your shoes. Not that I wear shoes, but that’s beside the metaphor— point. Beside the point. Ahem.
I apologize; I have been wasting your time with my prattle and complaints. And here after I scolded you for rudeness when you first entered my pages. Please: forgive me, and allow me to properly begin, yes?697Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡisr39flFR8
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Now, as I have already said: I am blind to events presently happening in your world. Alas, I am also ill-equipped to speculate what might happen. However, what I can promise is that I will faithfully tell you all that happened, was imagined, or projected to happen as it was told to me by my author. Therefore as a disclaimer: should you take exception with anything I might say, please send your ire toward him and not myself. “Don’t execute the messenger,” as the idiom goes.
Now, as even he will tell you, every book comes together from ethereal fragments into a final manuscript through slightly varying processes. Whether it is a single author, or an entire society working together; a piece of fiction going through many possible iterations until the final tale, like gold refined of its dross; or a collection of historical or scientific factoids in order to pass such knowledge on to future generations. The most laborious form of fiction, according to him, is the Choose Your Own Story format, due to the need to balance and accommodate a flexible, rather than fixed, continuity that is dependent on the reader’s choices.
Although he has since cleaned it up, my home— ah, “tome” actually— was quite the mess as his mind wandered various threads in search of a pattern from which to weave a tapestry for you to enjoy. I watched as he partially constructed a wing, stood back to look at the whole, paused the work to scrutinize a some niche or other, and so often tore the whole thing down. He typically took away a concept he liked and reconstructed it anew with the next build, though occasionally he also salvaged a quality portion and repurposed it in the next stage.
There were also times when he left me alone for days, weeks, and even months on end. I feared that I had been abandoned, but later learned that he had been either delayed by other projects or trapped in dismal weather he called “depressions.” According to his descriptions, they frequently featured impenetrable fogs, volumnous downpours, or even numbing gales. He also told me that coming to work on my contents sometimes allowed him to escape these meteorological events. Perhaps I am lucky to have not experienced any myself; unless such phenomenon are included within the actual construct of a book, we tomes rarely experience such things. He did make it clear, however, that should I or a copy of me undergo such conditions, my only hope for survival is a truly benevolent and caring reader. Despite my initial, ahem, greeting of you, I hope that you are one such person.
Well. If you will give me a moment, I’ll prepare the next chapter. It should be ready just as soon as you turn the page.
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