In Hushington Library, silence reigned supreme. Ms. Quietwords, the librarian, glided between shelves like a disapproving ghost, her arsenal of “SILENCE PLEASE” signs multiplying weekly. Legend had it she could hear a page turn from fifty paces.
Tuesday afternoon brought disaster when Mr. Thompson selected “The Quiet Read” from Fiction. By page three, the text began fading mysteriously. He squinted and tilted the book toward the light, only to discover that the words remained visible exclusively when spoken aloud. Panicking, he pulled his coat over his head and soon found himself in earnest conversation with the book, completely oblivious to the mounting horror around him.
Ms. Quietwords materialised as if summoned by dark magic. She yanked back his coat, index finger pressed to pursed lips, eyes bulging with righteous indignation. “This is a LIBRARY!” she hissed, confiscating the offending tome with the practised swoop of a falcon.
Back at her desk, with peace seemingly restored, she opened the mysterious volume. The first paragraph seemed ordinary enough—until the words began to fade. She squinted, leaned closer, and whispered tentatively. The text sharpened. Before long, her whispers evolved into murmurs, then into a full-blown philosophical debate with the lonely book about the virtues of verbal expression.
“SHHHHHHH!” came the synchronised admonishment from every patron.
Ms. Quietwords’ face flushed beetroot. Clutching the book to her chest, she retreated to the staff room, still animatedly reading aloud, “Chapter Two: How to Disrupt a Perfect Silence…”
Ciaran Leamy - Author 