**Right.  The mag rejected it, so I edited it.  A bit less pretentious I hope.**

A murdered man sprawls across my floor, blood creeping across the carpet, adding a bit of life to the drab color.  Oblivious to his plight, a couple kneels on the foot of my bed, muttering clichés and simpering pledges, wishing the tragedy of their romance could last longer.  A Benedictine monk is perched on my window sill, calmly stirring a cold cure, ignoring the two lovers.  And above all the quiet confusion, a sapphire dragon crouches on my dresser, aloof and waiting for something indescribable. 

            There’s barely any room for me in this shrine for the printed word.  I’ll admit it, I’m a book worm; a packrat.  Animal titles for a wholly human obsession.  Stacks upon stacks of books elbow each other for room.  They breed in dark corners when I’m asleep.  For laughs, they knock their fellows onto the floor tripping any visitors and scaring the cats.

            I’m afraid to count the titles.  They whisper, coaxing, from the built-in shelves.  The sheer weight of prose is suffocating: fantasy, science-fiction, murder mysteries, classics, poetry.  You name it, I’ve got it.  The scandal of Oscar Wilde propositions an opium-soaked Edgar Allen Poe while Tolkien wishes they would just leave him alone. 

            Maybe one day they’ll rise against me, dust bunnies serving as faithful steeds.  One night, the magic dormant on the top shelves will find the only word among millions that actually works. Sparks of the immortal roaring to life, whether the content was pressed carefully between pages or slammed haphazardly like a forgotten bit of peanut butter and jelly. 

Every book a slice of someone’s mind, tarted up awkwardly in bright colors and clever cover art.  Imaginations and fears are displayed and sold as miniature slaves.  These little bites of author may someday rebel, object to being lost in the corner, used to hold up a surge protector, humiliated as a footrest, or bitten by the cat in a flight of fancy.

            As for now, I collect them, reread them, and horde them.  Stories to occupy the mind, educate it, scoff at it, or give it cavities.  I build them a home where they can slip their intent into thirsty brains on the sly.  Perhaps it’s the most silent revolution that will ever be.