(A/N: This was supposed to be an "observation essay" for English, but I couldn't find anything interesting to observe so I "observed" my struggle to get a library book. Obviously it's not a very good "observation" and is more like a narrative so I get to re-write an actual observation essay, but I like this one so I thought I'd post it. I'm too much of a novelist, I guess, to write things without conflict and non-narrative longish essays.)

Libraries. The haven of all evil. The center of all malicious intent. You wouldn’t know it by looking at it, but I speak the truth. In the midst of thousands and thousands of seemingly harmless words is the root of malevolence. One library alone stands tall in the face of oppression, the Centennial Park Branch Library, but one library is hardly enough. One library cannot hold all the books in the world; it must get other books from other, nefarious libraries. And that is where the problem begins.

The Bookmobile Services. One of the horrible libraries with no new book smell and books ensnared in slimy plastic covers. A pure representation of evil hiding under the guise of benevolence. The highest piece of evidence of its depraved being is the fact that it holds books hostage.

The mouse on my computer hovers its little arrow over the “Holds” button on the library website, hope coursing through my veins, my hand quivering over the mouse in excitement. My finger presses down, a sharp click sounding through the air and the list is revealed. My buoyant heart falls and shatters in the depths of my stomach as the website bluntly states “Active.” Not “In Transit.” “Active” means that my book is still being held as a prisoner of war in the bowels of villainy. It could be hours, days even, before the book is labeled “In Transit,” and then it could be several more days before the book arrives at the only untainted library. Brutal, horrible hours filled with nothing to do, no books to read, the only option being homework or sleep. A more horrendous world I can’t imagine.

“Why?” I scream at the unresponsive computer screen. “What do I have to do to get my book? You’ve had TWO WHOLE DAYS to send my book to me, why do you insist on keeping it? Name your ransom price! I’ll pay anything!”

I get no answer. I glare at the brightly lit screen, daring it to answer me, to explain why I’m not allowed to read my book. Of course, it won’t respond. It must be in league with the evil libraries, withholding literature from me whenever it can, thwarting my every attempt to avoid sleeping.

I sigh, falling backwards in my chair in exhaustion. I can’t keep up the battle forever; I know I’ll have to relent sometime to the Evil. But not now, not today. Today I’ll keep fighting for my book, but there’s nothing I can do except look constantly at the stoic computer screen, daring it to break under my relentless gaze and send my book to me.

I leap to my feet and pace about the small dorm room frantically, glowering at the computer screen the whole time. “Release the book!” I cry, slamming my hands down on either side of my laptop. It seems impervious to my intimidation. Unthinkable! Nothing can resist my will!

The computer still says nothing.

“Tomorrow I demand you deliver my book to me, or I will be forced to take extreme measures!” I scowl at the computer screen one last time to make sure it knew I was watching it and, confident that my empty threat had daunted the website sufficiently, I collapse into bed. I’m not the least bit tired, but since the book I want to read rested in the clutches of an organization like Beelzebub himself, I had nothing I could do except sleep or mope about in bookless agony.

Monday morning. I glower balefully at the library website again, taunting it to defy me. I have no idea what kind of ‘extreme measures’ I will take if the library still has my book, so I dare to hope that the library has bowed to my will.

I set my face into a hard grimace, not wanting to feel even the slightest bit of elation lest the library detect my emotions and decide to thwart my desire to read by detaining my book. I clench my teeth, staring long and hard at the website to let it know that I mean business. I bring up the log in page and punch each number of my “borrower barcode” in forcefully, hoping to cow the library into submission. I hesitate before bringing up the holds page, knowing that my life and the fate of the entire world could hang in the balance. Slowly, once again I click the button that will reveal either my doom or my triumph. My eyes widen and my breath catches in my throat as I read the words “In Transit.” I freeze, not daring to move a muscle. I must not show what I feel. I try my best attempt at an arrogant smirk and say, “Finally you obey my commands, Library, but the game is not over yet.”

With trembling hands, I X out the website. “In Transit” didn’t mean I had won yet. For all I knew, the Forces of Evil could have sent my book off to China on a detour.

Agonizing hours pass. I barely restrain myself from checking the website every five minutes. I try to remind myself that my book is probably on its way to the Great Wall for some sight-seeing and acting like I really want to read it at this point would inevitably result in the library sending it all over the world before sending it to me. However, at the end of the day I can’t wait any longer. With fervent anticipation, I once more bring up the library website. “In Transit.” The cold words pierce through my heart. The book would make it to me eventually, but I knew that the days without fiction would drag on and on until the days themselves seemed like weeks.

The next day dawns cold. I wander about the world in a mindless stupor, going through the motions and caring about nothing. I wonder how my poor book is doing, its cover encased in a plastic shroud, the edges torn and crumpled from time spent too long in the backpack of a ten-year-old. It isn’t until after dinner that I have time to once again check the library website. All thoughts of hope had left me early that morning – the last book I had ordered from the library had spent several days “In Transit,” but I couldn’t let the library know I was any less unmerciful. I needed it to think it was under constant surveillance.

I type in the familiar numbers and click the mouse again to view the one book which may be half-way to China, if not there already. I gape as I see the words “Centennial Park Library” where the damning word “Active” and the falsely hopeful words “In Transit” had once been. I sit in a state of shock before springing into action. I grab my bookmark – a tag from a dragon stuffed animal since my last bookmark (a card for a costume shop) had been eaten by a library book permeated with evil – and shove it in my wallet. I pull on my jacket and stumble outside. Small snowflakes drift through the air and I can feel my face going numb as I rush to my car. I dive into the driver’s seat, turn the key in the ignition, and speed away at almost 30 miles per hour. I arrive at the library within minutes.

“I have a hold!” I declare to the lone man sitting at the desk, slapping down my library card. I try to look imposing so he doesn’t get any funny ideas about really sending my book off to China.

“I can get that for you,” he says pleasantly. I am not deceived. I know it is a carefully rehearsed act to conceal his true, devious nature. I am in the only estimable library, but I have no doubts that iniquitous spies had probably infiltrated the ranks of choice librarians.

“It’s due back March 6th,” he states.

“Or what?” I want to scream. “You’ll send your cronies to wrest away my novella?” But I wisely keep my mouth shut. I would not be the one to instigate an argument that could lead to an all-out war between libraries and readers.

He hands the book to me, smiling disarmingly. I return the smile false-heartedly and take the book from him. Several pairs of eyes follow me as I leave the establishment. I know it is because they too are spies and not because I am wearing a top hat and had scribbled on my face with eyeliner that morning.

I look down at the book in my hands as I step outside into the bitter cold and failing light. I clutch the book so tightly I’m surprised I don’t leave a permanent indent in the pages. I fight to contain my grin, but it breaks out anyway, spreading over my face like a disease as my eyes fall eagerly on the cover. Scrawled across the top in shiny letters is the series title – Animorphs, and below that rests the words, “It began with six. It will end with five…”