In Potentia

Origamists speak of the multitude of forms inherent in a single sheet of paper. Writers both speculative and pragmatic think of the words that can fill a page, uplifting the soul or communicating useful information. A stack of paper is a world of limitless potential.

The god of paper waits beside each of these constructive dynamos, wringing his hands. He knows what is coming. The terrible hands reach, grasp, select; printers hum, pens click, lips are moistened in preparation, and the god of paper weeps.

There must be use, else all is meaningless. The fate of paper is to die.

Old Books

Tomkins pried the lid from the wooden shipping crate. A puff of sawdust filled the air. He tugged the first book free and tore away the wrapping. There was something scrawled beside Frederiksen's name on the frontispiece.

"Tomkins - I know you'll find a way to steal my library once I'm gone, and I know your part in my passing. I wanted you to know. I have won."

There was a rustling sound and the smell of musty paper. Something massive loomed behind him, blocking the light.

The shipping crate, still nailed shut, eventually sold at auction for a pittance.