Writing Battle - Across the Library
There's a website called Writing Battle that has monthly competitions for short story writers. Each time, they assign you three story elements that you use to create your prose.
This is the first story I wrote for one of the competitions and wanted to post it here. Please enjoy!
The story elements I was assigned:
- Genre: Alternate History
- Setting: Sanctuary
- Character: Single Parent
Across the Library
by Jay McKiernan
There’s a library that sits on the border of the United States of America and Canada. It was built in 1905, when people from both countries wanted to create a safe space where everyone could come together. The province of Quebec and the state of Maine welcomed the Haskell Free Library with open arms, happy to spend time with their neighbors.
One entrance sits on the American side. There is immaculate brickwork on both sides of the large wooden double doors with brass handles (and the requisite Dunkin’ Donuts five feet away). The other entrance, almost identical (except that it’s a Tim Horton’s), sits on the Canadian side.
What makes this library special? First, it’s the only library on Earth that is placed right in the middle of a fifteen-meter-tall fence that stretches across a continent, running from Atlantic to Pacific.
Second, it’s the only library you can enter where, simply by walking over a plain, black line that runs through the center of the room, you can move back and forth between two countries. In fact, it’s the only spot in the border where you can cross back and forth without guards, weapons, fences, cameras, and having to show every kind of documentation imaginable.
And third, it’s the only library that’s a sanctuary for citizens from both sides to come together without worrying about all the past transgressions, racial divides, and political arguments. Everyone, Canadian and American, is equal in this library and has access to anything within these doors.
Trudging. If there was one word that best described how Ezekiel Waters moved through life, it would be trudging. Today was no different. He walked along the side of the road, cars speeding by on his left, the gigantic security fence to his right, and every step felt slightly lighter than it had before. In his left hand was a battered suitcase. His son, Abraham, held his right hand and walked beside him. Abraham’s gait was lighter, freer. He hadn’t seen the things his father had.
10-year-old Abraham, short and so skinny you would think he was only made of elbows and ribs, couldn’t help but stare at the cars as they sped by. His clothing was ill-fitting, a tee shirt and jeans that had a few rips and stains. His shoes, like everything else he wore, looked at least two sizes too small for him. His afro stuck out in all the wrong places and Abraham would subconsciously play with his hair to try to get it to look presentable.
Ezekiel had the look of a man who had been beaten down by life. His skin looked dusty, even if he had just gotten out of a shower. His clothing, a few sizes too big and shabby, looked like they might have been clean once. But not anymore. His hair was kinky and brittle – he had no money for anything that would make him look better.
As they got closer to the library, both their spirits lifted. The journey here had been grueling. A long, slow, meandering train ride, shoved onto uncomfortable wooden benches in the last, uncooled car led to the ten mile walk from the train station to the hostel. This morning, the walk from hostel to library had been both longer and hotter than they had expected. Sweat ran down both their faces.
But as soon as they saw the library, they couldn’t help but smile. Ezekiel had learned of this place when he was a child, when a Baptist missionary from Canada had told him about it. For decades he dreamed of going. Once Abraham was born, he started saving every nickel and dime he could spare.
A police car sped by, mirrored sunglasses on a White face in the front seat. Abraham gripped his father’s hand tighter. Every person of color, whether they were Black, Hispanic, Jewish, or Asian, knew that the police only meant one thing in these United States: something bad was going to happen. Every time Abraham saw a police car, the scar on the side of his neck throbbed a little and he thought about his mother. The fear never went away, no matter how much he wanted it to.
At the library, the F.B.I. and state police stood watch, checking the identification of anyone who wanted to enter the building. For White people, they scanned their documentation thoroughly, asking tons of tough questions, pouring over the research plans or their government papers. When people of color approached, they barely looked at anything. It was the only time the police didn’t hassle them. The police were happy to see them enter the library and, to be honest, were hoping they wouldn’t come back.
Ezekiel and Abraham got through without a second glance.
Abraham swore the air smelled different from what he was used to. His eyes had to adjust to the darkness. The library seemed like some magical place. Like some place where all the weight had been stripped from his body. He had never been to such a nice place before – any library he could use was ugly, badly run, and filled with tattered, damaged books.
His father turned to him and smiled, “Come with me. I wanna see if it’s true.” He dragged his son through the stacks of the books. They crossed the black line, not even registering they were in a different country. Abraham wondered what his father was in such a rush to see.
A water fountain.
A heavy-set man stood there, filling up his water bottle. He looked back at the pair, a huge smile on his face. “Your son thirsty?” he asked them in a thick Quebecois accent.
Ezekiel could barely understand what he said, but he kept on smiling. The man stopped and moved out of the way. “Here. You get some water. You look like you need it.”
They cautiously walked to the fountain and Ezekiel couldn’t help but eye the man suspiciously. Was something going to happen? Were the police going to appear suddenly?
Abraham drank first, and then Ezekiel, who was so out-of-sorts that he didn’t remember to put down his suitcase. They drank deep and long and let the water splash over their lips and chins. They both knew this was the best water they ever tasted. When they were done, Abraham was certain he saw tears welling up in his father’s eyes.
They looked around. No one rushed to stop them. No one yelled. They were the same as everyone else. They could do whatever they wanted.
Something on the wall grabbed Abraham’s attention. “Look, dad!” he pointed up. It was a portrait of a well-dressed Indian woman in her fifties. She smiled down at them like some sort of benevolent savior.
“Who’s that?”
The Quebecois man, the smile still across his face, replied. “That’s our Prime Minister. Madame Singh.”
“Prime Minister?” Abraham was suddenly full of questions, excited and hydrated.
“Our leader. Like your President.”
Ezekiel and Abraham stared at the picture. And at each other. You could almost see the wheels turning as they thought about what they were seeing. ‘A person of color leading a country? And a woman? How is that possible?’
“Are you staying with us?” the man asked, looking directly at Ezekiel.
“’Scuse me?”
“Are you seeking sanctuary?” He pointed at the suitcase.
“Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, sir.”
“Tres bien. Very good. Please follow me.”
The man, who introduced himself as Xavier when he shook Ezekiel’s hand, led them through the library and toward a row of tables.
At the closest one sat a bright, cheerful Black woman. Abraham couldn’t help but stare at her beautiful, braided hair. It had every color he could think of. She stood up, holding her hand out to Ezekiel.
“Hello, I’m Dominique. Welcome to Canada.”
“Hello, ma’am. I’m Ezekiel. And this is my son, Abraham.”
She shook the boy’s hand as well. “Nice to meet you, too, Abraham.”
“Ma’am.”
They all sat and Dominque opened the laptop sitting on the desk in front of her. “You’re here to apply for asylum?”
“Ma’am?”
“Please. Call me Dominique.”
“Ma’am?”
She forced her smile wider. The forced politeness always bothered her but she didn’t know why. “Are you here to move to Canada?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve got a few routine questions before I begin, if that’s okay. Why do you want to move to Canada?”
“For my boy. For Abraham.” He turned to his son. “Tell her. Tell her what you learned in school.”
Dominique turned and looked Abraham in the eyes. “Yes, please tell me what you learned.”
Abraham took a deep breath. “I learned that Canada is the best place on Earth. That everyone’s equal here. That all the former slaves came here and made a paradise.”
“And?”
“And that’s why all these fences are here. The government doesn’t want us to know about it. That’s why it’s not in any books and such. They don’t want us to know that Black people can build things just as well as White people.”
Ezekiel interrupted his son. “So that’s why we wants to come here, ma’am. We want to get to Black people’s paradise.”
Dominique’s eyes moved back and forth, trying to get a read on the two people who sat across from her. “You’re kinda right and kinda… not. The former slaves did move here. After the Civil War, Prime Minister McKenzie passed a law allowing anyone from the U.S. or Asia or Europe to move to Canada, no questions asked. And we gave every former slave fifty acres of farmland to work.”
Ezekiel’s eyes went wider. Dominique was used to this reaction and kept speaking as gently as she could. What was ancient history to her, something she had learned in school as a child, was unbelievable to any American. Especially any Black American.
“You see, Canada was really scared after the Civil War. We were worried that if the United States was willing to kill themselves, they’d be willing to kill anyone. And the only way to get big enough to feel safe was to let as many people in as we could.
“Vancouver became the biggest Asian city outside of Asia. And Calgary and Edmonton became the biggest Black cities outside of Africa.
“But it wasn’t paradise. It was a lot of hard work. And a lot of fighting. And a lot of problems. I don’t want to lie to either of you. Canada isn’t perfect. It’s not paradise.”
She waited for those words to sink in. Ezekiel’s brow furrowed. Abraham kept staring at her.
“Not paradise?” the boy asked.
“Not paradise. We’ve got some great stuff. And we have friends around the world. But we have lots and lots of problems.”
Dominique’s smile disappeared and she stared into Ezekiel’s eyes before continuing.
“You also will never be able to go back. You move to Canada and you officially become a criminal in the United States.”
Ezekiel thought for a bit before responding. "We already are criminals, ma'am. We just never did anything wrong."
There are two doors to this library, both made of a heavy oak and both with large brass handles. One thing the builders made certain was that both sides of the library, both the Canadian and American, would be identical. They hoped to show that these countries had more things in common than not.
For Ezekiel and Abraham, the doors in front of them couldn’t have looked more different than the ones they originally entered. Paperwork done, their new identification papers in Ezekiel’s pocket, they were about to start their new lives. Lives with something they had never had: Hope. Problems or not, they would have a future. Abraham would have a future.
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