May's find

I have been looking for stories worth publishing for a while now. This seems to have a proper ending, but it is spread out over different pieces of paper, so it has been impossbile to puzzle them together properly to see if there is an ending to the potentially quite exciting story. It makes quite a difference from stories that have been published thus far. Like most stories I have found it is written in ink. It is marked P.1951, probably set somewhere in the PTO during World War Two. It was found in a statistics handbook in Peoria Public Library, Peoria, IL. The fascinating thing is that we may never know whether this was actually based on a true story. It might well be, considering the slightly odd conversation in the beginning and the confusing nature of it all. I am fairly sure this is the real beginning of the story though.

"I know Captain, I was there, remember?"
"Captain?"
"You heard me...ain't nothing funny about this!"
"Well, I..."
"What? You just dropped it in the water and expected me to say nothing?"
"Listen, I ain't got time to stand here listening to..."
"Yeah. You know what we do, I say we wade to the shore - mind those goddamn pointy things - and find some place in the grove over there to sit around for a few minutes."
"Listen, I ain't got..."
"You damn well do! Now listen and come with me."
"I'll do as you say as long as you don't tell me what to do! Clear?"
"Sure. Now, come on, we ain't got much time!"

The tepid water went up to their waists and the Captain stepped carefully so as not to step on any sharp rocks hidden in the sand. They had about 80 yards left to the beach and stopped next to a coral rock which rose imposingly over the two men and cast a long shadow out towards the boat.

"Now which way?"
"Just keep on going to the mouth of the river, see that sandy ridge there? Ain't noone that can see us from the jungle as long as we keep our heads low. Now come on!
"This goddamn rifle butt keeps digging into my back...and the friggin' heat! You know, there ain't..."
"Quiet!"

They instinctively crouched behind the rock in a patch of shallow water.

"What?"
"That buzzing sound...y'hear it?"
"Goddamn it!"
"What?"
"It's a goddamn plane!"
"Oh, great..."
"Just keep still...don't move..."
"Damn it! Just..."
"It's going west...we're clear!"
"Go!"

A few quick leaps and they were sat behind the ridge overlooking a coconut grove some twenty yards left of their position. Some canisters and straps were scattered over the packed sand. From what they could make out in the moonshine, the sand was colored light red.

"I don't like this...too friggin' quiet."
"Now where do we start looking?"
"I'm pretty sure I lost it in the grove over there."

He nodded to the left.

"Let's go then, but quiet!"

They headed out, crouching, towards the grove. Palm leaves were scattered along the jungle floor and the surf was starting to whip them out to sea in a menacing manner. The foliage was dense and everywhere they stepped they seemed to kick up a centipedes' nest.

"Thank God, there it is!"

They picked up the drab olive colored bag and crouched behind a wall of palm trees.

"It's all here. Now what do we do?"
"Goddamn it, damn it to hell!"

They lay down simultaneously and didn't dare to move. A stream of voices was coming closer.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
"Shh..."

The surf calmed down. All that could be heard was the rustling of leaves and whispering voices. The clanking of a bayonet. The clack of a weapon reloaded. The men were completely still, on their stomachs in an uncomfortable position. Beetles, centipedes and ants hurried over their backs and necks. The voices quietened down. They were soon heard again, moving away from the grove towards the mouth of the river.

"That was close, damnit!"
"I bet they're crawling all over the friggin dee-zee."
"Come on, let's get moving...if nothing else we'll flank them...not far 'til high ground I reckon."
"What's the hill?"
"Three-six-two I reckon."
"We outta plant an em-gee up there and..."
"Let's get off the friggin' beach first...we should find the bivouac before it's pitch black."
"Where's the map?"
"I've got it, but don't worry, been here before, remember? That goddamn lieutenant..."
"His friggin' fault in the first place!"
"Yeah, what you gonna do about it then eh? Let's just get the job done and get the hell outta here!"
"I'm requesting leave on a goddamn flattop to sit out the rest of this mess."
"Good for you."
"What the...!"

They threw themselves to the ground. They were a few metres from the beach, but the spray from the waves of the racing PT boat still made their uniforms wet. They grasped their rifles. The grenades on their chests clanked against a volcanic stony patch on the ground.

"Shh!"

The boat slowed down and made a quick turn towards the island.

"Not ours are they?"
"Don't reckon they are...hang on!"
"Oh goddamn it, they're definitely not ours! Get [ink stain, probably 'moving]" P.1951

March's find

This story was apparently found stuck to a wall in a school library in Glossop, Derbyshire sometime in the fifties or sixties. It's marked simply "Geoffrey. April. 1954.", though we have no way of corroborating whether this is a pseudonym, a student in the school or something else. It's short, but quite striking. Written in ink, on a yellowed paper. Some words seem to have been blurred out with ink by the author (intentionally or not, we don't know). The handwriting is beautiful - I wish I could've scanned a picture of it.

The sight of the green apple made him cringe. The edges of the skin where a chunk had been bitten off had folded slightly inwards and turned a malicious brown-green colour. The flesh was white, in cell-like configurations and the teeth marks created an illusion of an abyss in the otherwise rugged, but plain, surface. It was something that he had seen so many times that he felt he needed to create some sort of common ground for analysing all the times he had witnessed this emotional atrocity. Who left it there? Was someone forced to leave it? His heart twisted where it hung, he snapped his fingers instinctively, silently, so as to rid himself of the situation, the feeling. He felt a tremendous pang of angst come bearing down on him where he stood. "So this is where it comes to?", he asked himself sporadically over the course of a few seconds. He shook his head. His hands were as cold as ice. He didn't move. His glances to the past brought him to a bench, to a mirror, to a stove, to a forest and to a bush. They took him to the church, to the fence, to the father, to the one following him and to the burnt down building. It took him to the yellow-painted slabs of wood. He traversed the creek and followed it west-ward to a birth. He kicked a stone and swallowed a piece of spaghetti. He crossed a puddle of blood, a dancefloor and a [blurred word]. He played in the snow and kissed under a tree. He lit a cigarette and went to hospital for the first time. He fell in love, hated his neighbour and sat down for tea. He drank coffee, kicked a ball, fell and grazed his knees and didn't [blurred word, possibly "look"]. He knew everything. Everything was silent and green. The skin was dry and crumbled and covered in snow. A child cried. A swing losing momentum.
Geoffrey. April. 1954.

February's find

This little story was found in an old library book taken out from Milan Public Library in Milan, Ohio (possibly in June, 1965). It is written very neatly, with small and compact handwriting, in ink. It is signed "O.N. 5.1963". It is very well preserved, except for some slightly smudged letters and wear and tear along the edges of the paper.

"She had gone away in the early hours of the morning. The little town was barely awake, but the surprising roar of a Greyhound had alerted someone who went up to their window, looked out and could not see a thing for all the fog that had gathered since the evening. Curtains were drawn everywhere, and nothing but the ice cream place was open. It was the one night of the year when the street sweepers were reluctant to peek their noses outside, because of the surprising cold which came with the thick, unusual fog. There were a few fallen branches spread over the main street, bearing witness to what had been going on the past few days. A boy who was stood by the empty, locked-up paper stand was completely happy when he for the first time followed the whims of a blue plastic bag, which played in the wind and from time to time was suppressed by the heavy fog. Because of what he had heard about them, plastic bags were his friends. He shuddered and pulled his jacket down to his knees. The buildings facing him had changed color since the evening. There was a tree in bloom from which some branches had fallen down. Another plastic bag had been caught in its arms and was slowly being lulled to sleep. The scene created an insurmountable feeling resembling guilt in the boy, though he could not identify it fully. There was nothing he could do and the town was empty and changed.There were no chairs in the café, no one in the park, no water in the fountain, not even a dog barking in the one, dark alleyway by the main street. The stones by the trees had been removed, the little pond had chased away its birds, the moon was split in half by nightfall. There were no headlines on the papers, nothing to report in the articles, there were no pictures on the walls, no exhibition in the town museum, no one cleaning up in the bar for the night. There was no one in the windows, no leaves on the trees, no chimneys on the rooftops, no arms on the statues and no way of entering the shop. Where there before were birds picking at leaves there were none. His heart sank. It had only been ten minutes. O.N. 5.1963"

Welcome!

This is a blog aimed at publishing stories found around the world, for example texts hidden in library books, written on desks, napkins etc. Many of the texts that will be published over time are from the late 50s, early 60s, but there are also newer ones being found. The names of the authors are mostly unknown, and most stories (we can assume) have been written under pseudonyms. We hope to shed some light on this hidden literary art with this blog and keep some of the stories online so that they are not forgotten.