GCSE Descriptive Writing

The Stranger

'Simon Williams, born 23.05.1999, membership valid until 30.10.2022'

I stare at the small plastic library card that is displayed between my thumb and index finger, and as I pace up and down the book shelves, I wonder, with a stiff horror, if I'll still need it by 2022.

At twenty three years old, I know the city library better than any wisened lecturer. The badly organised population of books that I scour through everyday, is now even more familiar to me than the feeling of the heavy glasses on my nose, or the pattern of scratches on the mirror that I brush my teeth in everyday. It's reached a point that the ordinary moments in my life — the sleepy mornings and sparse meetings with friends — are only glitches in an otherwise constant stream of visits to the library.

I've grown sick of this place. The endless ailses, dimly lit and unevenly spaced out like the black keys of a piano, once so charming, now infuriate me — would it have been so hard for them to measure the distance in between the shelves? Would it be so hard to at least pretend that they stored the books in alphabetical order?

Some days I find myself trailing down the ailses, occasionally plucking a book from the shelf like a coin from a wishing well. I gather as many 'A' titles as I can reasonably carry, then fit them, no matter how compactly, onto the shelf nearest the door.

I could lie and tell you that this routine was a practise in consideration: that I just wanted to help out the librarian, or to make the library a nicer place for others, or any other reason on the range of acceptable or even honourable motivations. In truth, none of these were on my mind: nothing was on my mind, and that was the bliss of it.

For a few minutes, I could procrastinate largely guilt-free, my mind emptying itself a little less and a little less for each book I picked up, as if they neutralised my knowledge rather than bettered it. I never failed to see the irony in that, as I squeezed in my new pile of books next to the rest of the 'A' titles, my mind peacefully blank, and my progress for the day undone.

And really, what could I expect to achieve with a library like this? Writing a dissertation is gruelling stuff; researching for one is even harder, and the whole process becomes near impossible when you have a building full of unsorted books, an overwhelming lack of enthusiasm, and ADHD.

Yet as I continue to stare at the library card in my hand, and it's obnoxiously close expiry date, I begin to hate myself.

I am still pacing up and down one of the ailses, trying to pretend my laptop isn't open and abondoned on a desk some twenty yards away, when I vaguely hear the sound of the library doors opening. They're old, but automatic, a strange blend of modern and outdated that leaves the entry with the overall aesthetic of an elderly dad trying to be cool. Now they squeak pathetically as they give way to someone's entrance, a noise that is soon replaced by the less familiar sound of a person running.

My steps — back and forth, back and forth — don't falter. People do all sorts of weird things here, and after five years, I've just about seen them all. The footsteps coming through the door are heavy and urgent: big deal. Literary emergencies happen all the time, believe it or not. Call me if a UFO lands or the BeeGees get back together.

But despite my indifference towards the sprinter and their problems, I can't help but look up impatiently, as the footsteps round the corner and halt at the end of my ailse.

An older woman stands in their place, her hands braced on her knees, her short hair shaking as she drags in a single laborious breath. She stares straight at me, and it is at this point that I realise that in my surprise, I have frozen completely, gripping the library card so tightly that it will leave lines in my skin, as harsh and red as those that underscore the mistakes on my laptop screen. I swallow uncomfortably, trapped under the stranger's intense stare that screams with relief and exultation.

"Simon," She gasps abruptly, and suddenly her limbs melt back into motion and she's tripping her way towards me. "I knew you would be here."

I'm still frozen as she clasps her arms around my neck, even as I almost stumble backwards. I don't know what to say. If she didn't know my name, I'd be yelling for security to drag her back to whatever hospital she traipsed in from, but I don't. Her eyes may be wild but they aren't crazy. They're familiar too, but no matter how hard I study her face as she pulls away, I still have no idea who she is.

"I'm sorry," I stutter, suddenly a little sheepish, "I-I'm having a hard time placing you. Are you a friend my mother or...?"

I trail off as she barks a laugh, placing her hands on her hips and throwing her head back theatrically. But when she takes in the unwaveringly confused look on my face, I notice her expression falter. Then, it falls completely, and her hands rise from her hips to grip her head fiercely.

"Fuck," She whispers, her eyes wide with uncontrolled shock, "Wrong timeline."

"What?" I back away from her immediately, and my body makes up for being incapacitated for the last few seconds by beginning to shake. Infuriation and fear of this turbulent stranger send tremors through my limbs and voice, "W-who the hell are you? What are you talking about?"

But she is still clasping her hands behind her head and murmuring furious curses under her breath. I stand dumbfounded, unsure what to do other than watch.

Finally, she emerges from her stupor of shock and laughs breathlessly, hysterically, "So it's—" Another wheeze, "It's not 2019?"

"Um no," I frown at her, "Are you a hermit or something? It's 2022."

"2022," She repeats slowly, her eyes wide and absent, "And you're still here, huh?"

_____________________________

Heya, I'm just going to be publishing some extra pieces of creative writing. Some that are less descriptive and more inspired by some fun prompts. For example this one was prompted by 'You're doing research in an old library when a stranger comes running to you. They go to give you a hug but you flinch away and their expression falls. Under their breath they say 'Fuck. Wrong timeline.''