The Notebook

The car garage was waiting to be become the setting of a scene. There were tools and parts, and a car half-disassembled. Or half-assembled, if you prefer. Old Joe in blue coveralls stumbled in, polishing a piece of metal with a dirty rag. He was alone for a bit, until young Bill in street clothes entered.

“Sorry I’m late, Joe.”

“That’s okay. Things are slow today. Whatcha got there?”

“It’s a notebook. I found it on the subway. It’s-uhm… It’s nightmares.”

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah, I think so. I guess some kid wrote them all down. A teenager maybe.”

“What kind of nightmares?”

“Scary ones.  I would try to return it, but there’s no name or anything.

The cover on the notebook was purple with a fanciful pattern. The kind you see on wallpapers in old colonial houses.

“Yeah,” said Old Joe, “Best not dwell on it too much.”

Bill was staring into nothing, notebook in his hand, probably remembering. Old Joe was thinking about the shop, and about there being no customers. There had been no customers for a while now. Bad economy.

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