Flash Fiction: Gorehound

The book opened and laid on his knee. The paper was faded, old, and crinkled. A coffee stain on its binding from back when there was coffee.

“It says many things about what you described,” the man said.

“A ‘book’ does?” asked the boy sitting at the man’s feet. Off in the corner of the room a machine puttered along, producing heat.

“Yes. There was once a time when books told everyone all knowledge. We had one great book we used to read.” Continue reading