Dreamville
Here, it's all about books
This story was written for Flash Fiction February by Bradley Ramsey.
If you want to read more of my writings, please read my published books: The Seekers: Soul-Ties, Kirin, and Perrin Peters. And if you don’t want to buy my books but still want to support me, I’m on Patreon. And if you prefer one-time payments, you can Buy Me A Pizza or a Coffee.
Dreamville was a small bookshop at the edge of our town. Spherical and cozy, with small, round windows, it used every available space for storing books. The books hung even under the dome ceiling, attached to it with elastic bands.
The owner was an ancient yellow goblin by the name of Mirk. She knew each and every book in her possession, and remembered every book she ever sold or acquired. Owning a bookshop was her dream since childhood, and it seemed she wouldn’t get bored with it for another millennia.
The bell rang, announcing that a new customer joined the three that were already browsing. Mirk’s tiny circular counter was right in front of the door. Her black cat raised his head, glanced at the newcomer, and went to sleep again. But the shop owner herself was not so inattentive and greeted the stranger.
“Hello to you too.” A tall gray gnome came closer and lowered his voice. “I’m looking for a picture book with puppies.”
Mirk leaned towards him, also lowering her voice. “And why are you whispering?”
The newcomer glanced around, then answered. “It’ll be a present. I don’t want the friends of my son to overhear me and tell him.”
Mirk smiled and nodded. “Shelf 13, row 7.”
The gnome thanked her and went there. Mirk busied herself with accounting and was surprised to see him back empty-handed.
“Let me show you.” She put away her books and left her post.
~*~
“It can’t be!” Mirk exclaimed, looking around and scanning the shop with her eyes. “This morning, every book was in its place.”
There wasn’t much room to search. The walls were just a few steps away from the counter. Aside from the thick, blue carpet and her wooden counter, everything else consisted of books. There were no sofas or chairs, and so the book could not have been lost in between the cushions. She looked at her notes to double-check her perfect memory. Indeed, the book had not been sold. So, where was it?
Mirk’s eyes caught the three customers who were still in the shop. Maybe one of them took it?
“Excuse me,” she whispered in the ear of a yellow harpy. “Did you take the book about the puppies? Do you plan to buy it?”
The harpy’s orange eyes seemed surprised for a moment, and then her beak parted. “No, I have no interest in puppies. But I do plan to buy these beauties about art.”
She waved her heavy-looking bag in front of Mirk’s face.
After that, the owner approached a petite dark-blue lamia, who was reading the titles of the books under the ceiling.
“Puppies? They are tasty, sure, but if it’s not a cookbook, then I don’t need it. Do you want me to help you search?”
Mirk declined his offer and approached a blonde faun in a big brown hat.
“No need to ask me,” were his words. “I’ve overheard your predicament, and I must say that today is your lucky day! I am Zoltan Broz, a world-renowned investigator.”
Mirk was too polite to say that if Zoltan were indeed world-renowned, she’d recognize his name immediately. Instead, she smiled and said, “Please, Mr. Broz, do what you do best!”
With a wide smirk, Zoltan loudly announced. “Ladies and gentlemen! A crime has been committed in these very halls. Please do not leave the premises until I find the culprit. Don’t worry, it’ll only take a moment.”
The harpy and lamia stared at him, but said nothing. Zoltan’s hoofsteps were muffled by the carpet as he walked around the shop, looking in every direction. He quickly checked the windows, the trash bin, and Mirk’s counter. Then, he approached the quartet and examined them from head to toe.
“Sometimes I miss my nightcap, you know, only to find it later on my head,” he explained, peeking into the bags held by the harpy and lamia. At first, they recoiled and pulled their belongings away, but after seeing the faun’s brown puppy eyes, they sighed and opened their bags widely.
“Hmmm, indeed…” Zoltan mused, examining the shop again. “What did say you eate for breakfast?” He asked the harpy.
“I didn’t—” she stopped herself. “Some sausage with cheese. Why?”
“Yeah…” Zoltan pondered about something. “And you?” he asked the lamia.
“I don’t remember,” was the answer. “How is it going to help you solve this ‘crime,’ whatever it was?”
“Hmmm…” Zoltan nodded again, turning to Mirk. “It was a book with pictures of puppies, yes?”
“Correct.”
Zoltan looked up and stretched his arm to grab a book from under the ceiling. He could barely reach it, but when he did, he pulled, stretching the elastic band, and then let it go.
“I know the culprit!”
Triumphant, Zoltan pointed his finger directly at…
~*~
Sir Meow-A-Lot always considered dogs to be his enemies. The enemies of all felines, to be precise. When his goblin Mirk acquired a book with pictures of the foul creatures, Sir Meow-A-Lot could not sit idly. But how could he destroy the book? There were no sources of fire in the shop since Mirk used fireflies to illuminate her business. There were no niches in the walls or cracks in the ceiling, so hiding it was not an option. In fact, moving the book at all would be problematic because it was huge. Moreover, he didn’t want his goblin to yell at him or maybe even hit him. So, what was he to do?
As fate had it, the cat was smart and relentless. Every single day, he sneakily ripped off a page of the book, sliced it into fine fibers, and then weaved them into the elastic bands under the ceiling. Mirk thought that he was playing and never stopped him. Eventually, the book ran out of pages. And since the cover was of the soft kind, Sir Meow-A-Lot destroyed it as well.
Now, he enjoyed his well-earned rest. The foul creatures were no more, and all because of him! He already imagined other cats singing him praises and asking him for favors. He shall grant a few, but the price would be as high as befits his stature.
An exclamation interrupted his sleep. A faun stood in the middle of the room, pointing right at him and saying something. Quiet, you stupid faun! It’s a bookshop, after all!
~*~
“Elastic bands of this kind don’t act this way, you see?” Zoltan Broz explained. “With time, they sag, but never become more rigid.”
Astonished, Mirk pulled one of the bands and looked at it closely. Indeed, a few thin strands of paper were woven into the fabric. Dumbfounded, she stared at her cat. How did he manage it? How did he keep it all a secret? And, most importantly…
“Let’s find you another present, mister gnome,” she suggested. “Does your son like kittens? I’m sure Sir Meow-A-Lot wouldn’t destroy that picture book.”
The End
Anton Anderson, 2026