"Ink and Rage"

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

11^th March 2025

All Rights Reserved.

This Week's Challenge: Where hope goes to die.

At least 1000 words, don't worry if you go over.

Tag all prompts with: WritingGroupChallenge.

Add all prompts to a separate folder.

Put the prompt description at the beginning of your story.

A concealed bell above the door jingled softly as two does sauntered into the bookstore. Their light chatter, bright and airy, immediately cut through the sanctuary Sam had painstakingly crafted. Each of them carried a drink in hand, colorful iced beverages that left rings of condensation on the wooden floor. It was like they hadn't even noticed the quiet of the space—the stillness that had, for a brief moment, felt like it belonged to him alone.

Sam didn’t look up. His wolfish ears flicked with the slightest shift in the air, but his posture remained unchanged. He was too accustomed to being overlooked. The store, with its careful organization of books—some neatly arranged by genre, others by theme, a few placed simply because they deserved to be read—was his refuge. The scent of ink and paper, both new and weathered, wrapped around him like a comforting second skin. Here, amidst the rows of silent words, he could feel something alive, something that had meaning beyond the digital noise of the world outside.

“Good afternoon,” Sam muttered, his voice deep and steady, more out of habit than expectation. The phrase had become a ritual over the years, a polite greeting that had long since lost its weight in the face of repeated indifference.

But the does didn’t hear him. They didn’t even acknowledge his presence, their eyes glued to their phones as their fingers flicked furiously across screens, oblivious to the world around them.

Sam's ears flicked again, but the irritation in his chest tightened. They were the type that wandered aimlessly, pretending to browse without ever truly engaging. Picking up books, skimming them half-heartedly, only to return them to the wrong shelves without so much as a second thought. They’d take up space, steal his peace, and leave without even the courtesy of looking at a single spine.

He watched them, eyes narrow, but he stayed where he was, behind the counter. The silence of the store seemed to grow heavier as their voices trilled over each other. They were too caught up in their own worlds to notice the world around them—the history, the knowledge, the stories waiting on the shelves.

One of the does, the one with the dark, matted fur, reached for a novel on the shelf. She flipped through it idly, clearly expecting the book to entertain her without any effort on her part. When it didn’t, she shoved it back onto the nearest shelf without regard for its placement. Sam inhaled sharply, feeling a pulse of anger rise in him. He had spent hours arranging these books, making sure each one had a place, a home. And now, the books were being treated like mere objects, thrown aside without a second thought.

The second doe, a younger-looking one, wandered over to a display of poetry collections. Her long ears twitched, her eyes still glued to her phone as she absentmindedly took a sip from her drink. Then, without hesitation, she set the cup down on top of a leather-bound volume. The sweat from the drink beaded on the surface, and Sam watched as a ring of moisture began to stain the pristine cover of the book. His breath hitched.

No.

It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

His claws flexed beneath the counter, sharp tips scraping lightly against the wood. He forced himself to remain composed, his tail flicking once, then twice—slow and controlled, trying to keep his focus on anything but the rage that was beginning to burn in his gut.

This was his space. His home.

Every misplaced book, every careless touch, every splatter of condensation on the leather of a beloved volume felt like a wound, each one striking deeper than the last.

Sam's steps were measured as he rose from behind the counter, his tall figure moving with purpose. “Can I help you find anything?” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it now, a quiet threat that lingered beneath the words.

The first doe barely glanced up. "Nah, we're good," she mumbled, her attention still focused on her phone. The second doe didn’t even respond. They didn’t care. The weight of their indifference pressed against him, suffocating, as though their complete disregard for the space, for him, was a challenge.

Sam exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the tension. But then, the final blow landed.

The second doe, her eyes brightening as if she had discovered some new revelation, turned her phone toward her friend. "Oh, look! We can just get the series as an audiobook. We didn't even need to come here."

The first doe gasped theatrically. "Oh my God, imagine it? That dreamy buck—his voice, his scent. Ugh. Who do you think they got to do the narration?"

"I know, right? So much better than reading. Who even has time for books anymore?"

The words hit him like a slap to the face.

Sam’s ears flattened against his skull. His breath caught in his chest as a wave of heat surged through him.

Who has time for books anymore?

The insult—the casual, careless dismissal of what he held sacred—felt like a physical blow. How could they not see? How could they walk among these shelves of knowledge and history and stories, so rich with the voices of those who had lived and died to be heard, and not feel anything? How could they reduce it all to a background hum, easily replaced by an audiobook or a podcast?

He wanted to shout. To demand they understand. How dare they act as though a book was just a product, easily swapped for a stream of empty entertainment? Did they not feel the weight of each page turned? The slow unraveling of a world that could only be revealed through the act of reading?

But he didn’t shout. He couldn’t. Instead, he let the words hang in the air, like a poison he couldn’t purge.

"Ugh, can you imagine his voice?" The second doe sighed dreamily, holding her phone to her chest as though it were the most precious thing in the world. "It would be like... deep and rich. So, like, you could just close your eyes and listen and it would be perfect."

"Who needs this when we can just listen to it?" The first doe gestured vaguely toward the rows of books, dismissing them with a flick of her hand. "I knew we should've just looked online. It’s way cheaper, anyway."

Sam’s muscles tensed. His vision blurred for a second, and the weight of his frustration turned into something heavier. Something darker. His claws gouged the wood of the counter, deep indentations forming as he fought to contain the rage surging through his veins. The slow burn that had simmered in his chest flared up, boiling over into something primal, raw.

These books weren’t just books. They were stories. Lives. Echoes of people who had lived and died, who had poured their soul into these pages for someone—anyone—to understand. To feel.

But these girls? They didn’t care. They were so far removed from the essence of what these books meant, it was as though they were living in a completely different world. A world of soundbites and distractions.

They were ruining it all.

The bell jingled again. The does moved past him, giggling, their voices already fading into the distance, carrying on with whatever trivial thing had distracted them now. The door swung shut with a soft thud.

And then, silence.

Deep, aching quiet.

Sam exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as the heat of his anger dissipated, leaving only a cold, bitter taste in his mouth. His gaze swept the room, landing on the abandoned cup, the disarrayed shelves, the ruined poetry book. He stepped forward, his claws clicking softly against the floor as he picked up the stained volume. It was ruined, the pages warped from the moisture, the cover marred beyond repair.

His stomach churned. The sting of loss was sharper than he expected.

He turned the book over in his hands, his thumb brushing against the damaged cover. The weight of it felt wrong now, no longer comforting. It was a tangible reminder of everything that had just happened. Everything they had stolen.

With a quiet sigh, he placed it aside. He would try to salvage it, of course. He always did.

But for the first time in years, a thought crossed his mind—one he didn’t dare voice aloud.

"Maybe this is where hope comes to die," he muttered softly to himself. The anger was gone now, drained away by a deep weariness. He didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. "Working retail..."

And yet, as he moved to restore order—wiping down the counter, reshelving the displaced books, repairing what he could—he knew one thing for certain.

This place wasn’t just about books. It was about keeping something alive, something that meant more to him than he could ever explain. As long as there was one person who still understood the worth of a book, still craved the comfort of turning a page and losing themselves in another world—this place would stand.

Even if it was only him left to hold it up.