Conto em língua inglesa

(Este é o meu conto que foi publicado plea Sugar Mule)

                                         Monument

Somewhere,in the future

   It took a long time for me to find the library. It was necessary to cross  the destroyed city and part of the forest. There were dangerous animals and traps. Twice I nearly died.

   In fact it was not a legend. The library exists. It is an ancient monastery occupied now by countless books. The architecture is a masterpiece, full of ingenuity  and beauty. Seven giant towers guarding the greatest treasure of humanity. Seven guardians watching over each one.  Guards everywhere. Inside, librarians and copyists monks.

   When I arrived, I thought of becoming a guard. After all I could survive in this chaos. I’m young, tall, strong and always  liked challenges. But the monks told me that they were in need of copyists. There were few, and some were already sick or blind. At first, I rejected  the idea. Gradually I was accepting their proposal  and after twenty years of preparation, I became one of them. Made sacred vows and wore the black cloak.

   Contact with the books was a slow revelation. I could never imagine something like that. Paper is considered precious here as much as the inks. The books are huge and heavy and every page is a work of art .  And all  considered important  are carefully kept on the shelves.

   It is very difficult to choose which of the work performed by the monks is the best. All are exquisite and fascinating. But one in particular has become my obsession. For being one copy only, was easier to receive approval to copy it.

   Exultant, I chose to use letters in Gothic style. I made several attempts. Failed every time. It seemed impossible to repeat such mastery. Only then I understood why no one had tried it before.

   I felt myself a loser. I was hopelessly lost.

   Nightmares were torturing  my nights.

   Fear and anguish have taken me.

   I felt anger and hatred of the book. I wanted to destroy it .But love won. I opened it and was enthralled by endless hours. It  had an irresistible spell.

   Now they are chasing me through the forest. There is a high probability that I will be killed. Before that happens, I stop and behold the book once again.

      Shakespeare was right:

   “ And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

     When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.”