AntiMatterhorn

Two Library Assistant Psychogeographers poured through the broken golem city of newly bare shelves.

They had chosen their spot months ago, and having arrived at their final day before the service ambled towards its new home, their brief passage was charged with purpose.
The older of the two took out a penknife and set about freeing two small squares of the awful carpet, to take away as souvenirs. The knife bearer would frame his.

The younger withdrew a document from inside her coat. She had rolled it up, rather than folding it, because a makeshift scroll had, she thought, a better performative quality for this intervention.

The spell scroll, somewhat fresh from a library printer, contained a solemn sigil – a blood red key drowning against the ‘Winter Mood’ of recycled library paper. It had not been ignited with significance through sexual energy, or from the trance brought on by exhaustive dancing, or mind-altering substances, but by the monotony of customer service, and every controlled explosion of, “I won’t come to the new library, it is too far from the bus station.”

She fixed the sigil to the wall between the empty shelves that had stood there since the 70s. There was no great fanfare, they regarded it for a few stolen moments and then left.

When the library building would be pulled down, the pent up magic in the tempered symbol would erupt, all of their good intentions over the town, like they were two anti-nuclear priests, who instead of warning future wanderers away from buried and still potent toxic waste, let that energy gush out, and flood the people with promise.