Over the past few years, these collections have been released around the world: 200 Klassische Buecher in Germany, 100 Livres Classiques in France, and Chotto DS Bungaku Zenshu: Sekai no Bungaku 20 in Japan. The US release mirrors the UK version released on December 26, 2008 down to its Brit-heavy catalog.

Dickens, Shakespeare and Austen are so well represented that this would be a credible textbook for any British Literature course. The set doesn’t claim to be the 100 greatest classic books, but the inclusion of Susan Coolidge’s Katy novels and Collodi’s The Adventures of Pinocchio over Dante’s Inferno or any Milton is questionable. 100 books (or 110 including the ones available to download) is an impressive number, but the amount of variety (and voices) is limited.

The Classic Book Collection hasn’t changed in the last 18 months, but the landscape has. The books in the set are all in the public domain, freely available online. Stevenson’s Treasure Island is one of them and – within a few seconds – I was able to pull it up from Project Gutenberg on my smartphone. It was well formatted and easy to read. I can only imagine that being easier on an iPad or Nook or Kindle.

I’m still interested by the 100 Classic Book Collection and look forward to spending some time with it, but I fear it’ll be more of a novelty than something truly novel.

It should be noted that the school librarian objected to the yanking because it bypassed the standard procedure for dealing with complaints about library materials.

Now the ACLU is involved because Principal Sharosky has violated the students’ constitutional right to cheat codes.

As a librarian and a gamer, I have the required level of outrage mixed with moderate surprise that Nintendo Power is still in print – have they heard of the Internet? But overriding all that, I can only say, “What the hell?”

Their middle school has Nintendo Power?

You know what my middle school had? Pilgrim’s freaking Progress. That’s all.

I’m always annoyed when I read about sexy, racy, slutty books being pulled from school libraries – and it’s not that I care about Intellectual Freedom – it’s that these kids are reading about rainbow parties and vampires playing baseball while I was reading:

As I walk’d through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place, where was a Denn; And I laid me down in that place to sleep: And as I slept I dreamed a Dream. I dreamed, and behold I saw a Man cloathed with Raggs, standing in a certain place, with his face from his own House, a Book in his hand, and a great burden upon his Back. I looked and saw him open the Book, and Read therein; and as he read, he wept and trembled: and not being able longer to contain, he brake out with a lamentable cry; saying, what shall I do?

Pilgrim’s Progress is so long and boring the author John “You’re thinking of my brother Paul” Bunyan apologizes for it before it even starts: as so I penned It down, until at last it came to be, For length and breadth, the bigness which you see.

That’s all we had — and if someone else had checked it out, then all we could hope for is that they might kindly recite passages from it that we might be humbled and edified.

Those are the findings of Keith Bakker, head of the Smith & Jones Centre in Amsterdam, Europe’s only treatment center for video game addicts (as reported by the BBC).

Since 2006, the mild-manneredly named Smith & Jones Centre has seen hundreds of gamers. From this pool, Bakker and his colleagues have learned that most compulsive gamers aren’t technically addicted. Instead gaming provides maladjusted people a place where they are socially accepted. In other words, you aren’t hooked on gaming, you’re using them to compensate.

“I liked gaming because people couldn’t see me, they accepted me as my online character – I could be good at something and feel part of a group,” said George, an 18-year-old who played 10 hours of Call of Duty 4 daily.

The Kegs of Anvier – Part I

The old man stunk of wine and sweat, staining the air of the bar an hour before it opened. His face was scarred and dirty, hair thickened by grime, and he wore a thick flannel shirt with jeans far too big for his scrawny frame. Ten years later his outfit would be trendy, but in 1985 he was no more than a smelly bum.

“It’s early,” called out the bartender.

“I just want a bottle of wine, and then I’ll leave.”

“There’s liquor stores for that. Cheaper too.”

The old man shuffled back and forth on his feet, “I wasn’t always like this, no sir. Just want a bottle of wine, then I’ll be on my way. You won’t see me no more.”

The bartender stopped wiping the bar and, after staring at his reflection, looked up. Joe, the bartender, looked at the old man. The life in the old man’s eyes looked burnt out, dead from too much drinking. “I didn’t think I’d end up behind a bar, neither. God, nature, what have you.”

“Not God or Nature, sir,” the old man shook his head.

“Our license regulates when we are permitted to sell alcohol. You’d have to be the mayor or something to get a drink here before we open.”

“May I sit down for a spell then? I feel like I’m falling to pieces…Oh, I’ll be gone before the regular folks arrive, no trouble there.”

Joe looked him over. The old man’s smell bordered on offensive. In spite of his job, Joe had little patience with alcoholics. His father had a taste for beer that had nearly sunk the bar. It took Joe years to build it back up; creditors still called once in awhile. Still, the weather was supposed to drop another ten degrees, and a corner table could be deodorized after the bum left. “Over there in the corner,” Joe nodded. “The nuts in the bowl should still be edible.”

“Thank you, sir. But I’m not hungry nohow.” The old man turned and made his way to the corner table. He pulled out a chair and sat under a poster of Jimmy Durante. Tired eyes made their way to the television above the bar. Joe went back to straightening the bottles, discreetly spraying Lysol.

“Its funny, you know,” called out the old man.

“What is?”

“What you said about me having to be some official to get a drink here…I used to be a deputy down in Hillswater. Deputy Nick Summers, H. S. O.”

“Joseph Trock, B.S. in Anthropology.”

“What’s a college man doing tending bar?”

“What’s a deputy doing hustling drinks?” Joe said too quickly.

“Touch?!” Nick cried before Joe could take back his comment.

Joe wiped dust off a bottle of Smirnoff and walked over to Nick. “Things happen,” Joe offered lamely. An impulse made his stretch out his hand, but the awkwardness of the action was apparent. Nick shook his head, “My hands are dirty, but if you got some time, I’d appreciate the company.”

Joe sat down opposite the man. “This was my Dad’s bar. He kept us clothed and fed and helped put me through college. He always drank, but it got worse after Mom died. When his liver started going he asked me to help out. I agreed. He’s been dead six years and I’m still here.”

“Tragic,” Nick sympathized.

“What’s your story?”

“My story, sir, is unbelievable. But if you are willing to listen,” Nick paused, waiting for Joe to nod. Joe nodded his head.

The Old Man’s Story
I’m a bum, but I’m tolerated. People see me and feel bad, like maybe it’s their fault – not giving enough at church or something. They give me money, knowing what I’ll spend it on – whatever. The point I’m trying to make is, it wasn’t like that twenty, thirty years ago. Before I was transferred to Hillswater, I was up in Denning near the big city. Land of wineries, they call it. Barkeeps like yourself would make deals, bring me six kegs, 12 cases of wine, something like that. They’d drop it off in the morning and pick up the empty kegs, like the milkman.

Anyway, I was young blood, looking to get a promotion and maybe sock some of it away to get married. I was walking the Kingston beat at that time. Six blocks of derelicts and other hoodlums. Mostly rousting them, writing up reports if one of them robbed or stabbed. I did my job, hating it, but you have to start somewhere. I treated them fairly, didn’t beat on them like some of the other cops, so they sort of trusted me.

It was spring, I remember. If it was fall or winter, it wouldn’t have been so weird. I was noticing less homeless than usual and grabbed a regular. His name was Stan or Lenny, and I said, “Where are all of your buddies?” He doesn’t know nothing ’til I start rattling around change in my pocket and then he tells me the second strangest goddam story I ever heard.

He looks at me with his bloodshot eyes and whispers, “They’re takin’ ‘em.”

“Who is, Lenny?” I ask, and he tells me they’re being taken to one of the wineries.

“Forced labor?” I ask, trying to find out which way he’s shitting me. “No, man. Their bodies.” Then he grabs me and says he has proof. Touching a cop is grounds for an ass-kicking, but there’s this look in his eyes…

It’s damn near dawn and I should be waking bums up and sending them on their way. Instead I’m making my way through back alleys with this guy and he takes me to the backside of the Broken Record. There’s two kegs standing there waiting for the pick-up and Lenny starts pointing at one of them, trembling, afraid to get near it. As soon as I approach it, he takes off running. I get to the keg, pry off the lid and see that it’s still half full of wine. Leaning farther over it, I see this body. Naked, but I could tell it was a bum, unshaven, dirty, and I stumble away and puke.

The way I see it now is I can either report in and some Homicide detective can steal my thunder or I can do some more investigating and bust this thing up on my own. I resealed the keg and opened the other one. Empty. A noise behind me catches me off guard and I draw down on Lenny. “It’s like I said.”

“Now Lenny, I need your help. I’m going to get into this funhouse ride and see where it takes me. If you don’t see me tomorrow, go down to the station and give the desk seargeant this,” I handed over my badge. “Good, Lenny, now I’m climbing down inside this keg, and I need you to bang real hard on the cover.” I crawl inside and hear him whimper and begin banging on the lid. I hope like hell I don’t suffocate although I can shoot air holes if it needs to. I can see so I run my hand along the inside of the barrel. Feeling the groove of the wood, various scratches, all the while inhaling wine fumes. I fought down panic for who knows how long before I hear a truck outside. The worst part was when I realize the scratches along the inside are from fingernails.

The Kegs of Anvier – Part II

So then a few minutes pass and I hear these guys, probably shooting the shit. The barrel next to me scrapes away. Forget butterflies, I feel like I’ve got spiders in my stomach. I can feel them climbing up inside me like thousands of little legs, making me want to cry out. Then a jostle and BAM! Up into the truck. I have my gun out now, ready, sweating even though I’m as cold as hell.

I’m thinking then, trying to remain calm, about how to handle this. Burst out of the barrel and draw down on the first person I see? Naahh, I’ve only got six bits of lead and I’m not that fast on the hammer. Wait till they open mine and surprise ‘em? Who knows how long that’ll be. I press my ear against the barrel, hard. I can feel the claw marks with my ear; you know how deep they must have been so I could feel them with my ear? I’m listening and I’m hearing the engine and not much else. My legs are starting to cramp so I give them a good rubdown and feel the handle of my flick knife. Not much, mostly used for gutting fish and opening mail, but enough to pry the lid up. I see I’m in the back of a truck with about ten barrels. Two rows of five. There’s no window, so I can’t see the driver, but I figure two, maybe three guys, probably beefy but unarmed. I crawl over the barrels, next to the door. It’s a roll-down number with a latch. My blade snaps off working the latch up but I manage. I can even work the door up a little and, pressing my head to the bed, I can peer out the crack and see dawn rising over Denning. We’re above the city, winding our way to the wineries. I get my bearings and figure its Chateau Anvier we’re headed for. Damn good thing too.

There’s a hairpin turn. Drivers have to slow down, otherwise (if it were a straight shot) during winter they’d lose control. I figure a truck has to take it even slower. I jam the handle of the broken knife under the door and wedge it up enough so I can roll out when we slow down. It wasn’t as graceful as it would have been on TV; but I ducked into the vineyards and watched the truck wind its way up. I figured if they saw me they would have stopped.

Chateau Anvier was acres of vineyards around a turn-of-the-century winery: a smalltime operation with a fake French name that fooled the tourists. The original Chateau, I forget the name, was too stupid to turn to grape juice during prohibition and went belly up. Daniel Vunsworth, the wine maker, came up with enough money at the right time. He seemed to run a low-budget but profitable operation. Even had a nice picnic area, although he discontinued the tours. You saved enough money buying their wine that you could tell yourself it tasted better than it actually did. Crawling through rows after rows of grapes, I kept wondering where the bums come in.

The fields of vines surround the Chateau, wood and tin construction. A front building for business, covered walkways lead out behind it to three larger buildings. Two of them are joined, probably the processing plant and the vats. The other one, I figure, is probably where they keep the casks and have the bottling facility. It’s still early but I see workers around, tiny Guats or Mexis out picking grapes, some machinery but mostly done by hand. The damnedest thing though is the white van just sitting in the parking lot. I can see barrels are being moved from one of the trucks into the van. I was right in thinking that the guys were beefy. I get closer, got down by the parking lot. Could make out their faces above their overalls, but the wind pushes their words away. Things are going fine until they get to my barrel and I can see them yelling bloody murder. I smile and get real low to the ground. Then I hear something behind me and feel something explode against the back of my head.

Joe leaned in close, the old man’s smell no longer an issue. Nick smiled, showing gray teeth what few there were. “I’m a bit thirsty from all this talking,” he said.

Joe went to the bar, poured a glass of wine and hurried back. Nick, enjoying the dramatic pause, sipped the wine, sighed with satisfaction and took a big gulp. “Now where was I?”

“You know right where you were.”

Actually, I didn’t know right where I was. At first all I knew was that I was naked and my back was cold, couldn’t move nothing, and my head hurt like hell. Then I realized where I was. On a damn metal table, like a doctor’s. I felt the straps holding me down and then a man with a surgical mask came into my view. This godawful voice says, “You’re going to tell me what you know and then I’ll decide what to do with you.” Except it isn’t the guy speaking, it’s some voice behind my head, just out of view. My tongue is feeling thick but I told him I was a cop and he could screw himself.

Like lightning the doctor presses this scalpel against my stomach.

“The wonders of modern science. Back in the old days, to truly understand the workings of the body’s organs they had to rely on vivisection. They would hold animals down and open their abdominal cavities to observe. Opening the thoracic cavity tended to end the experiment too soon. I wonder if you would be so bold after watching the good doctor remove your appendix. You can live without it, you know,” he leans in next to my ear, “But you wouldn’t want to.”

“I don’t know anything,” I tell him and then the scalpel cuts in. This warmth spread down my pants and I thought I pissed myself. The doctor’s hand reaches in and I can feel his fingers moving around inside me. It’s so cold and so warm and all I can do is listen to myself scream.

I don’t know what I said. I woke up later, hours, days? in the field by the Chateau Anvier. The windows were boarded up, trucks gone. I’m bandaged around my torso and feel like I went ten rounds with Clay. I stagger up to the entrance and there’s a scrap of paper and dammit if it ain’t there for me.

How troublesome to have come so far only to be interrupted by a common constable. Enjoy your alterations, on the reverse side you’ll find a $50 bill. The first few drinks will be on us.

~Vunsworth

Joseph looked across the table at the old man and then over at the clock. “This is bullshit. Thanks for killing an hour though.”

“Is this bullshit!” The old man’s hands crawled down the front of his shirt like spiders. The buttons opened, or tore with his fingers’ frenetic energy, but the bartender’s attention was fixed, not on the emerging network of stiches, but on gaping sores that covered his torso. Joe forced himself not to look closely, but from the raw, bloody mouths, vines seemed to be sprouting.

“Jesus,” the bartender mouthed. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I’m not alive,” cried the old man, “I’m preserved.”

-Terry

The Wrong Way

“Fear is knowing the heart you hear beating isn’t your own.”

Wendt noticed the road was straightening. He turned his head down to look at the map spread before him on the passenger seat. A faint map light cut through the gloom. Wendt’s right index figure traced Route 280. “Shit,” he muttered as his finger hit upon exit numbers and rest stops. Nothing to do about it, Wendt looked up and saw the boy.

Teeth clenched, he awaited the meaty thud, Wendt’s hands gripped the wheel as his foot stomped on the brake. The tires screamed along the road and with a gunshot explosion, the driver’s side tire flattened as Wendt fought the pull. At last the car skidded to a halt, implausibly, no- miraculously the car hadn’t wrapped around one of the inviting pines. Wendt autonomously switched off the ignition, sensible only of the feeling of his heart as it pounded in staccato rhythm, worse than that, it was audible. He could hear his heart’s frantic contractions, the wet thumping inside his chest.

Lifting his foot, Wendt cried out as pain shot through his leg. I must have broken my foot. He opened the door to survey the damage. The rain had died down to a mist. Wendt placed his hands against the headlights to warm them, there was little for them to illuminate. The Lincoln ended up along the left shoulder of the road, perhaps a threat to oncoming traffic, if this desolate area had traffic at all. The tire was shredded, but reassuringly the grill was undamaged. Did I really see a boy at all? Looking around the area, Wendt saw no homes from which a child could wander. He began to limp around the car, but as he stepped out of the cone of light, the car became lost in the veil of night. Little to do, he returned to the driver’s seat, wiped the beads of rain from his shirt, and dialed AAA from his cell phone.

“This is triple-A, what’s your account number?” came a tinny voice.

Wendt read out the string of numbers, what happened to names?

“Yes Mr. Wendt, how may we help you?” somewhere a computer had lowered a drawbridge.

“I had a blow out on my front tire, driver’s side.”

“Where are you located at?”

Wendt laughed, “That’s what I was trying to figure out. I thought I was on 280, but I haven’t seen any signs or mile markers.”

“Let me get the map up,” computer keys depressed themselves in the background, “Where were you starting from and where were you heading towards?”

Wendt told the voice and described the tortuous path his road took through the woods.

“It looks like you are on the old highway, when the interstate went through that one died off.”

“Well, it’s nice to know I’m not lost. This highway doesn’t even appear on my map.”

“Probably be too confusing, the database we have is pretty comprehensive. Had someone a few weeks ago find themselves on an old horse-trail near Portland. Do you see any gas stations, or other public buildings within walking distance?”

“Just trees.”

“The safest place to stay is in your car. Your location is a little tricky, but I’m going to put a priority out. Someone should be there within 180 minutes. Do you have a spare tire?”

“No, I kept putting that off.” Wendt described the make and model of his car, was reassured that he was a valuable customer and wished well. He turned the phone off.

Wendt switched the headlights off, then back on; unsure of what would be safer. Since he was facing oncoming traffic, theoretically, headlights on would increase his visibility, but on the other hand, he began giggling, the light would blind those same theoretical drivers, more giggling, and cause them to crash. He wiped hysterical tears from his eyes and looked down at the clock on the radio- 9:13. He turned the radio on, a rarity, and flipped through the factory presets: static, more static, he switched the radio off. He glanced up and saw the figure of the dark haired boy, staring at him. Wendt’s heart once again became audible, but he restrained himself.

Wendt rolled down the window and leaned out, “Are you okay?” The boy made no answer but began walking around the passenger side. Dammit, muttered Wendt. He swung open the car door and hobbled out. “Hey!”

Wendt looked around, now where the hell was that kid. He maneuvered around to the front of the car, his foot beginning to throb. “Kid!” Now this is getting weird. Wendt crouched down and looked under the car- nothing. Looked around the car- nothing. Down the road, into the woods, up in the air- nothing, nothing, nothing. “KID!”

Wendt hurried back to the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. He spun around and looked at the back seat- nothing, he breathed with a sigh of relief. He turned forward and screamed, there, inches from his own face, was that of the dark haired, pale faced boy, almost pressed up against the driver’s side window. Wendt jumped sideways into the passenger seat, but felt compelled to stare into those twin pale blue eyes.

Years ago, ages ago, memories of himself at that age, being dragged through Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. Not bored, terrified, at these wax mannequins. Expecting each one to leap out at him like that episode of the Twilight Zone his parents thought he hadn’t watched. Now, standing before the Chamber of Horrors, fear. thatswherethemonsterslive. “No, Edward, these are all fake. Look at the eyes Eddie, they aren’t alive,” his mother comforted him as his father glared on. But it was too late, there were monsters down there. He began crying as a warm moistness seeped from his groin. Look at the eyes, Eddie. Fear in his mother’s, Rage in his father’s, and now, absolutely nothing in the boy’s eyes in front of him.

The boy slowly sunk out of site, like an elevator being lowered. Wendt’s heart threatened to explode and when something in the engine clunked he thought it had. The headlights dimmed and the digital displays inside began to fade, within seconds the car was at one with the darkness it had been fighting to hold off. As the clock died, Wendt made a quick calculation; 150 minutes left.

Wendt shifted in his seat, anxious to see the moon’s luminescence and terrified at what it might reveal. He gripped his cell phone like a crucifix, but took no comfort. What would I say? He yelped as the back end of the car jiggled with the weight of someone getting on the bumper. A glance in the rear view mirror revealed the outline of jeans in the rear windshield from a body that was pulling itself onto the roof of the car. There it was now, someone/thing, on top of his car. Waiting. Wendt moved to the center of the car, slowly, were he to move the car at all, he knew he’d be destroyed. A faint scratching, like old tree branches, came from the roof of his car. Wendt looked at the upholstery, imagining that the shadows concealed the claw marks. Then, with a thunderclap, the car came back to life. Headlights tore into the darkness and the interior displays cast the shadows away. Wendt’s spirit was recharged with the observation that the scratching had stopped, the car felt lighter too, and he doubted that anyone had crawled on top. He sat up in his seat, turned the mirror so he judge his appearance, and saw the pale faced boy, staring at him, from the back seat.

Wendt ran. His lungs raged as he punished his foot and flew down the highway, open mouthed and glassy eyed. He tottered along the faded yellow lines of the highway, looking down for balance, never looking behind. After an eternity he collapsed and panted, his chest clicking as he gulped each breath. His painfully dry eyes attempted to tear as he made out the headlights of an approaching tow truck in front of him. The rig stopped, and a silhouette from the cab called out to him, “You okay?”

“Okay,” croaked Wendt, “water.”

The driver, Gus, looked over at his passenger. “Well you ran at least two miles. What the hell were you running from?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” said Edward Wendt.

“Oh, I’d believe you. In fact I could probably guess.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, probably a boy, age ten or twelve, dark hair, pale face. Either tried hitchhiking or playing hide and go seek with you.”

“Dammit, it was some local JD. Does he pull that shit a lot?”

“Oh yeah, Billy Edwards has been doing that for the last fifteen years.”

Wendt felt his nerve endings tingle from his skull to his aching feet, “fifteen years?”

“Billy Edwards was a good boy, but came from a hell of a family. Drunks, both of them. Heard later, after it happened, that they used to beat the poor kid around. Well one day, Billy got tired of it. Took some money, some extra clothes and decided to hitchhike to freedom, or at least away from his folks. Kid might have made it but he was struck by a car, hit and run. No one knows who did it, but Sheriff Owens always felt it was Billy’s dad, s.o.b. killed himself not long after. Damn shame. You can remember some names like Adam Walsh or Polly Klass, but some slip by, like the ones Dahlmer or Gacy got. I guess Billy doesn’t want to be forgotten. Anyway, folks passing along sometimes mention seeing a boy, about Billy’s age hitchhiking or walking across the road, in front of their car, mile after mile…Kind of a local legend. Well here’s your car, three and a half miles, pretty good for a man your age.”

The moon sat overhead, looking down as Gus and Wendt approached the Lincoln. Gus knelt down and appraised the situation. “Not too bad.” He walked back to his truck and set out his equipment. “Could you grab the spare,” he gestured towards a tire propped up in the back of the truck. Wendt lifted the tire out and rolled it towards Gus. “Just let it drop for now.” Gus began loosening the lug nuts, “So what brings you through here anyway?”

“On business.”

“Hope your schedule isn’t too far off.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Wendt toyed with a crowbar.

“So what happened to your spare?”

“Rode too long on it and never replaced it.”

“That happens. Well I’m almost done here. Just pop the trunk open and I’ll put the tire away.”

“Can’t you take the tire?”

“Well, you’ll be wanting it when you get into town.”

“There’s no room in the trunk.”

“Be a shame to get all this grease and gunk on your interior. You can arrange things if you like, I’m in no hurry.”

Wendt stood behind Gus and brought the crowbar down on his head, “I said there was no room, dammit, why can’t you listen, you small town shit!” Crimson arcs flew against the night. Gus’s ruined head streaked against the headlight of the Lincoln. Wendt shook with rage as he opened the trunk and threw in the crowbar. It rattled against some spray cans before sliding next to the body of a child. Wendt slammed the trunk shut and entered the Lincoln. He rode off, edging around the pool of Gus’s blood, past the tow truck, and headed off down the highway. Billy Edwards followed behind.