Snark Floats: Millcreek Village

Millcreek Village Library Life: Closed for Inventory

Jenifer Jorgenson — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 13:25:36 GMT

I closed the library for inventory today. This was not intended as a challenge to the universe — after all, I’d been meaning to do it since I arrived — but Millcreek has never been especially respectful of implied boundaries. Or any boundaries at all that don’t involve misty walls.

The plan was simple. It would take most of the day, but not all of it. Done by 3:00 if the universe behaved itself. I would count the books, reconcile the physical collection against the catalog, identify any missing items, correct duplicate records, and finally determine whether the travel guides to the neighboring communities had been added after the mist lifted or had simply been pretending to exist retroactively.

I suspected I already knew the answer to that last one…

A normal librarian’s Thursday, in other words. I made tea. I sharpened two pencils, then rolled my eyes, put them away and prepped my iPad with the catalog and shelf list. I placed a neatly lettered sign on the front door reading:

Then, because I have lived in Millcreek long enough to develop survival instincts, I added:

Gus sat beside the circulation desk and watched me with the solemn expression of a dog who suspected inventory would not involve cheese. As usual, he was correct.

The catalog said the library contained 5,812 books. My first count produced 5,819.

That was irritating but not alarming. In an ordinary library, seven extra books would suggest donations, clerical error, or someone failing to follow intake procedure.

In Millcreek, it suggested the building had opinions.

I began with the main reading room, partly because it was closest to the tea and partly because it was the room least likely to contain a hidden vampire, a vanishing door, or a patron silently judging my classification system.

That left it with only the ordinary hazards, which I felt I could probably navigate with some success.

At 10:04 a.m., Phoenix peeked her head into the front door and called out, “Hello? Jenifer?”

It was at that moment I remembered I had promised to help her answer some questions about astronomy. Oops.

“Astronomy uses Latin, right?” she asked.

I looked at her blankly for a moment before remembering my sign. “Yes, as it happens.”

“Oh good. Then I don’t need an exception,” she grinned.

I smiled weakly back, mildly embarrassed at having forgotten all about our planned meeting, then posting such a snarky sign. But it faded quickly as I considered the fact that anyone asking about astronomy in Millcreek was probably not doing so because they had misplaced Orion.

“What exactly was it you wanted to know about astronomy?” I asked cautiously.

Phoenix stepped inside, closing the door carefully behind her. “Do you have any star charts? Or anything showing the night sky here or the night sky back in the big world?”

I stared at her for a moment. She took my silence as an opportunity to add, “Also, do you have any books that discuss the distinctions between astronomy and astrology and where they overlap?”

I continued to stare. Finally I sighed. “I had a very simple plan for today.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, you’re not.”

“Not entirely.”

Fair. I had, after all, had plans with her first.

“What exactly are you wanting to know?”

“I was hoping to compare the stars over Millcreek with the stars visible from the crossroads and maybe from the night sky we used to see before we came here,” she said. “And possibly from the other communities, depending on whether anyone has made decent observations.”

“Decent observations in this village are harder to come by than one might hope.”

“I noticed.”

That, I respected. The astronomy section contained twenty-seven books when I counted it the first time. After Phoenix asked her question, it contained thirty-one.

That was not ideal.

One of the new volumes was wedged between an introductory guide to constellations and a frankly overconfident book on backyard telescopes. Its spine read: Navigational Thresholds and the Problem of Local Stars.

Phoenix and I looked at it. “I assume that wasn’t there before,” she said.

“No.”

“May I borrow it?”

I removed the book from the shelf, opened the front cover, and found a Millcreek Village Library barcode already attached.

“Apparently you may.”

The checkout card tucked inside the back cover listed no previous borrowers, but the due date had already been stamped. Two weeks from today.

I didn’t like that at all. It made me twitchy.

I scanned the book into the system. The catalog accepted the transaction without complaint, which I appreciated even less. Systems that misbehave should have the decency to produce error messages. Silent compliance is just smugness wearing a digital cardigan.

I also handed her a book on the history and study of astrology. Phoenix tucked both books carefully under her arm. “If the stars don’t match,” she said, “I’ll let you know.”

“Please do. I’ll create a category.”

“You don’t have one already?”

“I have several, but none of them address comparisons between the various communities yet. Also, none of them are polite enough for public consumption.”

She smiled and left. I went back to my inventory.

By 12:21, I had identified three duplicate records, one missing field guide to amphibians, and a copy of A Child’s Garden of Verses that I distinctly remembered shelving in Juvenile Poetry but found between two books on municipal drainage.

I made a note: Possible mis-shelving. Possible thematic commentary. Possibly Varenne has taken a new interest in children’s books. Monitor.

At 1:06, the return slot rattled. Gus lifted his head, sniffed once, and walked over with considerably more enthusiasm than the situation deserved.

“Don’t encourage it,” I told him. He ignored me, which was consistent with his general position on governance.

I opened the return bin and found a cookbook inside. Then another. Then a third. The bin wasn’t large enough to hold three cookbooks, but I have stopped expecting containers in Millcreek to respect volume.

The first cookbook was Small-Batch Preserves for Variable Households. The second was Soups, Stews, and Other Community Risks. The third had no title on the cover, but smelled faintly of orange blossoms and carrots.

I had suspicions.

The front door opened at 1:12. Dave stood there holding a paper bag and looking apologetic.

“I saw the sign,” he said.

“That puts you ahead of most people.”

“I know you’re closed.”

“And yet...”

He stepped inside just far enough to let the door shut behind him. “I brought muffins.”

I looked at the bag. Gus looked at the bag. Gus’s body acquired the specific tension of a creature prepared to betray every principle he’d never had.

“That is manipulative,” I said.

Dave smiled. “A little.”

It was difficult to fault the honesty. Also, the muffins smelled really good.

“I only need to ask about a cookbook,” he said. “The catalog says I still have one checked out, but I returned it yesterday.”

“Naturally.”

“It was the orange blossom one.”

“Of course.”

I retrieved the untitled cookbook from the return bin and set it on the counter. The scent was stronger now. Warm. Floral. Slightly sweet. Annoyingly pleasant. And weirdly similar to the muffin smell.

Dave leaned closer. “That’s it.”

“The book has no title.”

“It did yesterday.”

Of course it did.

I scanned the barcode. The catalog displayed the title as Orange Blossom Carrot Salad and Other Recipes for People Who Are Trying Their Best.

I would’ve remembered that title. I took a slow breath. Dave, eyeing me closely, wisely said nothing. Finally, I asked, “Was that the title when you checked it out?”

He just shook his head. I sighed. The system accepted the return, removed the overdue notice from Dave’s account, and added the book to the collection.

Total items: 5,826.

I looked at the shelf list.

I looked at the catalog.

I looked at Dave.

“I had 5,819 barely two hours ago.”

“Is that bad?”

“In most circumstances, I would say yes.”

“And in Millcreek?”

“In Millcreek, I am considering whether to bill the building for unauthorized acquisitions.”

Dave set the muffin bag on the counter. “Would muffins help?”

“They rarely hurt anything but the size of my hind end.”

Gus gave a small bark of agreement.

“No,” I told him. “Not for you.”

He looked wounded. This was pure theater. He had eaten half a biscuit that morning after pretending he hadn’t already had breakfast. His range is limited, but his commitment to the craft is impressive.

Dave left a few minutes later, absolved of cookbook-related guilt and minus one bag of freshly baked muffins, which I considered an administrative fee.

I resumed the inventory. The next count produced 5,831 books.

The catalog total remained 5,826, but my handwritten shelf count now disagreed with both the first count and the system.

I wrote: Inventory compromised by patron need. Possible responsive acquisition behavior. Further evidence required.

Gus sneezed.

“I agree,” I said.

At 2:18, Lillian had the decency to knock. That immediately put her in the top ten percent of library patrons, statistically speaking.

“I know you’re closed,” she said, peering around the door, “but I only need one book.”

“That sentence has undone civilizations.”

She smiled apologetically. “The Search for Delicious, if you have it.”

That softened me. Not entirely, but enough.

“The Search for Delicious is an excellent choice,” I said, heading toward the children’s classics. “Technically a quest story. Also technically about civic failure, language instability, and the dangers of letting people argue over definitions without proper facilitation.”

Lillian blinked.

“It’s charming,” I added.

The book was exactly where it should have been, which was so surprising I nearly distrusted it on principle.

“If you like that,” I said, “you might also try The Phantom Tollbooth. Similar affection for language, less soup. Or The Last Unicorn, if you want something beautiful and quietly devastating.”

“Quietly devastating?”

“In a responsible way.”

She took all three. I scanned them, watched the catalog accept the checkouts, and returned to the shelf list as Lillian departed.

The children’s classics section now contained two more books than it had before Lillian arrived. One was a second copy of The Search for Delicious. The other had no title on the spine.

I pulled it out carefully. The cover was plain green cloth, slightly worn at the corners. No author. No publisher. No identifying marks except a small embossed key in the lower right corner.

Inside, the title page read: For When the Right Story Has Not Yet Arrived

I closed the book. Then I opened it again, because denial is rarely a sustainable research methodology, though I’ve found it does wonders for maintaining equanimity. The title remained.

Gus, who had been lurking beneath the reference table since Lillian’s arrival, gave a low growl. Not his burglar growl. Not his “there is another dog on a walk outside and I have opinions” growl. Something quieter. More uncertain.

I crouched down and peered under the table.

“What did you find?”

He looked at me, then nosed something forward with considerable reluctance. It was a library card. Not one of the new ones I’d created when I started here. This card was older. Cream-colored. Unlaminated and curling at the edges. The ink had faded brown, and the handwriting was neat enough to be almost decorative.

The name read: Millcreek Village Library

I turned the card over.

Borrower Type: Institutional
Status: Active
Restrictions: None

I sat back on my heels. “That is not how library cards work.”

Gus thumped his tail once.

“Don’t take its side.”

At 3:03, the western wall in the back reading room made the small settling sound I had come to associate with Varenne’s door existing where it hadn’t existed a moment before.

This was unusual because it was not 6:47. It was also unwelcome because my inventory definitely did not include a line item for aristocratic, possibly vampiric basement anomalies appearing ahead of schedule.

Varenne emerged a moment later carrying a small stack of books and wearing the expression of a man who had not caused the problem but had absolutely noticed it before everyone else.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

“It most certainly is not.”

He glanced toward the front door. “Ah. Inventory?”

“How could you tell?”

“The shelf list. The lack of patrons. Your expression.”

“My expression?”

“You look as though the universe has failed to respect procedure.”

“That is because the universe has failed to respect procedure.”

“How inconsiderate.”

I held up the institutional library card. “Did you know about this?”

He stepped closer, accepted the card only after I extended it, and read the name. His eyebrows rose slightly. That was Varenne for “well, hell.”

“I have not seen this before,” he said.

“You’re sure?”

“I am reasonably confident.”

“Reasonably?”

“I have been in the basement a long time. One learns humility.”

“That must have been difficult for you.”

“Excruciating.”

I appreciated that. He handed the card back and looked around the room. “The collection feels different today.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“I am sorry.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“Not entirely.”

Apparently everyone in Millcreek had chosen honesty as the theme for the afternoon. Charming. Deeply inefficient.

Varenne set his books on the counter. “These were in my rooms.”

“Your rooms?”

“The basement, if you prefer.”

“I don’t.”

“Understandable.”

I looked at the stack. Four books. All old. All in excellent condition. All bearing Millcreek Village Library markings I hadn’t placed there.

The first was A Brief History of Contained Communities. The second was Thresholds, Tests, and Temporary Settlements. The third was On the Ethical Observation of Unusual Populations, which immediately made me want to throw it into the lake. The fourth had no title.

Of course it didn’t.

I opened it. The first page read: Inventory is not the act of counting what exists.

Below that, in smaller letters: It is the act of discovering what has been entrusted to you.

I closed the book and looked at Varenne.

“No.”

He looked faintly amused. “No?”

“No. Absolutely not. I refuse to be emotionally lectured by an unprocessed acquisition.”

“A reasonable boundary.”

“Thank you.”

“Though possibly ineffective.”

“Less helpful.”

He inclined his head. I scanned the four basement books into the system. The catalog accepted them.

Total items: 5,873.

My handwritten count said 5,831.

The shelf list said 5,819.

The institutional library card sat on the circulation desk looking smug for an object made of paper. I made another note: Collection may be defining itself according to need rather than quantity. This is unacceptable from an inventory perspective and alarmingly poetic from all others.

Varenne read the note upside down.

“Accurate,” he said.

“Stop doing that.”

“Reading upside down?”

“Being agreeable at inconvenient moments.”

“I shall endeavor to become more obstructive.”

“That would also be inconvenient.”

“Then I am trapped.”

“A familiar feeling, I assume.”

His expression shifted briefly. Not hurt. Not exactly. More like a curtain moving over a window. I regretted the joke as soon as I saw his face.

But before I could apologize, Gus emerged from beneath the reference table with a book in his mouth. Not the green one. Another one.

This book was small and blue, with a torn paper label on the spine. Gus trotted over and placed it directly on my shoe, then sat with the proud dignity of a dog who had completed a task no one had assigned. And possibly also expected payment in the form of muffins.

“Thank you,” I said carefully.

He wagged his tail. The title was stamped in silver across the front: Required Holdings

I opened it. The pages were blank except for a single list written in the same neat brown ink as the institutional library card.

I read the list twice. That was excessive, but I dislike being manipulated by stationery.

Varenne stood quietly beside me. “Does that clarify matters?” he asked.

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“It clarifies them in the way fog clarifies a road.”

“Ah.”

There was judgment in that “Ah.” I heard it. Then promptly ignored it. It was also fair. Damn these eminently reasonable people.

I looked at the shelves. At the catalog. At the counter where Dave’s muffin bag sat half-empty. At the space where Phoenix had stood asking about uncooperative stars. At the place Lillian had held three books like small, necessary things. At Gus, who had begun licking his own backside as though he were not central to the investigation.

The problem wasn’t that the library had too many books. The problem appeared to be that I’d been trying to count them as objects.

Apparently that was offensive to Millcreek.

But I am an excellent counter of objects. My inability to count them was offensive to me.

But Millcreek Village Library, apparently, didn’t define its collection by objects alone. It counted need. It counted questions. It counted thresholds. It counted the odd, quiet moment when someone came looking for one thing and left with three because the right story was just waiting for them.

This was all very meaningful. I hated it.

I sat down at the circulation desk and opened the inventory report.

Under Status, I selected Incomplete. Then I changed it to Deferred. Then, because I still have professional standards, I added a note: Inventory deferred due to environmental noncompliance, responsive acquisitions, patron-driven materialization, and unresolved institutional borrower status. Recommend revised methodology before next attempt.

The catalog processed for several seconds.

Then the item total changed.

Not to 5,812 or 5,826 or 5,831.

The new total read: Sufficient.

I stared at the screen.

“No.”

The catalog didn’t respond. Varenne leaned slightly closer. “That seems difficult to reconcile.”

“Do not encourage it.”

“I would not dream of it.”

“You’re absolutely dreaming of it.”

“A little.”

Gus put one paw on my shoe. I looked down at him.

“You too?”

He wagged his tail. I printed the inventory report, partly because paper still feels more real and partly because if the catalog intended to become philosophical, I wanted documentation.

At the bottom of the page, beneath my note, a new line had appeared: Next inventory scheduled when the librarian is prepared to stop arguing with reality.

I read it, but I hadn’t typed it. Then I folded the report, placed it in a folder, labeled the folder Inventory Attempt 1, and locked it in the filing cabinet.

Varenne watched me do this without comment, which was wise of him. Not unusual. He is frequently quite wise. I suppose that comes with age.

I reopened the library at 4:00 p.m.

The sign came down. The muffins disappeared. The shelves looked ordinary again, which I no longer trusted. Gus curled up beneath the reference table, apparently satisfied with his contributions to library science.

I did not complete inventory. I did, however, create a new status code: Deferred Due to Environmental Noncompliance.

The catalog accepted it immediately. I am choosing not to examine what that implies.

For now.

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Millcreek Village Library Life: Souvenirs from a Previous Life

Jenifer Jorgenson — Sun, 07 Jun 2026 00:18:20 GMT

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The door to Pandemonium is still floating in the lake. Closed now.

I did not go through it.

That was partly because I am a sensible person, partly because I have a library to run, and partly because anything named Pandemonium sounds like it would require comfortable shoes, emotional resilience, and possibly a signed waiver.

Still, it seems to be affecting the village even now that it’s closed.

People have been strange lately, which is impressive given the baseline. They seem more talkative. More sentimental. More prone to staring across the lake with expressions normally reserved for old songs, tax notices, and unfortunate romantic decisions.

Even Gus has been odd. Yesterday he spent almost six minutes staring at a patch of wall near the circulation desk, then sneezed and walked away.

Honestly, same.

For my part, I had mostly avoided whatever nostalgic plague was drifting off the lake until Varenne offered to help me move some boxes from the storage room behind the second-floor archives.

I had forgotten the boxes existed, which is what people usually mean when they say they’ve “put something away.”

There were five of them in total. Two contained duplicate office supplies I apparently brought with me because somewhere deep in my soul I believed I might need thirty-seven binder clips and 14 legal pads after being miniaturized. One contained ski clothes, which was optimistic. One contained old notebooks.

The last one was labeled:

WORK / AWARDS / MISC.

A suspicious label, in retrospect. Nothing good has ever come from “misc.”

Varenne carried the box with the careful dignity of a man transporting relics from a collapsed empire. Which, given the contents, was not entirely inaccurate.

Unfortunately, the bottom gave out halfway down the stairs.

Not dramatically. No cinematic crash. Just a tired cardboard sigh, followed by a neat little avalanche of plaques, folders, framed certificates, lanyards, conference badges, and one stress ball shaped like a globe.

Varenne froze.
I stared down at the wreckage of my previous life.
Gus immediately stole the stress ball.

“Those appear to be honors,” Varenne said carefully.

“They appear to be,” I agreed.

He picked up one of the plaques, holding it delicately by the edges.

“Outstanding Cross-Functional Partnership,” he read.

“Yes.”

He looked at me. I looked at him.

“It was a moving ceremony,” I said. “There were mini quiches and non-alcoholic champagne.”

He returned the plaque to the pile with the solemnity of a funeral rite and picked up another.

“Operational Excellence Champion.”

“That one came with a gift card.”

“A substantial one?”

“Twenty-five dollars.”

His expression did something subtle and aristocratic.

“I see.”

“You don’t,” I said. “And honestly, I’m happy for you. I wish I didn’t.”

He knelt to help gather the mess, because he is old-fashioned, polite, and apparently unable to resist restoring order. We had that in common.

A framed photograph had slid partway under the bottom step. He noticed it before I did, but rather than reach for it, he simply looked at me.

“There is something beneath the stair,” he said.

That was Varenne all over. He would absolutely help move boxes, reshelve books, debate Milton, and silently judge the twenty-first century, but he would not pick up a private photograph unless given permission.

Unfortunately, I knew which photograph it probably was. I considered pretending I hadn’t heard him. Then Gus squeaked the globe in his mouth, ruining the moment with geopolitical commentary.

I sighed and retrieved the frame myself.

The glass was dusty but intact. In the photo, I stood beside a man with sandy hair, kind eyes, and the exhausted smile of someone who had just survived a corporate holiday party. I was wearing a black blazer and a red blouse. My hair was sharper then. So was the rest of me.

Varenne said nothing.

“That’s my ex-husband,” I said.

“Ah.”

His tone was careful. Not prying. Not pitying. Just… present.

“Is he deceased?”

“No. Just sensible.”

The corner of Varenne’s mouth shifted. I genuinely enjoyed surprising a smile out of him, even a quirk like that.

I set the frame on top of the box and began stacking certificates into a pile.

“His name was Mark. We were married nine years. Divorced for three before I came here.”

“Was he unkind?”

“No.”

That answer came too quickly, but it was true. Mark had not been unkind. Not ever. That would’ve been easier, frankly. There’s a certain narrative efficiency to villains. They clarify things. You can point to them and say, there, that was the problem.

Mark was not the problem.

I was.

“He was patient,” I said. “Funny. Smart. He made excellent pancakes and terrible coffee. He also had an incredibly irritating habit of being right during arguments.”

“A grave flaw,” Varenne said.

“Deeply.”

I picked up another plaque. Leadership Through Change. That one had been from the year we reorganized three departments, laid off twenty-seven people, and somehow called it transformation instead of bloodletting.

I put it face down.

“I was in corporate operations,” I said. “Project management, process improvement, compliance-adjacent nonsense. I was very good at it.”

“I do not doubt that.”

“No. You shouldn’t. I was terrifying.”

This time, Varenne’s smile encompassed his whole face.

I smiled too, but only briefly. Mostly because he had.

“At first, I thought I was helping. And sometimes I was. Broken systems make people miserable. Someone has to notice the broken pieces and make the people in charge stop pretending everything is fine.”

“That seems worthy.”

“It can be.” I folded an old lanyard around my hand, then unfolded it again. “But corporate life has a way of taking your useful qualities and sharpening them into weapons. Attention to detail becomes suspicion. Direct communication becomes intimidation. Competence becomes the expectation that you’ll carry every disaster until someone else gets credit for surviving it.”

Varenne was quiet.

“I became the person people sent into difficult meetings when they needed someone to be firm,” I said. “Which meant saying no. Often. Clearly. With documentation.”

“That does sound like you.”

“Careful.”

“I meant no insult.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

I found an old badge clipped to a ribbon. My face stared back at me from the plastic sleeve, professionally lit and profoundly tired. And more than a little bit angry.

I remembered that version of myself. Not fondly, exactly. But clearly and in every detail.

She answered emails at midnight. She corrected executives in meetings. She used phrases like “alignment,” “deliverables,” and “we need to socialize this decision” without bursting into flames or laughter. She could locate contradictions in a policy document faster than most people could locate their own spine.

She was useful. Respected. Exhausted. And generally disgusted with the world.

“Mark said I changed,” I offered. I don’t know why I said it.

Varenne’s expression remained still, but I had the sense he was listening more carefully now.

“I told him everyone changes. That was my first mistake. Technically correct, emotionally useless.”

“A familiar category of answer,” he said.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

The conversation should have ended there. It would have been easy to put the photo back in the box, carry everything downstairs, and never mention it again. I am very good at not mentioning things again.

But the door to Pandemonium was still floating in the lake, and apparently that sort of thing encourages emotional housekeeping.

“He said I’d become soulless.”

Varenne went very still. I laughed once, quietly. Not because it was funny.

“Not in a dramatic way. He wasn’t shouting. That would’ve been easier too. He just said it like he’d finally found the correct word after months of trying not to use it.”

The photo in my hand felt heavier than it should have.

“I remember being furious because it wasn’t fair. I cared. I cared about doing things properly. I cared about people keeping promises. I cared about systems not grinding people into paste while executives smiled over quarterly reports.”

I swallowed.

“It took me longer than I like to admit to understand that wasn’t what he meant.”

Varenne lowered the folder he was holding.

“What did he mean?”

I looked down at the old photo again. At Mark’s tired smile. At my own polished expression.

“That I had stopped seeing people as people. I saw blockers. Risks. Stakeholders. Escalation paths. Resources.” I made a face. “God help me, I called human beings resources. And meant it.”

“A common failing of empires,” Varenne said.

“Yes, well. Mine had worse coffee.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Downstairs, the library settled around us. Wood creaked. Paper shifted. Somewhere in the building, Gus discovered the globe squeaked differently if attacked from the side.

“I didn’t sign the Millcreek contract because I was brave,” I said. “Or adventurous. Or even especially curious.”

“No?”

“No. I signed it because the job listing said the position came with living quarters above the library.”

Varenne blinked.

“That was the deciding factor?”

“That, and they allowed dogs.”

“Understandable.”

“It was absurd,” I said. “Miniaturization. Experimental village. Long-term residency. Community integration expectations. I read the contract six times and still wasn’t sure whether it was employment paperwork or the opening chapter of a cautionary tale.”

“And yet you signed.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I looked around at the boxes, the old awards, the photo, the little pieces of a life I had packed away and pretended not to miss.

“Because the world had offered me a library,” I said. “And for the first time in years, that sounded more real than staying where I was.” I paused, then carefully added, “And more hopeful.”

Varenne considered that. Then he nodded once.

“A reasonable choice.”

“That is not the usual reaction.”

“I have made many unreasonable choices in my time,” he said. “I have learned to distinguish them from the necessary ones.”

That was a very Varenne thing to say. Formal, obscure, and probably hiding three centuries of trauma behind good posture.

I put the photograph back in the box, but not face down this time.

Varenne did not comment. He simply gathered the fallen awards and stacked them neatly beside it. Operational Excellence. Cross-Functional Partnership. Leadership Through Change. All the polished little souvenirs of the woman I had once been.

A cautionary PowerPoint deck, if one wanted to be unkind.
Accurate, if one wanted to be honest.

I carried the lighter box downstairs myself. Varenne took the heavier one, because apparently aristocratic undead library patrons still have gender-biased opinions about who carries heavy things. I chose not to fight him on it. Personal growth comes in many forms.

Also, it was really heavy.

At the bottom of the stairs, Gus trotted past us with the globe stress ball still in his mouth.

“Gus,” I said. “Drop it.”

He did not. Varenne looked at the dog, then at me.

“Does he obey often?”

“Only when compliance aligns with his personal objectives.”

“Ah,” Varenne said. “Management.”

I laughed. Not politely. Not because I was expected to. Not because something was funny in a clever, controlled way.

I just laughed.

And for a moment, standing there with a vampire, a stolen stress ball, and a box full of corporate nonsense, I felt more human than I had in years.

👉 Like this? Read all my Millcreek Village stories. It’ll all make more sense if you do…

This post was written for Millcreek Village, hosted by . Learn more about the community at:

‼️ If you liked this story, you may want to check out some of my other fiction.

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© 2026 Jenifer Jorgenson. Yes, I wrote this. No, you can’t steal it.

Millcreek Village Library Life: A Few Laughs in the Stacks

Jenifer Jorgenson — Sun, 17 May 2026 17:24:51 GMT

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Day 24

Life continues normally in Millcreek, which is to say, it remains strange. But quiet and pleasant. A surprising number of people have come into the library in the last few days, including some I didn’t recognize.

Mister — sorry, Lord — Varenne remains a nice addition to my routine. We’ve spoken at least once each day. It seems he genuinely believes he will die if he goes into the sun. That seemed… unlikely to me, so I looked it up. Naturally.

I suspect he has Erythropoietic Protoporphyria, but when I mentioned the name, he just stared at me blankly with those dark, glittering, very attractive eyes.

Whatever the real cause of his fear of sunlight, he has a vast knowledge of literature, particularly older works. We’ve had some lovely — if contentious — debates about Plato, Cervantes, Milton, Herodotus, and Tolstoy.

I encouraged him to read Kathy Acker. It may be the single most unkind thing I’ve done since coming to Millcreek.

That said, I’m very interested to hear what he thinks…

Day 26

Dave stopped by the library today. The one I’d begun to think of as Morning-Dave. Though I’ll have to revise the moniker, since Afternoon-Dave is now StoryVille-Dave. Morning-Dave a.k.a. Millcreek-Dave is now just Dave.

Honestly, I liked Morning-Dave better anyway. Probably because of that time he saw me spill coffee all over myself and was so gracious about helping me clean up, then gave me free coffee on top of it. How do you not like someone who gives you free coffee?

I suspect he’s not the one who made that orange blossom and carrot salad I liked so much, though. Sounds like he’s going to try making it, so hopefully his is as good as Afternoon-Dave’s.

Either way, having just the one Dave will be less confusing.

Day 29

Amarius read Blood and Guts in High School. The look on his face when he approached me with the book held between two fingers like it might contaminate him was possibly the funniest thing I’ve seen in Millcreek. And that’s saying something in a town with dragons, duplicate people, swamp witches, and Gus.

When I asked him what he thought, he was exceedingly careful in his reply. I tried to keep a straight face as he equivocated and tried to avoid a real answer. But I must’ve given the joke away at some point, because he stopped mid-sentence.

Then, in that perfectly courteous European lord way, he said, “You were… teasing me?”

I couldn’t hold in the laughter at that point. If someone else had made that much noise in the library, I’d have shushed them. But I’m claiming librarian’s right, and let my amusement ring through the building. It was after hours, so no one else was there, anyway.

He took it well. All he said as he dropped the book on the counter was, “I see. I shall have a recommendation for you next time.”

This morning I found a copy of Otto Weininger’s “Sex and Character” awaiting me on the counter.

I honestly wasn’t sure he had a sense of humor, but apparently he does. And it’s a surprisingly dry one. I like it.

Day 31

Dave — just Dave — stopped by again today. He brought me some of his orange blossom and carrot salad. We went outside and ate together sitting out on the stoop in front of the library.

I knew I liked Morning-Dave better for a reason. Afternoon-Dave never hand-delivered food to the library.

We talked about books for a while — my go-to topic for basically every conversation, I suppose. There is, after all, a reason I wanted to be a librarian when I came to Millcreek.

He loved a lot of the same fantasy and science fiction I did as a kid, so we compared notes on some of our favorites. Anyone who imprinted on the same strange paperbacks I did was never going to be entirely normal. His taste definitely explains his sense of humor.

I’ve had quite a few laughs lately. This week has made me very glad I stayed in Millcreek, even if there are a lot of questions and no apparent answers.

For the record, Dave’s salad was not the same as Afternoon-Dave’s.

It was good, though. Different. Which seems appropriate.

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Millcreek Village Library Life: The Regular

Jenifer Jorgenson — Mon, 27 Apr 2026 01:49:44 GMT

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Day 15

I left a note yesterday. There was a response waiting for me this morning.

My note was gone from the circulation desk, replaced by a small square of cream-colored paper. The handwriting was neat. Old-fashioned. Ink, not pen.

Well. That answers at least one question.

I appear to have a regular.

The books were all properly shelved this morning. Correct sections, correct order, even the more obscure classifications. Whoever this A. Varenne is, they either learn quickly or have been paying closer attention than I realized.

There was also a book waiting for me on the desk. I don’t recall seeing it before — an older volume, leather worn soft at the edges, the sort of thing that tends to disappear into the deeper stacks and stay there.

It was open to a section on early Millcreek — pre-miniaturization, if such a thing can be said to exist. The information was… fragmentary. But useful.

I’ve left a brief note in return, thanking them for the assistance and suggesting that, if they intend to continue contributing to the library, we might consider more formal communication.

It seems only fair.

Day 17

A. Varenne continues to be helpful.

Another book this morning. This one I know I had previously marked as missing, based on the catalog. It was returned, correctly shelved, and — somewhat impressively — cleaned. I don’t remember doing that, and I’m fairly certain I would.

I’ve begun to suspect that my earlier issues with misplaced materials may not have been patron error after all.

Gus seems entirely unbothered by all of this.

Day 20

I woke early today.

Unusual for me, but not entirely unwelcome. The library has a different feel in the early morning — quiet in a way that feels less like absence and more like pause. I like it.

Gus was awake as well, though not restless. Attentive, perhaps. And hungry, as always.

I wonder wha—

The noise stopped me mid-word.

It was just before seven when I heard movement downstairs. Not the faint, intermittent sounds I’d noticed before. Something more deliberate. Sustained.

I debated staying put. Then I remembered I had a baseball bat, which seemed like a reasonable compromise.

By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, Gus had already moved ahead of me, trotting toward the back reading room with a level of confidence that suggested he was not expecting trouble. That was somewhat reassuring.

The light in the room was dim — just enough from the windows to make out shapes. For a moment, I thought the space was empty.

Then I saw him.

He was standing at the western wall, hands moving slowly across the surface as if searching for something — flaws in the drywall, perhaps, or… pressure points? He didn’t turn when I entered. Either he hadn’t heard me, or he had and chose not to react.

Gus approached him first. There was a brief pause — one of those moments where the world seems to wait and see what will happen — then Gus sniffed at the man’s hand, circled once, and leaned lightly against his leg.

Acceptance granted.

“Well,” I said, lowering the bat slightly. “That explains several things.”

The man stilled. Then, slowly, he turned.

He was not what I expected, though I’m not entirely sure what I had expected. Tall. Composed. Handsome. Dressed expensively, but in a way that suggested he had not updated his wardrobe in quite some time. His expression was calm, though there was a flicker of something — calculation, perhaps, or mild concern.

“My apologies,” he said, voice even, accent difficult to place. “I did not intend to intrude during your hours.”

“You’ve been intruding during my hours for at least a week,” I replied. “You’ve just been more discreet about it.”

A pause. “That is… fair.”

I leaned the bat against a nearby chair.

“I assume you’re A. Varenne?”

He inclined his head slightly. “Lord Amarius Varenne, at your service.”

“Jenifer,” I said. “Head — and only — librarian.”

Another small pause. “I am… familiar,” he said.

Of course he is.

“You’re looking for something,” I added, nodding toward the wall.

“Yes.”

“It’s not there.”

“It was.”

That caught my attention.

“What was?”

“A door,” he said simply. “It appears at a specific hour.”

I glanced at the wall. Solid brick covered by ordinary drywall, as far as I could tell. Entirely unremarkable.

“And that hour would be?”

“Six forty-seven.”

“In the morning?”

“And the evening.”

I checked the clock on the wall behind me. A few minutes past seven.

“So you missed it.”

He exhaled softly. Not quite a sigh. “It would appear so.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It is… inconvenient.”

I considered that. “You’ve been using it to get in and out of the library.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re stuck.”

“For the time being.”

I nodded slowly.

“Well. That does complicate things.”

There was a brief silence, then he smiled. It was a polite expression. Controlled. Just enough to signal acknowledgment.

I noticed the fangs a second later. “…huh,” I said.

Fake, surely. Cosplay, maybe. Though he didn’t otherwise seem like the convention-going type.

He seemed to register that I had noticed, though he made no move to explain.

“Cosplay?” I offered.

Another pause. Then, “I’m not familiar with the term.”

“Never mind.”

Gus had settled at his feet by then, entirely at ease. I looked back at the wall, then at him.

“You’ll need a library card,” I said.

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you’re going to be a regular patron,” I clarified, “we should probably formalize the arrangement.”

A longer pause this time. “…of course,” he said at last.

I nodded. “I’ll get the paperwork.”

I suppose there are worse things than discovering an undocumented patron.

At least this one doesn’t just want audiobooks.

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Millcreek Village Librarian’s Journal

Jenifer Jorgenson — Sat, 11 Apr 2026 09:47:28 GMT

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Day 1

So it’s not actually my first day in Millcreek Village. It’s not even my first week. But it’s the first day after the fog lifted and the “answers” were revealed.

Unfortunately, I think all it raised for me were more questions.

At the Lantern Festival last night, they told us that this was all a test, and that we’d passed by learning to put community first. That announcement coincided with the dispersal of the mist wall that surrounded us before and opened up pathways to new places.

Some folks took off right away, curious to explore. Good for them! I hope they report back what they find.

I’m staying put. I love this little library, and there’s still plenty of mysteries to solve here without broadening the scope. Besides, Gus gets tired walking for too long, and I get tired carrying him.

Day 2

I spent some more time today looking through the local history section. It expanded overnight to include small books on the communities that were revealed to us at the Lantern Festival. There’s not a lot of information, but it’s certainly more than we had before.

But I have to ask… where did the new books come from? I certainly didn’t shelve them.

The books themselves are… adequate. There are brief descriptions and general overviews. Nothing I’d call comprehensive, but enough to suggest familiarity with the places they describe.

Which is interesting, considering no one has been there yet. At least no one I’ve talked to.

I checked the catalog system. The entries are there. Timestamped. Indexed. Filed correctly. As far as the system is concerned, these books have always existed.

If they did, they were certainly misshelved before…

Day 4

The book on StoryVille was missing this morning when I went downstairs. I spent two hours searching for it and never found it. But when I came back from lunch, it was sitting on the circulation desk open to a page describing their Lantern Festival.

Apparently just like ours.

I have no idea who took the book and brought it back, but I appreciate the tidbit of additional knowledge. Still no actual answers, but it’s one more piece of the puzzle.

Why do I feel like this might be the world’s largest jigsaw? It’s a good thing I’ve always enjoyed puzzles.

Day 7

I spent a couple of days lying low and reading in the library. I only really stepped out to grab some coffee from the Brick a couple of times. Their lattes are astonishingly good. I asked where they got the beans, but I was told there’s nothing special about them.

Apparently the cappuccino machine is something special… I didn’t ask any more questions. I have enough mysteries as it is.

But this morning there were four more books open on the circulation desk when I went downstairs — each of them open to a page on the Lantern Festival. Apparently I wasn’t moving fast enough in my explorations and someone is impatient.

Turns out each of the communities we can reach from Millcreek Village has an entry for the Lantern Festival that is almost identical — word for word the same.

So I pulled out one of the histories for Millcreek Village and found the exact same entry there.

Whoever is writing these books is pretty clearly working from a template.

Day 8

Yesterday I scanned the lantern festival pages from all six community history books and posted them on the corkboard in the library entryway. A few people commented and asked about them as they came in for books.

Each had small tidbits to share about their odd experiences in town. So I decided I’m going to build a database of community strangeness, and create a form on the library’s web site where people can send in their oddities.

I’m leaving out some pencils and paper forms on the circulation desk, too. If anyone comes in and wants to share their weird occurrences, they’ll be able to share them with me.

Should make for an interesting overview of the town if people participate. This might make an interesting test case for that whole “community first” attitude we allegedly all have.

Day 11

The new form is up and the papers are out in the library. Apparently we’re going to have a town newsletter now and maybe even a local podcast, so I’m hoping maybe they’ll share the word about my database there.

On another note, when I got up this morning, there was an iced chai tea latte sitting on my kitchen table. The ice was a little bit melted, but not too much. I don’t know who left it, and I hesitated briefly before drinking it.

Back in my old life, I would’ve called the police and assumed someone was trying to drug me. But this is Millcreek.

It was delicious.

Day 12

I normally sleep like the dead, but I had trouble sleeping last night. Very unusual. What was more unusual is that I started hearing noises around 1am — faint shuffling from downstairs.

I grabbed my baseball bat and crept down for a look, wondering if I’d catch my chai deliverer in the act. But despite searching the entire first and second floors, I never found anyone.

Gus seemed particularly interested in the back door, which I only use to take out the trash. But there was no sign of anyone behind the building either.

This place is so strange. But I still love my library.

Day 14

I know there’s someone visiting the library at night. I just don’t know who it is. But so far they haven’t done anything but be… helpful.

So I decided to leave them a note. It said:

I’m leaving the message lying out on the circulation desk when I go upstairs tonight. I wonder if I’ll get a response.

I suppose I’ll find out in the morning.

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Millcreek Village: Librarian Style

Jenifer Jorgenson — Tue, 07 Apr 2026 23:01:57 GMT

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Millcreek Village is a collaborative world-building community created by . It’s an entire town full of people that have been miniaturized and are currently exploring their strange new world. I write as the town librarian. Other writers are creating their own stories in the same world, so I highly recommend checking it out!

Millcreek Village

Millcreek Village is a community adventure. We are working together to tell a compelling story from multiple viewpoints and multiple genres. Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support our work.

By Maryellen Brady 💗📚

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Millcreek Village Library Life: Answers?

Jenifer Jorgenson — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 01:05:38 GMT

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When I came downstairs one morning, I found a small package waiting for me on the library’s porch — a box containing a collapsed paper lantern — in the shape of a book, which amused me, a small stack of paper, and a pen. There didn’t appear to be anything special about them, but there were instructions in the box as well.

This whole lantern festival was… odd. Who ever heard of a mandatory community event? And why would the powers-that-be make such a strange request? Why would they care about my deepest wish?

It’s not like they were going to grant it…

Right?

Given some of the things I’d seen since arriving in Millcreek Village, maybe they did plan to grant people’s wishes.

I stared at the papers for a long time. Then I grasped the pen tightly and wrote.

Once done, I folded the paper in half and placed it inside the lantern as instructed. If my wish was granted, I supposed I’d know soon enough.

When the night of the Lantern Festival arrived, I put Gus on his leash, gathered up the paper lantern, and headed out. At the lakefront I found a crowd of my neighbors milling and mingling, each clutching a customized paper lantern in their arms.

“Who had time to make all these personalized lanterns, anyway?” I wondered aloud.

Gus didn’t answer.

But on seeing Ferrell, he instantly tugged on his leash and tried to join his friend. Since Vivienne was standing nearby, I consented and let the little dog pull me along. Gus and Ferrell happily sniffed at one another with great enthusiasm while the humans said hello in a slightly more civilized fashion.

“Hi Vivienne,” I said to the woman as a man I didn’t recognize left her standing momentarily alone.

“Good evening,” she replied in her cultured tone. “Quite the turnout.”

“Agreed.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d show up,” she offered with an interested glance. “You sounded unsure when we last spoke.”

“I was. I still am. But it didn’t seem like staying away was an option.”

She nodded. “Indeed. The invitation was less inviting than insisting.”

I nodded and waved to Abhishek Banerjee as he strode by. I don’t think he saw me, so I lowered my hand awkwardly. Vivienne just smiled her encouragement.

As someone else approached, Gus took off after one of the dragons — the one that liked comedies — and I was pulled further toward the shore line.

“I guess we’re off. See you later!” I called to Vivienne as my little dog dragged me away.

She waved with a small laugh and called Ferrell to her side. Her dog actually obeyed…

The atmosphere changed as we moved among the people at the festival, some strangers and some people who had become true neighbors in the best sense of the word. The tension in the air grew until it was palpable — a thickness that made me feel like I was breathing heavily even though we were standing still.

I’m not sure who first lit their lantern, but soon we were all lighting them, small candles and lighters passing from hand to hand. Slowly they rose into the night sky, small stars twinkling and flickering in a cloud. I watched mine for a while until it blended in with the rest.

Suddenly, a large number of them burned brighter, flames flaring for a moment and consuming the thin paper and fragile frames. The flames from the lanterns converged into a river of fire that speared toward the edge of Millcreek Village — toward the fog — and suddenly the mist began to burn away. Pathways appeared where the mist had split wide, and in the distance lights burned.

I noticed that a few lanterns remained hanging in the night sky, still burning. I wondered why some hadn’t burned, and my gaze was drawn again and again to the floating pinpoints of light.

The lantern light faded slowly, though I couldn’t say when it had started to dim. One moment the sky had been full of flame, the next it was only embers drifting down like exhausted fireflies. Around me, people stood very still, as if afraid to break whatever spell had just been cast.

Then the sound started.

Soft at first. A murmur. Then voices — laughing, crying, calling out to one another. Relief, mostly. A kind of breath being released all at once.

“We did it,” someone nearby said, almost reverently.

“Did what?” I wondered quietly, feeling nothing like relief.

I glanced in that direction. A couple stood hand in hand, staring out toward the place where the mist had burned away, where the signpost now stood like it had always belonged there.

Five paths. Five destinations. Five… options.

I supposed that was one way to look at it.

Gus pressed against my leg, unusually still. I knelt and rested a hand on his head absently, my eyes now fixed on the space where the mist had been.

It was a test. That explained some things.

The contracts. The language about observation. The sense — persistent, undeniable, unspoken — that we had been watched, or at least measured, in ways no one had fully articulated.

It did not explain the rest.

Not the dragons. Not the way the environment behaved, just slightly outside the bounds of what it should. Not how an entire town could be placed here — wherever here actually was — and maintained without anyone asking too many questions.

And certainly not who had been conducting the test. Or what their criteria had been beyond what we’d just been told.

I exhaled slowly.

Around me, people were already beginning to move toward the paths. Some hesitantly, others with a kind of eager certainty that I found… impressive. Or possibly concerning.

I looked up again at the fading pinpoints of light from the lanterns that hadn’t burned. I wondered if mine was among them or if the book-shaped lantern had burned cleanly, leaving no trace of the words I’d written.

I knew what I’d asked for, but I wasn’t entirely sure I’d received it.

“Of course it was a test,” I murmured.

Gus tilted his head up at me, as if expecting further clarification.

“I just would’ve appreciated a little more detail in the documentation.”

He wagged his tail once, which I chose to interpret as agreement.

I lifted my gaze back to the signpost. The names carved into it caught the remaining light, each one promising something different. Something new.

Something unknown.

Behind me, the village stood exactly as it had that morning. Lanterns swaying gently. Windows glowing. The library waiting, quiet and orderly and — until recently — entirely understandable.

I found, somewhat to my surprise, that I preferred it that way. Not because I believed the explanation we’d been given. But because I didn’t.

Someone, I thought, should probably keep track of what’s actually true.

I turned away from the signpost, gave Gus a light nudge with my foot, and started back toward the library.

There was, after all, quite a bit of reading left to do.

Gus considers the options at the Millcreek crossroads. Some paths lead forward. Some lead away. None of them need to be taken…

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THE MAP…

4 months ago · 27 likes · 132 comments · Maryellen Brady 💗📚

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Millcreek Village Library Life: Questions Arise

Jenifer Jorgenson — Thu, 19 Mar 2026 17:41:34 GMT

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When I opened up the Library Wednesday morning, I noticed people wandering around hanging fancy paper lanterns. I frowned at the excited expressions on everyone’s faces. I’d seen the announcement about the Lantern Festival scheduled for next week, and I was already kinda dreading it.

I’m an introvert by nature — I mean, I live in my books, and that’s usually enough for me. A few interactions with library patrons were about all the social interaction I needed. But the general consensus from everyone who’d visited the library seemed to be the same… Attendance was not optional.

I decided a quick visit to the Brick was in order. I needed a latte and a chocolate croissant to deal with the prospect of forced merriment and mingling, and Gus needed a walk. After grabbing my bag from the always lovely Abhishek Banerjee — still sporting his oversized apron and negotiating with his espresso machine — my faithful pup and I headed back to the Library to enjoy my haul.

More people were out and about with lanterns and smiles. I waited impatiently when Gus stopped to take care of some ‘business.’ I prepared my handy poo-bag, only to watch a large black dog approach, sniff Gus’s leavings and move on to the traditional doggy greeting.

My eyebrow rose in amusement as the two pups sniffed one another’s backsides with disturbing enthusiasm when a pleasant feminine voice met my ear.

“I’m certainly glad we don’t have to greet one another in the same fashion,” said an elegant woman with a leash in her hand.

I grinned and nodded. “Indeed. It’s always baffled me how someone with even more ability to take in scents would choose that as their mode of welcome, but there it is.”

She smiled, and we watched our dogs thoroughly inspect one another’s hindquarters for several minutes, then begin to romp about the small grassy area. Already fast friends, they played, with the larger dog occasionally bowling Gus right over, but my dachshund-schnauser mix never seemed to mind. He’d just hop back up and run at the larger dog, only to bounce off and try again.

“He’s quite determined,” the woman offered.

“Stubborn is more accurate,” I said. “And his ego writes checks his body can’t cash. Clearly.”

I turned and offered a hand in greeting. “I’m Jenifer, town librarian. That’s Gus.” I gestured vaguely toward the gallivanting dogs.

“Vivienne Vaughn,” the woman answered, offering a firm grip as we shook hands. “And you’ve met Ferrell.”

We chatted for several moments about being new in town and how we were finding Millcreek Village — the usual polite nothings — before it occurred to me to ask if she’d heard anything about the Lantern Festival.

“Only the same invitation I imagine everyone else has gotten,” she answered. With a hand waved toward the lanterns hanging from trees and lampposts around us, she continued, “Though clearly it’s quite a celebrated event.”

I nodded slowly. “Apparently. It seems like everyone is basically just expected to attend.”

My lack of enthusiasm must’ve been obvious, because Vivienne tilted her head and studied me thoughtfully for a moment before asking, “You don’t want to attend? Why not?”

I shrugged. “I’m a bit of an introvert. I live quite happily in a library and really only leave to walk my dog and occasionally grab a latte or a snack when I don’t feel like cooking.”

“Perhaps just put in a brief appearance?” she offered.

“Sure,” I answered doubtfully. But she was right. “That’s a good plan. I hope you’ll stop by the library. Gus seems to have taken quite a shine to Ferrell.”

“Are dogs allowed in the library?” she asked.

“They’d better be. Gus is my best book buddy,” I grinned. “He always spots it right away when something is misshelved.”

Vivienne smiled vaguely but warmly, called Ferrell over and said her goodbyes. As I watched her go, I considered that everyone I’d met in Millcreek Village was… pleasant. And sometimes more. Maybe going out and spending time with these people wouldn’t be so bad after all.

I took a sip of my still-hot latte, called Gus over, and headed back to the library. Upon arrival, I found a stack of brochures advertising the Lantern Festival in the mailbox with a note asking me to display them in the library. A crate of lanterns was sitting on the porch with a second note asking me to hang them around the library in honor of the Lantern Festival.

I sighed. Once inside, I ate my croissant — delicious — drank my latte, then settled in for some actual work. I began hanging the paper lanterns at strategic points around the library. Thankfully, the versions I’d been given ran on batteries, so no open flames were positioned near the books.

I spread the brochures I’d found in the mailbox across the circulation desk. They were beautifully printed bits of fluff advertising the Lantern Festival as an annual tradition since Millcreek Village was miniaturized. But they neglected to explain what it actually was or why it happened.

People seemed a little too excited about this Lantern Festival. That made me realize I had no idea what the Lantern Festival actually was.

“I should probably know this,” I muttered to myself. A patron might ask. So I did what I always do when I have questions — research. There was a small corner of the stacks dedicated to local history, town archives, and historical documents.

I dug into the small selection. I quickly found multiple mentions of the festival, mostly in archived copies of the town’s newsletter; it had been held annually for 15 years. Nothing terribly exciting there. But what wasn’t clear was whether Millcreek Village had been founded 15 years earlier or if it had been miniaturized 15 years earlier.

There were clear mentions of events in Millcreek’s past that were older than 15 years. But there were also copies of the town charter that said it was founded only 15 years earlier. Biting my lip thoughtfully, I dug deeper.

But in the end, though I found plenty of references to the Lantern Festival, none of them actually explained what it was or why it was held. And it seemed that Millcreek Village was both quite old, with founding documents from 1873, and quite new, also with founding documents from 15 years ago.

Maybe they’d refounded it when the town was miniaturized?

I spent several hours combing through the archives and the town history, but the discrepancy was never explained. Eventually, I gave up and decided to ask around at the Festival to see if anyone else knew more about it.

I went to grab my half-read novel — a well-worn personal copy of Nemesis by Jeremy Robinson — from where I’d left it on the circulation desk, but it wasn’t there. I was sure I’d brought it downstairs when I started my day. I checked my apartment on the third floor, but the book was nowhere to be found. Had I taken it to the Brick and left it?

Deciding that I must’ve, I made a note to go by the next day and ask Abhishek if he’d seen it. Then I pulled a copy of Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal from the shelves and curled up in an easy chair in the reading area.

As I lowered my nose into the book, I smiled at the colorful lanterns strung about the room. They were actually quite pretty and gave the library a festive air. With that thought, I decided I’d check out the Festival after all.

📰You may also want to check out ’s post about a related conversation.

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Welcome Home

THE MAP…

4 months ago · 27 likes · 132 comments · Maryellen Brady 💗📚

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Library Life: Millcreek Village Edition

Jenifer Jorgenson — Thu, 12 Mar 2026 16:31:16 GMT

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Finding a daily routine was surprisingly easy, despite the newness of my surroundings. I slept until about 8:30am — a blessing compared to the old corporate days when I was up by 7 — then started my day with breakfast and a book. I opened the library by 10am six days a week, or at least that was the plan…

After just a couple of days, I realized I could probably leave it open all the time, since crime didn’t seem to be a problem in Millcreek Village. But the routine was comfortable, so I stuck with it.

The only odd note was that I kept finding the occasional book misshelved. I assumed it must’ve been library patrons who were careless about putting their books away, but I hadn’t seen that many visitors, so it was… strange.

Still, it was easy enough to fix. I wandered around the village occasionally, but mostly I stayed at the library and read. There’s a lovely reading area on the first floor near the circulation desk, and I’d often park myself there with a book and just lose myself for hours at a time in magical worlds or gritty mysteries or drifting among the stars — whatever caught my fancy.

One of my earliest visitors was Abhishek Banerjee, who showed up one day with a knock on the door. A little odd, given it was a public library, but he was clearly extremely polite and aware I also lived in the building. Nice man. Extremely courteous.

He had silver at his temples and would’ve looked quite distinguished if not for the overlarge apron that seemed to hang off his frame. The rich, dark aroma of coffee seemed to hover around him like a ghost, and I had to fight the urge to sniff at him the same way Gus did when he first arrived.

We exchanged pleasantries, and then he asked about local folklore from before Millcreek Village was miniaturized. I’d skimmed a couple of the local history and folklore books when I arrived, and I’d found them interesting, if a little unusual. The local legends seem to suggest that Millcreek had a strange sense of awareness. I chalked it up to superstition and moved on.

But Abhishek’s apparent belief made me reconsider. He seemed like a pragmatic man, his every move and word seeming deliberate and thoughtful. If a man like him believed, maybe there was something to it?

After he left, I walked back through the stacks and found another Agatha Christie novel in the science fiction section. I hadn’t seen anyone in the science fiction section, but clearly I must’ve missed them.

Later in the day, I received my strangest visitors yet — two dragons. Yes, dragons. Real live dragons. I freaking love Millcreek Village…

The two arrived in a cloud of roasted beef aroma that made my mouth water. They were surprisingly polite, and I had to swallow the urge to make a joke about whether or not I would taste good with ketchup. What if they didn’t think I was joking?

I think if I were that large, I wouldn’t be nearly as polite. Or delightfully charming.

One of them — Mello — asked for books on local history. I’d already given the folklore book to Abhishek, but I shared one of the two Millcreek Village histories. The other — Deleiri — asked for light, comedic fiction, so I offered a Roald Dahl short story anthology and several Christopher Moore options. Then, just for fun, I suggested Terry Pratchett’s Dragons at Crumbling Castle and Other Tales.

I wasn’t sure if they appreciated the joke, but what the hell.

Once the dragons — large in both body and presence — had gone, I took Gus for a quick walk around the building, brewed some orange herbal tea, and grabbed a Christopher Moore book for myself. Then I settled into one of the cozy reading chairs and lost myself again.

Best job ever…

👉 Wanna know what happens next? Check out the next story: Millcreek Village Library Life: Questions Arise

👉 Or read all my Millcreek Village stories.

This post was written for week two of World Building Wednesday, hosted by . Learn more about joining the community or join it at:

Magical Musings with MeBrady

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THE MAP…

4 months ago · 27 likes · 132 comments · Maryellen Brady 💗📚

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Millcreek Village Library Life: Coming Home for the First Time

Jenifer Jorgenson — Wed, 04 Mar 2026 22:08:17 GMT

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Millcreek Village was a new beginning — at least, that’s what I told myself. The whole miniaturization thing scared me shitless, but I was willing to move past that for a chance to live a childhood dream.

While most kids wanted to be rock stars or firemen or actors, I wanted to be a librarian. And now I was. The cost of living in Millcreek was so low that I could easily manage on a small salary and my savings, especially since room and board was included.

I went through the process, and it was actually pretty easy. I went in, lay down on a table, and woke up tiny. No dramatic countdown or sci-fi humming machine. Just a nap and a very strange new perspective on the world.

I brought my dog Gus along. As a dachshund-schnauser mix, he was pretty small to begin with. Being miniaturized didn’t seem to impact the size of his ego or his appetite at all.

When I woke, I was lying on a bed in my new home — a lovely little apartment on the top floor of the library building. It had three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living area, and two bathrooms. As I wandered through the rooms, I began figuring out where each of my things would go when they arrived.

The apartment looked freshly prepared for me — mostly. Oddly, there was a rinsed-out mug sitting in the kitchen sink. But I assumed it had been left from before the building was miniaturized or possibly by whoever had set up the apartment for me. I washed it and put it away, then didn’t think about it again.

Once that was done, I headed downstairs to explore my new workplace. As I passed down long aisles stacked with books, I felt the smile forming on my face. Fantasy. Science fiction. Mystery. Horror. Thrillers. Every genre and every kind of information. This was where I belonged. Now Millcreek Village felt like home.

I spent the afternoon happily wandering through the stacks, getting a feel for the layout and the catalog system. That’s when I noticed something odd — one of the mystery novels had been shelved in the science fiction section.

That kind of mistake usually happens when someone returns a book in a hurry. Except the library hadn’t been open yet. I frowned as I grabbed the book — a classic Agatha Christie novel — and put it where it belonged.

Then I turned on the computer at the checkout desk, logged in with the codes I’d been given, and went to flip the sign on the front door.

The Millcreek Village Library was officially open for business…

Gus inspects the stacks at the Millcreek Village Library, where every book is in

👉 Wanna know what happens next? Check out the next story: Library Life: Millcreek Village Edition

👉 Or read all my Millcreek Village stories.

This post was written for week one of World Building Wednesday, hosted by . Learn more about joining the community or join it at:

Magical Musings with MeBrady

Welcome Home

THE MAP…

4 months ago · 27 likes · 132 comments · Maryellen Brady 💗📚

‼️ If you liked this story, you may want to check out some of my other fiction.

If you enjoyed this, share it with someone who’s interested in fun collaborative world-building stories.