Lonnie Busch's Blog - Posts Tagged "print-on-demand"

Book club had dwindled over the past few years; Joan overdosed; Carla ate her husband’s service revolver when hubby Don sold her personal library for 3.2 million and fled to Belize with a coffee shop waitress; Marianne was beaten to death when thugs broke in and carted her entire book collection away in a rented van; Shawna slit her wrists in the tub reading her signed copy of “Damage.” The other four women met similar fates, losing interest in life by degrees. Justine, Margo, Blossom, and Dee were the only ones left. This month’s book: “Lake House Strangers.”

They all said they loved the new novel by author, Argos Intrigue. Of course, they would.

“I knew when they got to the secluded lake house Deke would do something horrible to that airhead Isabel. Chaining her in the bedroom like that! Abusing her in that way… Jeez!” Margo said, smirking, her eyes glistening with lust.

“No, Deke was a perfect gentleman. I loved how they worked together fixing up that old shack together, Deke giving the lake house to Isabel’s aging mother,” Blossom said, cooing with her palm over her heart. “Then getting married on the boat dock.”

“Oh, brother!” Dee said. “Deke was no good from the start, all that bullshit about the Peace Corp. I knew he was an evil bastard, trying to enslave Isabel at the lake house, but Isabel surprised me, turning into that conniving monster, inviting all her cannibal friends to feast on Deke!”

“Wow, I loved Deke!” Justine said, despising the insipid novel. But she loved her friends, and book club, at least the memory of it. “I hated how Isabel took advantage of him at the lake house, auctioning off his organs and eyes online to the highest bidder! Her elaborate life support system was a shocker! I had no idea a human could be kept alive after having that many organs harvested!”

The women talked for another few hours before the evening broke up. Alone, Justine dropped “Lake House Strangers” in the trash compacter and made herself a cup of tea. Flipping on the basement light, she slowly descended the long flight of wooden steps. At the bottom, she set her tea down and went to her husband’s enormous gun safe, the size of a double-wide refrigerator and twice as deep. Twisting the numbers into the mechanism until it clicked she pulled the huge door open, the sight always bringing her infinite joy, the rare colorful book spines shining back, all of them written by human authors before AI devoured the entire publishing industry; eliminating brick and mortar bookstores, churning out derivative drivel— each new title individually created and printed on demand for the intended buyer based on their likes and dislikes, social media posts and reviews they’d written.

She pulled a novel from the safe and sat down near the furnace, sipping her tea. This book she could almost recite by heart, having read it so many times, but it didn’t matter. Kevin, her husband, had insisted they could get five mil for her amazing book collection, but she wasn’t about to sell. Glancing toward the corner, at the lighter patch of concrete that had hardened months ago, she wondered if the color would ever match the rest of the floor. She still missed Kevin, but the longing had faded. She opened her novel to the bookmark, settled back into her chair and let the words wash over her like warm summer sunshine.