Rock, Paper, Scissors
Susan had always had a book with her, kept neatly under her armpit or securely tucked away in a bag — if one was required for whatever reason. But she didn’t like bags or baggage, and she favored dresses with pockets.
“Just as well,” was her mother’s saying whenever she saw Susan pick up a book from the shelf. Susan chose them based on their covers: red for summer, grey for winter, green for spring, and brown for autumn. She would read blue-covered books whenever she fancied.
She chose a yellow-covered book that day, even though it was the middle of spring. “What on Earth possessed her to do that?” some would ask. “Doesn’t she know it’s bad luck to read a yellow-covered book on a Tuesday?” But she didn’t care what others said. She was in her world.
The book that she chose that day was unusual for her, as it had tiny signs neatly arranged, printed on its pages. Usually, she would go for the books with pictures, many of them gardening books, and try and find everyday plants in them. But not that day. She remembered her parents reading the newspaper — between slurps of coffee and mouthfuls of eggy bread and marmalade — those tiny symbols transformed into speech.
“Information is the key to life,” her father would repeat as he skimmed the newspaper every morning in search of valuable…
