59 Glass Bridges

59 Glass Bridges

by Steven Peters

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781926455792
Publisher: NeWest Publishers, Limited
Publication date: 04/01/2017
Series: Nunatak Fisr Fiction Series , #46
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
File size: 897 KB

About the Author

Steven Peters was born in Winnipeg and currently works as a copywriter in Calgary. He earned his Master's Degree in English at the University of Calgary, where he annoyed his creative writing instructors by sneaking fantasy into perfectly serious Canadian Literature. He has an abiding love for coffee, sweater vests, and Sir Patrick Stewart. 59 Glass Bridges is his first novel.

Read an Excerpt


Of course, there is no monster in this maze. Still, I can't help but compare myself to Theseus as I unravel a bright red mitten and trail the lengthening string behind me.

The comparison is imperfect. Theseus' ball of yarn anchored him to the labyrinth's doorpost--a surefire exit strategy. My string dangles. Theseus delved into his labyrinth willingly, hunting the monster that haunted its halls. I ... well, I'm not sure how I got here.

No Minotaur, though. That's a plus.

I pretend I'm a mythical hero hunting for an exit, because it's better than the reality: I was probably kidnapped, then dropped off in an abandoned building when they realized my net worth was in the red. Nobody's forking up a ransom for li'l old me.

I have no memory of the past ... day? Maybe longer. I'm in an abandoned office building, or something like it. And who¬ever put me here took my clothes, and dressed me in the most ridicul--hmm.

There's a fork in the path.

I look back the way I've come--down a long, empty hall¬way. Not "empty" as in "devoid of people," but really empty. There are no seats set against the wall with cracking pleather cushions; no vending machines pimping sugary beverages; no polyethylene plants in plastic IKEA pots. And, more conspic¬uously, no doorways branch off, no dents deface the drywall, and no scuff marks mar the linoleum tile. I've seen nothing to distract me from this purgatorial plane of white.

But here, two paths diverge.

I look left. More hallway. I look right. Ditto. Each path is identical, as far as I can tell, and each promises an undifferenti¬ated adventure in blandness.

I arbitrarily choose the right-hand passage and trail my mitten's innards around the corner. I revel in the vein of cherry red in a world of inoffensive whites.

I'm trying to make the best of my shitty situation. My cell phone is missing--so no calling for help--as is my wallet. Who knows what charges I've already racked up. Worse, in lieu of my normally carefully crafted façade--skinny fit denim, chambray in various fall hues, and a haircut that suggests I'm trying, but not too hard--I woke up wearing the most absurd frippery I've ever seen.

I'm decked out in khaki pants with too many pockets, a baby blue windbreaker, and a white tee stained with ... coffee? I hope it's coffee.

And my shoes. Ugh. Bulky Reeboks with condom-thin soles from the turn of the century, or whenever school-bus yellow was in vogue. They squeak against the linoleum as I turn down a random corridor in another intersecting hallway.

My other accoutrements include a striped neck scarf that would make Doctor Who proud, a cheap chrome watch, and the crème de la crème--a weathered brown Stetson. It's the hat that really embarrasses me. I'm not a cowboy. Well, maybe once ... for Halloween ... as a child.

I don't take the hat off.

And, of course, I have a red mitten. Had a red mitten. I unravelled it because what's the point of just one mitten?

The watch though--that's a slap in the face. Someone took my five-hundred-dollar cell phone and slipped this piece of crap on my wrist instead. And it's broken--sans an hour hand or any indicator of the date. Minutes and seconds march proudly by, but I have no clue how long I've been stuck in this building.

This goddamn building. A maze, I'm sure of it. Or maybe it's just an office building, abandoned for its lack of actual offices--and its M.C. Escher floor plan.

Here's another branching path, this one with three options. Or four--I could turn back. But no, I eeny meeny miny mo my way down the left-hand fork.

Should I be marking my path with something more permanent than a loose thread? I doubt this will help me retrace my steps very far. My pockets are mostly empty though, save for ... what's this?

I pull out a small book bound in gaudy orange leather. A Bible? Sort of--it's a Gideon New Testament replete with the Psalms and Proverbs, like the one I owned as a child. The cover is rippled with bends and the leather's stubble is worn smooth. It's been well loved by someone--probably the bastard who stole my clothes and dressed me from the bottom of the Salvation Army bin.

Inside, two pages are bookmarked with nickels and other pages are dog-eared. Sooty fingerprints stain many pages and I see spots that look like tear stains. Verses throughout are underlined and some of the margins are tattooed with red ink.

Unfortunately, the previous owner of this New Testament wrote their verse in Italian. These notes could be all important--instructions on how to escape, perhaps? The secret to eternal life? Or they could be nothing at all--Bible study notes? A recipe for mom's meatloaf?

If only I could read Italian.

Still, while I'm not a religious man, the Bible gives me hope. At least it's proof that someone other than me exists. Someone else stuck in this maze--or the deranged architect who put me here. Probably someone wearing my chambray.

I'd love to pay that bastard back in kind. Or ... maybe not. I might be lonely. I might be happy just to see another human being.

How long have I been wandering now? How many times has that minute hand tripped sixty? I haven't seen anyone in a while. I can't be more exact than that.

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59 Glass Bridges 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
crystallyn More than 1 year ago
Brilliantly wrought, 59 Glass Bridges takes the reader on a strange, inexplicable journey through office buildings, across skybridges, tunnels of razor-thorned talking vines, armed with a cowboy hat, a Bible with strange Italian marginalia and guided by a somewhat real ghost named Willow. Woven through this tale is the tender and complicated memories of the narrator growing up with his grandmother. It's not a big book, but everything inside this slim volume feels big, feels extraordinary and that's because it is.