The Library of Unfinished Novella is a small but sturdy little building between Frank street and Buchan lane. It stands in the round and resembles, rather fittingly, a small mausoleum or urban folly. It is a library, but unfortunately only for reference. The front doors have frosted glazing halfway up with a pinstripe border of clear glazing an inch from the edge just wide enough to squint through. The doors have a reassuring weight but pivot smoothly on large brass 2-way hinges. The bookshelves inside are an eclectic ragtag of different furniture styles and ages and heights. Buttressed up against each other, they appear, like Amsterdam tenements to all be holding each other tentatively in place.
The library attracts a group of people who are tired with the beginning, middle and end of all things. Inside, beyond the fading metronome of the swing doors, is a group of books, stories and ideas which have for one reason or another suddenly stopped. Some are only a few pages and a few are endless epics. Cut short by their authors through death or writers block, growing resentment or bankruptcy, these raw abandoned works appeal because there are no conclusions. No characters acheive closure. There is no payoff or denouement. They just stop. Low, quiet, soft, cliffhangers, they arrive here not to die but to eternally pause. Frozen in mid air. Some in mid sentence.