This is not my house. My small, cozy apartment, or what is left of it, is three-thousand miles away. My home is sinking slowly into ground as the Florida bog swallows it, and the rest of the building, whole. The initial plunge happened very suddenly. All at once the building began collapsing around its tenants, taking with it entire rooms, entire floors, entire lives.
This house is nothing like mine. This house is guarded by a white picket fence and settled securely in a line of white picket homes. Even the decor inside is nothing like what you would find along the backwater canals of Florida. The baroque curls on the stairwell handrail remind me constantly that I do not fit in. Even the Peonies that garnish every house down the street are better dressed than me, and, if I were to ever forget it, the portrait of our austere great-uncle looks down at me with disapproval every time I pass through the front room. This is not my house, but, having nowhere else to go, this old family inheritance is now my home. At least, until my brother returns from England and throws me out.
Only the crooked bookshelf in the back room keeps me company with its conspicuous appearance. And, at the same time as it comforts me, I think it scares me.
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My Bookshelf Is Crooked
General FictionI knew the shadows were trying to swallow me. I didn't know that was the least strange thing that was going to happen. My Bookshelf is Crooked: A serial fiction about an odd girl in an even odder world.
