30 Day Writing Challenge

Day 5: A Story Revolving Around an Object in My Room

A book collects dust on a smooth pine shelf. The library is wistful, remembering better days when light streamed in from clean windows, their curtains now pulled, and children clamoured on chairs and couches or cross-legged on the floor, listening with starry-eyed wonder at the world opened up to them through a story being read aloud.

Years had passed, the children grew up, and now had their own. Forgotten were the memories of cool days spent by a crackling fire, lost in the adventures of Huck and Tom, Nancy Drew, Swiss Family Robinson, Captain Hook and Peter Pan.

The books remembered fondly the holidays the children spent visiting the grand old house, each shelf humming with excitement. The books and the children were younger then, crisp and new, excited to be opened and read. The adventure novels readied themselves for rough boy’s hands and shouts of glee as they turned the pages of swashbuckling action. The romance section prepared their pages to be tear stained and to be kept up all night relaying the endings, some happy, some sad.

The volumes of poetry and plays shook themselves to be recited and read aloud to the whole family, while the non-fiction and natural history prepared to be read by only ‘serious’ readers. 

Over time though, less and less children entered the library and the books grew dusty from disuse. The non-fiction section stoically endured the years while the novels moaned and groaned with dramatics that rivalled the characters in their stories.

Once in a while, a novel would be picked up and read, much to its delight. However, more often than not, adventure and action were browsed through and discarded for comic books and magazines full of pictures of cars and women. The boys cleverly hid the magazines behind large editions of encyclopedias, much to the horror of the prim and proper non-fiction section. Sometimes, insult to injury would be added by teenage girls who shamelessly brought in their pop culture paperbacks full of horrid writing and unimaginative characters. But these days were few and far between and soon the visits by the people of the house stopped.

One rainy day the house came alive, bustling with activity, cars arriving carrying people wearing black, carrying bright flowers and large black umbrellas up the drive to the house. The books could hear people talking solemnly and teacups clinking against saucers in the parlour next door. They yearned for someone to come in to the library but there was none.

A few weeks passed and the books realized the house was empty of human life. No familiar creaks from a walker sounded through the ceiling, and the familiar smell of cookies and tea wafted from the kitchen no more. The library felt very cold and alone.

Winter came and went silently. The shelves of tomes shook with cold, aching to be held by hands again. Dust collected on the bookcases quietly, falling softly like the snow outside. The only sound came from the occasional sneeze of a bookend. The books slowly gave up hope of ever being opened again. Some turned yellow and allowed mildew to find a place in their hearts, ruining their priceless ink and soiling the pages. Others tried to commit suicide by shuffling towards the edge of the shelf and falling off, splaying their bindings and exploding pages all over the floor. Most just waited, hopeful that one day they would be read again.

The spring came and with it people populated the house again. The library heard the patter of feet and voices calling. Furniture was being moved and the shrill sound of the vacuum gave hope.

After years of anticipation, the knob on the door turned and in stepped a fair haired little girl wearing a fairy costume. She skipped into the room with eyes large as saucers, full of wonder at the tall bookcases. She ran her finger along the second shelf from the bottom and sneezed when dust caught her nose. She giggled and continued exploring the large room. She found the remains of a novel scattered on the floor and made a concerned noise. Picking up the broken binding, she looked for its pages and tried to stuff them back between the covers. When she was satisfied she had done a good job, she placed the book on an overstuffed chair where it immediately fell to the ground again. Frustrated, she kicked the book under the chair and clamoured on top of the couch and snuggled her teddy bear. The books watched this, excited to see the first child in years.