I take another small sip of coffee from the mug I have cupped in my hands, still continuing to read the thin lines of the open book that lies in front of me. The bitter, and dark liquid is almost perfect.
Still warm, but cooled. It’s soothing to the mouth.
The delicate pages of the book are yellowed and brittle, and the edges are rigged and torn from many years of age. Most of the small black letters printed across the pages have faded so much they are nearly invisible.
The click of the white ceramic mug back on the marble kitchen table is one of the few sounds that is keeping complete silence away. I hear my own breathe, and the low crackles and pops of the logs in the brick fireplace. It does fairly well in keeping the cottage warm and cozy during the winter days.
All is quiet and chilly, as I sit there with that mug of coffee, and that old brown book.
I pull the sleeves of my soft gray sweater over my wrists, and hold them cozily there with my fingers. I tuck my hands under my chin as I begin to read aloud to myself. My voice raspy from the frosty air of the morning, I read, “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name…” I paused. “… you are mine.”
The beautiful words seemed to linger in the air as a soft and sweet aroma, that I could breathe over and over again. The words bring a sensation of comfort, that hangs as a blanket around my shoulders.
I brush my cold fingers over the words, trying to grip onto every letter as if I could pick them up, and lock them in my heart forever.
I continue reading aloud, in that still kitchen. Just my voice breaking the silence of the house, which normally brings a feeling of loneliness.
I’m once again reminded I’m not the only one in this rusty cottage, as an orange ball of fuzz walks underneath the table. Samuel’s faded orange fur, with streaks of white brushes against my legs, and his whiskers tickle my feet. I can’t help but giggle.
He looks up at me for just a second, and I gaze into his beautiful green, and brown speckled eyes. His eyes are like a pond in the summer, with the lilies floating atop the muddy water.
I smile softly at him, and reach down to pick him up. I cradle him in my arms and snuggle him close, with my nose in his fur. He purrs, and nuzzles his face in my sweater.
I close my eyes just for a second, and sit there.
I sit there with a mug of coffee, an orange cat, and that old brown book.
I open my eyes, and see him looking at me again. I have a feeling of happiness and warmth inside. I gently kiss him on the nose, with him still cradled in my arms.
I sit him on my right shoulder, and close the book still in front of me. I carefully pick it up not letting the few torn pages slip out, and walk over to the mysterious door across the room. The wooden door has scratches all over, and the brass knob has been worn over the years.
I sit the book down on the cabinet next to the door, that holds all of the glass bowls and plates, and variety of coffee mugs I managed to collect over a period of years.
I slide the metal key off the top of the cabinet and wiggle it into the brass lock until I hear the click of the latch.
It is a quite suspicious looking door, so it’s probably hard not to let your imagination run wild when there’s curiosity for what’s down there.
The door is always locked. Nobody but the cat and I have ever been down in that basement before, at least not since books were no longer wanted years ago, and I am unsure if they still exist on the face of the earth. Most books have been thrown away, just tossed into the trash. A lot of valuable things of the past have been thrown away.
Nobody wanted books, or even art anymore. Some people today blame you of being a liar or a fake for believing things written inside the pages of the beautiful things called books, or loving art. If the wrong person finds these things, they’ll destroy all you have. That’s why I won’t let anyone inside my house, let alone the basement.
I fear that they may burn everything I hold precious to me.
The lock clicks and turns, and I forcefully push open the door. I am immediately sense the sweet smell of paper. I feel for the switch along the wall with my free hand, and flip it. Everything came to life with one switch.
My pretty lights strung across the ceiling seem to burst with yellow joy as they come on. All the different colors I have painted on the walls, and beautiful drawings I have created are shown. I have my sack chair sitting towards the right in the middle of the room, and my favorite white wool rug on the floor.
A short coffee table sits in the center of the room, with a forgotten coffee mug from the previous night, and a still open book.
I have more smaller lights that twinkle, strung across the many shelves in the room. You wouldn’t expect it to be as big as it is inside of such a tiny home, but this room is my home.
All the shelves lined along the walls, and smaller shelves in the center of the room, all lined with pages filled with memories of the past.
A table in the left corner is stacked with books, that have yet to be alphabetized along the shelves.
I open the drawer to an identical cabinet as the one upstairs, and lay the old brown book inside.
I walk in the spaces between the shelves, filled with beautiful things. Some trinkets and small decorations would sit here and there among the books.
I smile as I pick up a small glass frog. It sits upright on its back legs, and it grasps a yellow flower in its small arms. Its eyes are glossed and shimmering, and its cheeks are a rosy red. Its smile has a look of shyness and peace. I look at it once more and put it back down on the shelf, and straighten it to where it first sat.
I walk into the middle of the room, the wooden floor creaking with every step.
The whole room smells like pure happiness. The aroma of aged paper mixes with the lingering smell of the pumpkin candle I lit last night.
I stand there, looking around the room.
I stand there with an orange cat on my shoulder, in a room bursting with books, light, and art, and creative things.
It just feels good.
Thanks for checking out my random writing spurt! I have just recently been feeling really creative with writing, and I couldn’t say my writings are the best ever, but I think I did pretty well with it haha!
Incase you were wondering, this short story line was supposed to be based off of what life would be like in a world full of hatred for books, or where books almost didn’t exist anywhere. Basically in a world where you have to hide art, and writings, and creativity.
This was a bit longer than I expected, but hopefully my writings intrigued you so maybe you possibly actually read it all the way through haha! (I feel like some of you authors out there may be hard core cringing right about now though. Are you?😂 )
I will most likely continue experimenting with my writing, and I would love to here if you have any suggestions or tips on becoming a better author!
Also this may or may not have been a schoolwork assignment for an essay I was writing that was only supposed to be 250-500 words and I may or may not have written almost 2,000 hehe…. so I figured hey why not make it into a post?
I’ll see ya super soon guys, it was really great getting to drop in for a bit! xD Have an amazing day loves, and keep smiling! ; )