Sunday, 3 August 2014


In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
He laid the book on the shelf instead of putting it back where he’d found it. It might be a giveaway; he should not be here, let alone be looking for ancient papers hidden inside old tomes.
He was putting aside the ones that seemed to have thicker pastedowns inside the front or back covers. Promising endpapers as it were. In the past he had found one or two pages hidden in this manner. He was also looking down the back hinges of a few. A small, folded piece could be slipped down behind the headbands.
A glance toward the windows showed no light in the sky. Did he have time to finish his search? He had to. He would not get another night.
A noise in the hallway; as if the front door was closed very carefully. He doused the light but probably too slowly. Backing away into a dark corner, he held his breath.
The steps stopped at the library doorway.
Please go away, he prayed silently but it didn’t work. The door pushed open, and a girl who walked with a slight stagger lurched in and threw herself down on the settee under the window. She didn’t even see him.
He stood there and waited.
She made a heartfelt sigh and then she fell asleep.
He should have picked up the books he had put aside and left the room, but he didn’t.
Creeping over, her looked down at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips very red and her hair lay in a tousled mess around her face. He had a sudden urge to brush it away from her face.
Her eyes fluttered open. He was too slow to move and she just looked at him. “Oh,” she muttered, “You’re real.”
He had no idea what that meant. Flustered and with no time to run, he whispered to her, “Go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” she agreed happily.
When her eyes closed, he succumbed to his impulse and brushed the hair from her forehead. She smiled at his touch.
He didn’t take the books. He felt guilty.
He asked around and he found out that the niece of the old man who owned the estate was visiting for the summer. That must be the girl who had disturbed him.
But he wanted those books. And he was frightened that the girl would recognise him. He kicked himself for being so sentimental as to leave them behind.
And he wondered what her comment about him being real meant.
He changed his hair parting and allowed his beard to grow a little before he was brave enough to approach her at a regional function. It was a children’s performance or some such. He took little notice. Once he had talked to her for most of the night; she seemed unwilling to desert him, as well.
Now he wanted both; the girl and the books.

© AM Gray 2014 

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