My little library

Hey dudes and dudettes and everyone else. I volunteered as a library assistant for over four years in my hometown and I loved every second of it. I knew when I started that I wanted to do something like that for the rest of my life. I thought many times about what my library would look like and I came up with a little piece of writing to bring it to life for you and me. I really hope you enjoy it.

The clouds outside are in a battle with the sun. Rain pours down like a beat made by the oars of the Osberg. The warm cream colored walls lined with walnut stained wood trim are warm and inviting. Fairy lights and cozy lamps line corners and rest above the bookshelves. Luscious green plants teem from windowsills, overflowing with life. Tall bookshelves line the walls, their color matching the trim of the interior of the shop. Cozy mismatched armchairs and loveseats covered with throws and pillows. Tables accompany them. Upon one, a marble chessboard lies, an interrupted match on the arena. Piles of novels lie on every table, resting in every nook and cranny. Peacoat-covered bodies accompanied by umbrellas and their favorite worn platform shoes as to not get their feet wet are all over the bookshop that doubled as a library. Most of them spend their lunch time here, losing themselves in the magical worlds inside each book. We play classical piano over the speakers softly, to comfort the customers. Maps litter the walls, each one portraying a world from the books in this shop. From The lonely mountain, Erebor, to the Shire, we have maps of everything here. There are little café tables scattered for those who like to eat or catch up on some work on their laptops. There is a little coffee bar for those of us writers who need the liquid nectar. Occasionally, a few children and their parents will come in, asking for hot cocoa. The little tykes usually skip to one of the old, large beanbag chairs and grab Curious George, begging their favorite staff member to read with them. Teenagers, plagued by depression and isolation, practically live here, having found a nice quiet place to drown out the dullness of their existence. They delve into Anne Rice, Poe, Steven King, of Ellen Schrieber for hours at a time, only leaving their fortresses of solitude for refills of their coffee. My little bookshop is home to people who love it just as much as I do.

Author: Katherine Scroggins

“Most writers regard the truth as their most valuable possession, and therefore are most economical in its use.” — Mark Twain View all posts by Katherine Scroggins