Describing a Scene

The sitting room appeared to be furnished in an orderly fashion, the slightly threadbare green rug lying on the floor, rectangular and regular. The plush settee sat at right angles to the varnished panels of the wooden walls, the coffee table’s glass top reflecting the chandelier’s dim light, a desk with quill and ink layed out, ready to mark the parchment which was safely stored in the drawers, the drawers with ornate handles, brass lions which threatened to chew off the fingers of anyone it did not recognise.

One wall, opposite the door, was entirely comprised of bookshelves, with every volume imaginable. Factual books, explaining the origins of man, the biological makeup of plants, the precise details of historical events. Fictional novels too, detectives overcoming cunning criminals, brave knights battling fearsome dragons, race horses winning at the grand national against all odds.

Every yellowing page decorated with the printed black words, the words which danced off the page, creating universes of their own. Every book was different, a different age, colour, theme, every book was unique to itself.

Although mass produced, each coffee stain and fingerprint told its own story, every book with two stories to tell, the one written with inked words from the author, and the one which its owners crafted through everyday life.

Each book carried with it a different part of the room, buried within their pages were silken fibres from the satin cushions, crumbs from the biscuit tin on the coffee table, a paper bookmark torn from the magazines lying on the desk, a written note to add an ingredient here, or to add a step to the equation there.

The room itself showed signs of its inhabitants behind the orderly facade, one too many glances round the room revealed its flaws. The glass on the tabletop was slightly scratched, the chandelier missing a few of the crystal beads, the floor scuffed beneath the desk chair, the worn varnish on the desk, the rug fraying at the edges.

It was a tired room, for tired people. A room for people who already lived, and wished only to exist in brown monotonous mahogany and oil paintings. A tired creaky door, for tired creaky joints. A tired rough rug, for tired rough feet. A room that was resting, waiting, perhaps.”