The Baroness of Bookville: Short Story
Along the walls of her aging home, crowded with small reminders of a life long lived, the Baroness perused her expansive collection of books. In every corner, on every wall, bookshelves rose proudly from the plush red rugs to the arched blue ceilings. The shelves were separated by grandiose windows where sunlight and moonlight competed for equal time, when the heavy draperies were not pulled tight together. Under the mighty weight of endless knowledge, the bookshelves strained to contain the countless printed pages of Bookville's most envied library.
The Baroness walked among her books, touching the tomes gently with an extended arm and long, delicate fingers. She enjoyed feeling the smooth leather bound books and the soft paperbacks and the hardbacks, too. At the end of one of her booked walls, the Baroness climbed the rolling ladder and reached for Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. She read a few lines, recognizing and visualizing the story, then closed it and put it back in its place among classics. Every book had a home on her shelves. Each book always returned to its rightful place. The Baroness believed this is how her books wanted to be treated, if only they could speak to her as humans did. And though their voices were never heard by human ears, the Baroness knew in her heart that in every word shared, her books breathed life into her and gave her opportunities she would otherwise never have experienced.
She descended the ladder carefully, reaching the third shelf from the top down, of her eight-shelf high bookcase. From there she retrieved Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. Jo, Meg, Beth and Amy March - sisters who were friends, then enemies, then friends and sisters all over again. She longed for the relationship of sisters in her lonely heart, but lived it all through Little Women as if she too shared the home, the joy, the childlike wonder and the too harsh reality of the March sisters. All these stories and all of these characters, as familiar to her as old friends, as common to her as waking each day, and as comforting to her as the warmest of blankets on an icy winter's night.
Safely down now, her bare toes tangled in the warmth of the carpet's brushed fur, she closed her eyes and turned around and around, the way a child would do in a circle of friends trying to pick someone to be 'it'. When she stopped she opened one eye, then the other. She was facing one of her favorite walls, the new writing and literature wall. All things in the Baroness's library were special and unique to her, but some things had earned a special place in her heart. Smiling, she picked a book at random. It was Lullabies for Little Criminals by Heather O'Neill. It was a debut novel and it was quite a story. Part childlike wonder and part gritty, cruel reality, this tale of innocence lost and coming of age at the school of hard knocks gave voice to lost girl named Baby, whom no one thought of enough to help her grow up.
The Baroness was lost in Lullabies, then she heard the familiar whistle of her ancient teapot telling her water was ready and tea would soon be had. She placed her treasured read on one of her comfy brown leather reading chairs and went to the small marble-topped table where she kept the silver tea service, which had been handed down from generations of readers before her. She walked her steaming pot over to her waiting porcelain cup and poured just enough water to leave room for some cream. She dropped in a couple of sugar cubes, a spot of cream from the creamer, then took a shiny silver spoon to her concoction and stirred. The swirling, sweetly scented smoke pouring upward from her cup filled her with memories of teas shared or enjoyed alone during all her life. She picked up her cup with both hands, warming her cold fingertips on its smooth shape and sipped her tea, allowing the full flavor of its brewed perfection to mingle with her taste buds and lighten her heart. In the background of her time spent in her library, she could hear the crackle of the old brick fireplace. She could feel its warmth in certain parts of the huge room. Often, she would sit and stare, mesmerized by its dance of flames with the colors so bright, vivid and alive.
The Baroness walked over to the chair where she left her book. Then, setting her cup on the table beside it, the Baroness filled the chair with her aging shape, pulling the warm blanket off the armrest and covering her legs and her bare feet. She pulled the blanket up under her chin, releasing her arms on both sides. Then, using her right to grasp the tea cup and the left to lift and hold open the book, the Baroness settled in for an enjoyable evening, book-in-hand, best friend as always.
Distracted for just a moment, the Baroness looked slowly around, reminding herself once more that she was surrounded by the world's most brilliant literary works, friends on paper who graced her every days and filled her nights with pleasant dreams of promise and good fortune. With a deep sigh reserved for those content in all parts of a life well lived and much enjoyed, the Baroness looked down to her book, turned the page and began:
The Baroness walked among her books, touching the tomes gently with an extended arm and long, delicate fingers. She enjoyed feeling the smooth leather bound books and the soft paperbacks and the hardbacks, too. At the end of one of her booked walls, the Baroness climbed the rolling ladder and reached for Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. She read a few lines, recognizing and visualizing the story, then closed it and put it back in its place among classics. Every book had a home on her shelves. Each book always returned to its rightful place. The Baroness believed this is how her books wanted to be treated, if only they could speak to her as humans did. And though their voices were never heard by human ears, the Baroness knew in her heart that in every word shared, her books breathed life into her and gave her opportunities she would otherwise never have experienced.
She descended the ladder carefully, reaching the third shelf from the top down, of her eight-shelf high bookcase. From there she retrieved Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. Jo, Meg, Beth and Amy March - sisters who were friends, then enemies, then friends and sisters all over again. She longed for the relationship of sisters in her lonely heart, but lived it all through Little Women as if she too shared the home, the joy, the childlike wonder and the too harsh reality of the March sisters. All these stories and all of these characters, as familiar to her as old friends, as common to her as waking each day, and as comforting to her as the warmest of blankets on an icy winter's night.
Safely down now, her bare toes tangled in the warmth of the carpet's brushed fur, she closed her eyes and turned around and around, the way a child would do in a circle of friends trying to pick someone to be 'it'. When she stopped she opened one eye, then the other. She was facing one of her favorite walls, the new writing and literature wall. All things in the Baroness's library were special and unique to her, but some things had earned a special place in her heart. Smiling, she picked a book at random. It was Lullabies for Little Criminals by Heather O'Neill. It was a debut novel and it was quite a story. Part childlike wonder and part gritty, cruel reality, this tale of innocence lost and coming of age at the school of hard knocks gave voice to lost girl named Baby, whom no one thought of enough to help her grow up.
The Baroness was lost in Lullabies, then she heard the familiar whistle of her ancient teapot telling her water was ready and tea would soon be had. She placed her treasured read on one of her comfy brown leather reading chairs and went to the small marble-topped table where she kept the silver tea service, which had been handed down from generations of readers before her. She walked her steaming pot over to her waiting porcelain cup and poured just enough water to leave room for some cream. She dropped in a couple of sugar cubes, a spot of cream from the creamer, then took a shiny silver spoon to her concoction and stirred. The swirling, sweetly scented smoke pouring upward from her cup filled her with memories of teas shared or enjoyed alone during all her life. She picked up her cup with both hands, warming her cold fingertips on its smooth shape and sipped her tea, allowing the full flavor of its brewed perfection to mingle with her taste buds and lighten her heart. In the background of her time spent in her library, she could hear the crackle of the old brick fireplace. She could feel its warmth in certain parts of the huge room. Often, she would sit and stare, mesmerized by its dance of flames with the colors so bright, vivid and alive.
The Baroness walked over to the chair where she left her book. Then, setting her cup on the table beside it, the Baroness filled the chair with her aging shape, pulling the warm blanket off the armrest and covering her legs and her bare feet. She pulled the blanket up under her chin, releasing her arms on both sides. Then, using her right to grasp the tea cup and the left to lift and hold open the book, the Baroness settled in for an enjoyable evening, book-in-hand, best friend as always.
Distracted for just a moment, the Baroness looked slowly around, reminding herself once more that she was surrounded by the world's most brilliant literary works, friends on paper who graced her every days and filled her nights with pleasant dreams of promise and good fortune. With a deep sigh reserved for those content in all parts of a life well lived and much enjoyed, the Baroness looked down to her book, turned the page and began:
Chapter 1.
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