Stories of a Book
by Zoe Casequin
12-14 years | 2nd Place
The earliest memory I possessed was being brought to life by the sounds of rustling paper, the cold, binding feeling of glue and the darkness I endured after being enclosed in a dark void amidst other beings like myself.
I spent an indeterminable length of my life sitting in a lonely corner on the back shelf of a bookstore, away from the presence of people that entered it. Very seldom did one desire to venture to this obscured shelf, and when someone did, they simply picked me up and glimpsed at me only for a second before returning me to my original position. The days that passed felt like meaningless centuries wasting away, without any purpose to my lonely existence.
It was not until that one fateful day that I truly began to find purpose in living.
That day could have been the same as any other except for the visit of an erudite young woman, wavering in stance at the hefty stack of books she was carrying with a single hand, struggling to reach out towards me as she tried to keep her balance. Was it true that someone genuinely wanted me, for the first time in my life? I pushed myself off the shelf determinedly, falling perfectly into her gentle, warm hand before I was placed carefully atop the stack of books and taken to the cashier. It only occurred to me that I had never felt that tingle of those peculiar lines on my back being scanned by that red beam, resulting in the sound of a beep – the whole experience brought an odd yet satisfying sensation. After the books that accompanied me underwent the same process, similar to how I was brought to the store, I once more was enveloped in pitch black darkness and trapped inside of a cardboard cage.
The sight of a light, blinding at first, had revealed to me a completely different universe to the one I knew. The new world that had opened itself to me was one that was bustling with life; people roamed freely in this world, while books of many kinds achieved the ultimate purpose to be read and treasured as a source of wonder and knowledge by them. Shelves filled to their limit and beyond with books lined the entire place, while the people that wandered, old and young, made full use of this sanctuary that was provided to them. The woman that had brought me here then placed me on a shelf amidst other books, displayed so that people would desire to read us.
Slowly, I began to get accustomed to my new home, or as the people call it, ‘the library’. As the days passed, I started familiarising myself with the library workers and some of the regular visitors. Aside from people, there were many books of different genres that I had never met before. They all had their own story to tell, whether it was tragic, uplifting or biographical.
After a month, I had been ‘borrowed’ by a great variety and number of people, and had ultimately experienced the joy of being read. I had learnt that similar to books, humans held ‘stories’ of their own – they all had different appearances, interests and even lifestyles as I could observe from my momentary visit to their homes.
Even now, as I reminisce whilst on my shelf, I wonder what stories I may encounter next.