Writer's Workbook #20

#20 The dusty, old book was sitting there, just begging to be read.

The problem with being under five feet tall and an avid reader was the fact the all the good books were on the top shelf. Well, that and every librarian tried to direct me towards the children’s area, but mainly the first issue. This time I had my sights on an old, thick novel. It had a dusty green jacket, worn edges, and mouse-eaten pages. The paper was yellowed and looked as if it would crumble the second it came into contact with human skin. The title on the spine was silvery and hand painted, but so faded that I couldn’t read it. Despite that, I knew this book was for me. I needed to get my hands on it and open to the first word, needed to absorb the words off its pages and delve into its story. The dilemma was getting the book.

I could barely touch the bottom of the fifth shelf, and the book I wanted was on the very top twelfth shelf. I entertained the notion of scaling the shelf to reach the book, but decided against it as I didn’t want to get kicked out of my favorite library. There weren’t any wheely ladders nearby, which would have been the optimal solution, but there was a stack of thick encyclopedias lying on the floor. I carefully pushed them over to where the book was, then went to grab more encyclopedias and dictionaries and other thick, dense books. I stacked them like stairs, hoping I could reach the book I needed through my improvised idea.

Now, I don’t weigh very much, but books aren’t exactly made to support the ridiculous proportions of the human body.