a book keeper - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The bookkeeper was serene as she worked, one part of her brain on the numbers and the rest dancing a ballet only here inner eyes could witness. It was there in the rhythm of her movements, tapped out in the way her pen choreographed itself over the page, yet nobody would ever see it but someone who loved her... and I did, so very much.
Sameen ran her hand over the cloth cover of her ledger. It was her life's work to record the property of the district and she's sworn allegiance to the people to make it fair and correct. One mark in the wrong place and property that should belong to one farmer would be listed under another. By day she sat at her desk in the legislature, listening to the thrill of the market outside. She heard the hubbub of the market, the baying of animals and the shrieks of children playing on the baked summer soil. By night she copied the entries into three other books and hid them in her home. One book was never enough, one book could be stolen, and then what? Chaos in the district? Each book was identical, but only The Book Keeper was ever to know of the duplicates and their locations.
She picked up her working copy and dropped it into her hessian bag for the morning along with a new bottle of ink and a quill. Now it was time for her, now the work of the day was done. She sat back on the couch and waited for the knock at the door that would tell her Ida had come. Ida who told her that her skin wasn't the colour of soil but the colour of the king's coffee beans, that her hair wasn't simply black but it flowed like the river at midnight over her shoulders. She could do her duty by day, she could be the boring clerk the district required, but night time was hers...
The bookshelves seemed like they would collapse any moment under the pressure of the numerous books and files stuffed into them. Each one with a label, organised in neat rows on the shelves. All four walls of the room were covered with shelves and filing cabinets, leaving only a small gap in the middle for the door. In the middle of the room was a table and a chair. A slumped figure sat on the chair. The huge piles of books on his table cast a heavy shadow on him. His face never looked up from the book and his hands never stopped writing. A constant sound of pencil scratching against paper echoed through the room. Wrinkles were spread all over his face making his skin look like a walnut. His hands were swollen and red. His hair lay in a mess, uncombed and uncut from many days. Dark circles formed rings around his eyes. But he went on. He was forever lost in his book, struggling to keep up with the company's accounts. He was the sole book keeper of that company.