bookcase - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The bookcase with its inky treasures adorned the quiet room, quiet in that sense of easy solitude and in the sense of gentle seaside hues, soft blues, greys and browns. The wood of the bookcase looked for all the world as if it had washed up on a beach someday, as if was once a part of a mighty sailing ship. Yet now it sits in its forever harbour, in that soulful bay that is the corner of this room.
The bookcase was ornate, as if carved by a person with a profound love of literature. The engravings were of leaves, of autumn berries and birds on the wing - so sublime as to invite the fingers to take it in just as much as the eyes.
The bookcase was made all the more beautiful by the raw bark on the edges. It brought nature into their home, a reminder that they were still part of the living world even in their temperature controlled home.
The architecture of the place was no more apparent than in the bookcase. The stairs had been build first, arcing like the end of a cat's tail before ascending the first floor. The bookcase had come next, built up by the wall, each shelf starting right next to the stair. It was as if the place was designed one feature at a time, each idea feeding off the last.
Just like the rest of the room the bookcase was just something Opal had picked up at random. It was old and basic but it still had integrity. The wood was straight and it hugged the wall. On closer inspection she could see scratches, the wood a little more pale where it had been dinged. She touched the roughness, not minding one bit. To her it just made the piece all the more interesting, just like people's scars - for her they were always clues to a story.
The bookcase looked strong, Charla knew the wood was good before her fingers make contact. It was dark with the grain quite pronounced beneath the varnish, smooth but with chisel marks still at the edges to give it that rustic and homely feel.
The bookcase heaved under the weight of the old volumes. Unlike its precious cargo the shelves were cheap fibreboard, more equipped for the modern romance novels than the heavy words of the philosophers from antiquity.
The bookcase was hewn from a tall cedar that was felled one spring. We'd dried the wood out in rough planks in the barn for eighteen months and made it after the August heat had baked it as dry as it was going to get. Then Hector had cut four equal sized pieces for the outside so that it was almost a square and set the shelves in at at various intervals, giving the largest gap at the bottom for the heaviest volumes and the smallest gap at the top for my romance paperbacks. The shelf had no back, so we fastened it to the wall and let the wall be the back. It reached all the way to the ceiling and even had a little ladder on coasters and a rail that would slide too and fro to let you reach the top books easily.
In the otherwise barren room there is a bookcase. Is was decrepit with age and peeling formica, no-one made such things anymore. The officer marched to it in crisp starchy black, with a camera ready to record the seditious items. Novels are illegal. Only government issued information can be read now and it is only available by submitting to biometric tests first. There is a securely held list of people who can read and they are treated with the same respect as terrorists. "Watership Down" was taken and photographed, then "Little House on the Prairie," followed by a Children's Bible. A warrant was already issued to arrest the twenty-three who's DNA samples had been scanned from the yellowed pages.