Spines holding together pages, pages containing the stories, stories of adventure or romances. Stories are the communication from the imagination from the author to their readers, only the books that contain such stories can communicate such vivid imagery. Only certain writers can convey their own images. Not one author can convey another's idea, cannot put such words used in another way, yes, they can surely restate one idea but not with such meaning as the original, that was what Daniel loved about books. The murders, love triangles, drama, princess saving knights, he loved it all, until one September morning.
Daniel sat in his bedroom, coiled up in a mess of sheets and pillows, in his little igloo. A loud thud was heard from downstairs, raising the boy's curiosity, his eyes flickered toward his door, complementating whether or not to see what the ruckus was about or to continue his reading. Sighing lightly to himself, Daniel set his book to the side, being sure to mark his page with the paper cover. Standing, he made his way to the door, opening it up and emerging into the hall and dashing down the stairs quietly.
"Poppy?" he called, lightly knocking on the parlor door, opening it slowly, "Papa?" he called once more.
Stepping inside, a small gasp left his lips, eyes bristling with tears. His father sat, slumped in his desk chair, face laid on his computer's keyboard, blood soaking through his tee shirt and rhythmically dripping onto the wooden floor.
"Papa," he whispered, slowly walking over to the desk, tears now flowing freely down his pink tinted cheeks. He approached the lifeless form, beginning to feel lifeless himself.
Touching his father's shoulder lightly he whimpered, retracting his hand, and stepping back, grabbing the telephone with trembling hands dialing 112 in a rush.
"112 was is your emergency?" the receptionist asked over the line
YOU ARE READING
Everything I Didn't Say
RandomA collection of writing excerpts that have found themselves forgotten about in my drive.
