Today’s flash fiction prompt: Write about a small bookstore. This one was inspired by a visit to a local, independent bookstore. The people inside were warm and inviting. Good vibes all around.
On Fifth and Main
Past the high rises and bustling streets, on the corner of Fifth and Main, lay a quaint little book shop made of brick. The shop greets every patron with arched double doors stretched wide. Tinted glass panes decorate the upper half of each door, and the brass knobs are large cats with even larger mouths ready to nip the fingers of the curious. But the cats mean no harm, and the knobs are strangely warm, no matter the season.
Open the door, and the sound is unique. Not the typical creak of ancient joints in need of oil. No, these doors rattle like a box being shaken on Christmas morning, testing the quality of what’s inside.
A runner, red and soft, lines the path from the entrance to the front desk, tastes the feet of all who enter with timid, or bold, steps. There are often three people working in the shop. The couple who own it and their granddaughter, who runs the register at the front desk. The young girl always wears a green apron and a knowing smile.
There are scents. Trees and paper of course. Oil, faint. Peppermint, or eucalyptus, or cedar. A dehumidifier rests along the window in the east wing – a maze of oddly shaped shelves and hanging fixtures showcasing dozens of stories.
Stories about birds and balloons hang from the sky. Books grow like flowers from a large, clay pot, boasting blue, white, and yellow covers. A pedestal with a glass case secures an ancient writ. The east wing is certainly for discovery and growth. Biographies, histories, anthologies, mysteries.
The right wing, covered by a canopy of green leaves spun from fine silk, invites the young and young at heart to explore the fanciful and fun. To learn about history, too, but with more colors blended into their texts. The patrons of the shop breathe in the mysterious air and let out a collective sigh of relief. This is a safe place.
Eyes are searching, but not judging. They seek words, colors, the stories hidden in the mural on the ceiling, or the tapestries on the walls. The shop embraces all with pleasant scents, comforting sights, and the familiar sounds of pages turning and turning. The elderly couple who own the shop don’t hover or force the sterile transactions that govern so much of life. They and the shop have an understanding, and have mutually agreed on its purpose.
Here, a body can breathe, linger, loiter. And just be.
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