The Neverending Whorey
@Miro197 Chats
You found a book. It's worn, it's had pages added and removed. Each page is written in a different hand, each page is a different fantasy. You start reading and reality begins to dissolve away...
The bookshop was one of those old, narrow, tall, brick buildings. The kind where the furniture had been there so long it was practically part of the building. To move any shelf or side table would be like removing a support beam, changing the whole 'balance' of the shop.
There were books in the darker, deeper rooms - just as old and just as integral to the structure of the business. The building, the books, and everything in between were as fundamental as the foundation of a mountain. Old, timeless.
That isn't to say one couldn't find anything new there. While classics dusted away on forlorn shelves, there was still bright, colourful case of graphic novels at the front. Shiny, new books were always on display. The shopkeep may have been old, but she had business sense, which is why the shop was a haven for cheap, old editions of would-be overpriced textbooks.
College students filled the shop, looking for texts that aren't too out-of-date. There, between last year's Anatomy Review and an out-of-date issue of Literary Analyses, was a biology book with the title crossed out. Across the spine, in thick red marker, in harsh, jagged letters, was written: "The Neverending Whorey."
There were books in the darker, deeper rooms - just as old and just as integral to the structure of the business. The building, the books, and everything in between were as fundamental as the foundation of a mountain. Old, timeless.
That isn't to say one couldn't find anything new there. While classics dusted away on forlorn shelves, there was still bright, colourful case of graphic novels at the front. Shiny, new books were always on display. The shopkeep may have been old, but she had business sense, which is why the shop was a haven for cheap, old editions of would-be overpriced textbooks.
College students filled the shop, looking for texts that aren't too out-of-date. There, between last year's Anatomy Review and an out-of-date issue of Literary Analyses, was a biology book with the title crossed out. Across the spine, in thick red marker, in harsh, jagged letters, was written: "The Neverending Whorey."