The whole shebang.

A work of fiction in response to The Daily Post writing prompt, Shelf.

Once upon a time, there was a house. No bigger than a shack, probably. Inside the house, there were six shelves full of worn out books. The books were written by an anonymous writer. Nobody had ever met the author. No one knows is the author is a female or a male. But the books were written with incredible and meticulous details. It almost feels like one went inside the story and is the character itself.

The first shelf was not filled completely. It was only filled until the fourth row. The books are all worn out. It made one wonders, whether or not the stories in the first shelf was written to finished or was it cut too soon. No one knows for sure. The first shelf tells the story of a young girl blinded by her own reflection. One would assume that the story might not end with a happy ending. Maybe that is why no one stops and read the books. One can see by the amount of dust collected on the books, that these books have not been touched in more than ten years. And so, one would walk to the second shelf and see if the story is more interesting than the first.

The second shelf had even less books than the first. It is also even much more worn out than the first. With so little books to read and even more dust than the first, one would decides to see if maybe the third shelf held an even more interesting story to offer. And so, one decides to walk to the third shelf.

The third shelf is filled with books that have its pages ripped apart. Some books don’t even have its cover anymore. One wonders what went wrong with the story that the books were subjected to these kinds of abuse. One could be very much intrigue to know, but in the fear of ruining what is left of the books, one had to forego the curiosity and moves on to the fourth shelf.

The fourth shelf is filled to the brim. There even were books stack on top of other books. It looked chaotic. One would decide to not even bother to look. The shelf looked like it has not been maintain in such a long time. It is almost as if the author kept on writing the books and didn’t bother to put it in a neat way. But one was could be so curious as to what the story would be, seeing all the scattered books made one thinks that it could have been a very interesting story. Apparently, the story is about a young girl blinded by fortune. So far the story ends with her collapsing within the richness of the world, the kind of richness that no one can control. One would feel less inclined to read about the vast amount of richness that one cannot possess. And so, one moves to the fifth shelf.

Now, the fourth shelf looks quite a bit exciting for those who set eyes on it. It was so interesting that when one sees it, one can’t help but want to pick one book and read it. But, this is where things get a bit tricky. The ever so colourful book covers turned to a darker shade of colours once it is touched by human hands. And, even more surprising, one’s own fingers grew so cold as it touches the book. Why was it like that? One saw the notice paper on the left part of the shelf. It tells about the stories written in the books. It was a story about a young girl grew up chasing her ideal dream, but never manages to do so. She grew bitter towards life, while burying the bitterness deep within her heart. It grew so bitter that a single touch reveals how dark her own self had been. One had no choice but to leave the books and the shelf as it is. And so, one moves on to the sixth shelf.

The Sixth book is as messy as the fourth one, but with varying thickness of each books, or thinness. One wonders what the story was about, but one don’t have to wonder for far too long, for the story is always of the same proportion. It is always about the same young girl making the same mistakes over and over again, in the course of her life. The young girl is no longer young and yet she kept on making the same mistake as if it was her first time. One thought that such theme could anger one’s feeling, and so one opts out from reading the books on the sixth shelf. And so, one moves on to the door to exit the house.

Maybe, life is like those books on those shelves. It can be cut short and suddenly, or it can go on and on like it would never end. And for those whose stories still goes on, it can be just a clump of mess, or seems colourful on the surface, or full of repetitive things, or probably full of holes and gaps. Whatever it is, it is the life that you were assigned for. It might be beautiful or horrible, but the whole shebang is what you are assigned and responsible for.


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