Angled Bookshelf Novels & Stories

Olivia would faint more than once if she could see this right now. I slowly walk between shelves, running my hands across the dark brown, sturdy wood that holds the books, feeling its smooth lamination. Every corner is perfectly labeled, so whoever is in here can easily find what they need. Whoever maintains a place like this definitely knows what they're doing. I stop, curious, at an aisle and reach for a first edition book on "The Technicalities of Wolf Shifting." I have no interest in it, but the vibe in the room prompts me to pick it up.

Sat in minorly dazed moods as we all digest the truth of combined memories. It’s a small room with a bay window, a large couch and armchair nestled in front of a rustic fireplace cozily. A large handmade desk sits off to the side, just in the nook of the window space, facing in with a worn chair tucked behind. There’s an entire wall lined with dark stained bookcases, crammed full of old leather-bound journals of varying shades of tan, brown, and black, with no titles on display and I wonder what exactly is contained within the aged pages for them to bear no mark. There are oddities, and bottles, of all kinds nestled among them, and facing that wall are three large closed cupboards in matchin

The thought is a small, bitter comfort because nothing stings like betrayal. My gaze slides left and locks on the bookshelf. Old wood, a little scuffed, shelves stuffed with returned paperbacks and a few knick-knacks, mismatched bookends, a ceramic owl, a stack of defunct menus someone shoved in a hurry. The bottom shelf sags, the base leaning a fraction out from the wall. Whoever stocked it last time did a sloppy job. It is not anchored. My brain flips through possibilities like cards, fast and clean.

However, it was the far left corner that drew Thalia's nervous attention. Floor to ceiling bespoke shelving held books of different sizes and thicknesses sat on shelves between heavy bookends and busts of soft faced damsels or generals and warriors on regal steeds. In front of all of this was a giant heavy looking oak desk that Thalia guessed was at least a hundred years old and large enough to be mistaken for a bed. And sat behind the desk covered in paperwork, a lamp and laptop and phone, sat a male that Thalia could only describe as an Adonis.

It wasn't as big as the one we had in Porthove but it was sizable enough. The room itself was dimly lit, with high vaulted ceilings and shelves that seemed to stretch up to the heavens. The shelves were packed with books, some of them so old and worn that their covers had faded into obscurity. Others were newer, with bright, colorful covers that caught the eye. The shelves themselves were made of dark wood, polished to a high shine, and carved with intricate designs of flowers and leaves. They stretched up to the ceiling, making the room feel even more grand and imposing. In the center of the room, there was a large oak desk, with an old-fashioned inkwell and quill resting on its surface; an

The room was also, unexpectedly and completely, full of books. Every wall that was not a window had shelves, floor to ceiling, built-in rather than assembled, the kind that suggested the apartment had been configured around the books rather than the other way around. Fiction and non-fiction shelved together without obvious system. Spines facing out. Some with markers in them. Many with the cracked spines of books that had been read multiple times and had stopped pretending to be new.

Tall windows lined one wall, their glass segmented into stained panes that turned the morning light into soft golds and blues, painting long, colorful rectangles across the floor. Floor to ceiling bookshelves covered the rest of the walls, real shelves, packed tight with volumes upon volumes of every size. Some spines were pristine, stamped with clean titles and crisp pages. Others were cracked and faded with age, cloth frayed at the edges, leather worn smooth. There were shelves of modern binders and printed reports tucked beside ancient looking tomes bound in dark hide, their titles almost unreadable.

Pulling the dust covering away from his latest creation, he tossed the cloth to the floor. In front of him stood a large bookshelf. It was about nine feet tall and six feet wide. It had six shelves on it, divided in the middle as it was two different bookcases. He had made it into two pieces to male it easier to transport, but they attached together and formed one large bookshelf. It was dark wood and it had ornate hand carved modling around the frame.

His amber eyes travelled upward through the towering shelves before a familiar softness settled across his expression. "It never gets any smaller," he murmured quietly. Arkael's smile deepened. "No." His gaze drifted affectionately across the endless shelves. "It doesn't." As Adelaide's eyes adjusted to the immensity of the room, another detail slowly began to separate itself from the wonder. Not every shelf gleamed with polished cedar. Here and there, entire sections bore unmistakable scars. Some shelving remained blackened, the timber scorched almost to charcoal before careful hands had sanded and sealed it to prevent further decay. Other shelves had been rebuilt entirely, their newer wood

Its diamonds glitter as light touches it. We stood up and walked toward its bookshelves. I traveled my fingers through its edges to feel its texture. The curio cabinet with glass doors screams elegance. Master artisan constructed the wood with an antique finish. It contains three drawers of various sizes and six shelves for storing books or display decorations. It has a stylish accent for each living room.