breathed out deeply. Could the day get any worse?
Chapter Four
A sudden blast of cold wind w oke me from a temporary semi-conscious state. The icy wind streamed across my face as the sound of papers rattling alerted me to their location before taking flight around the room.
To my left the sash window was completely open, the organza curtains billowing in the strong wind. Rain was thumping against the glass, and entering, uninvited, into the room.
My legs g ave way on the slippery wet floor as I moved at speed to close the window. But finally, I slammed it shut, and exhaled through my lips. I ran my hand through my hair and turned to discover that the room was a complete mess, papers strewn everywhere.
With resignation, I lowered myself onto my knees and collected all the papers, haphazardly piling them untidily on the floor, slamming the very last piece down on the top in exasperation, only to find a smaller white piece of paper come shooting out before my eyes, and then gently gliding down onto the floor.
It was white, blank. Not new though. A little aged in appearance. It looked smooth,
but on close r inspection with my hands, it felt slightly bumpy. Confused, I ran my finger over the paper again. Mmmm, definitely bumpy.
Oh …..The piece of paper belongs to the bloody book!
Standing, I drag ged my feet over to the table where the bloody book sat. It’s leather cover was open, exposing the internal intelligences of the written word. But there was none.
The pages were unblemished by ink, by words, letters or illustrations. Yet, the book looked used and worn. I slid the escapee page of the book back inside with the other pages, and slammed the cover closed.
The End! Strange bloody book!
I walk ed away.
But only to return. It had it’s little nasty hooks into me. I hate books! I am not a book sort of guy! Frustrated, I returned to it, and removed the extrovert page, the escapee. My curiosity needed quenching.
At once, I ma de my way to the study room and turned on the desk lamp, placing the paper onto the glossy glass top. Without looking up, I reached for a soft sketching lead pencil, and another piece of paper, and then proceeded to do a texture rubbing over the blank page.
Initially, flowers appear ed on the rubbing, and vines with leaves. Quite childish really. Perhaps it was a child’s sketchbook? But then some lettering appeared.
A name. Female.
I smirked to myself. Well, it didn’t surprise me really. Boys didn’t tend to go about drawing pretty daisy flowers and scroll vines on paper.
Then to my unguarded attention, an address appeared, complete with email and phone number. So the book is not as old as I had assumed that it was. I smiled to myself, and then frowned. Why no ink?
It is not my book. I don’t do books. End of story. I returned the page to its fellow offenders and closed the damn leather cover.
I covered my face with my hands. I cannot simply burn this book now? It has a person’s name and address in it. It has an owner. I breathed out loudly through my nostrils. Bloody book!
My laptop computer purred as I engaged it, keying in my security code. I went immediately to emails – new message.
FROM: Cohen Darcy
SUBJECT: Your Book!
DATE : May 08 2011 16:37
TO: Georgia Harrison
Hello,
I have found your book. How can I return it to you?
Cohen Darcy
Send…..
I watched the computer screen for a few minutes, my hands cupped in each other, twiddling my thumbs. No reply.
Until twenty-five minutes later, the ping of a new message alerted me.
FROM: Georgia Harrison
SUBJECT: Your Book!
DATE : May 08 2011 17:02
TO: Cohen Darcy
Hello Cohen,
It is not my book. Is this a pick up line?
Georgia Harrison
Great – girls! Always assuming that a guy is trying to get into their pants!
My fingers twitched with agitation as I replied.
FROM: Cohen Darcy
SUBJECT : Your
Chapter Four
A sudden blast of cold wind w oke me from a temporary semi-conscious state. The icy wind streamed across my face as the sound of papers rattling alerted me to their location before taking flight around the room.
To my left the sash window was completely open, the organza curtains billowing in the strong wind. Rain was thumping against the glass, and entering, uninvited, into the room.
My legs g ave way on the slippery wet floor as I moved at speed to close the window. But finally, I slammed it shut, and exhaled through my lips. I ran my hand through my hair and turned to discover that the room was a complete mess, papers strewn everywhere.
With resignation, I lowered myself onto my knees and collected all the papers, haphazardly piling them untidily on the floor, slamming the very last piece down on the top in exasperation, only to find a smaller white piece of paper come shooting out before my eyes, and then gently gliding down onto the floor.
It was white, blank. Not new though. A little aged in appearance. It looked smooth,
but on close r inspection with my hands, it felt slightly bumpy. Confused, I ran my finger over the paper again. Mmmm, definitely bumpy.
Oh …..The piece of paper belongs to the bloody book!
Standing, I drag ged my feet over to the table where the bloody book sat. It’s leather cover was open, exposing the internal intelligences of the written word. But there was none.
The pages were unblemished by ink, by words, letters or illustrations. Yet, the book looked used and worn. I slid the escapee page of the book back inside with the other pages, and slammed the cover closed.
The End! Strange bloody book!
I walk ed away.
But only to return. It had it’s little nasty hooks into me. I hate books! I am not a book sort of guy! Frustrated, I returned to it, and removed the extrovert page, the escapee. My curiosity needed quenching.
At once, I ma de my way to the study room and turned on the desk lamp, placing the paper onto the glossy glass top. Without looking up, I reached for a soft sketching lead pencil, and another piece of paper, and then proceeded to do a texture rubbing over the blank page.
Initially, flowers appear ed on the rubbing, and vines with leaves. Quite childish really. Perhaps it was a child’s sketchbook? But then some lettering appeared.
A name. Female.
I smirked to myself. Well, it didn’t surprise me really. Boys didn’t tend to go about drawing pretty daisy flowers and scroll vines on paper.
Then to my unguarded attention, an address appeared, complete with email and phone number. So the book is not as old as I had assumed that it was. I smiled to myself, and then frowned. Why no ink?
It is not my book. I don’t do books. End of story. I returned the page to its fellow offenders and closed the damn leather cover.
I covered my face with my hands. I cannot simply burn this book now? It has a person’s name and address in it. It has an owner. I breathed out loudly through my nostrils. Bloody book!
My laptop computer purred as I engaged it, keying in my security code. I went immediately to emails – new message.
FROM: Cohen Darcy
SUBJECT: Your Book!
DATE : May 08 2011 16:37
TO: Georgia Harrison
Hello,
I have found your book. How can I return it to you?
Cohen Darcy
Send…..
I watched the computer screen for a few minutes, my hands cupped in each other, twiddling my thumbs. No reply.
Until twenty-five minutes later, the ping of a new message alerted me.
FROM: Georgia Harrison
SUBJECT: Your Book!
DATE : May 08 2011 17:02
TO: Cohen Darcy
Hello Cohen,
It is not my book. Is this a pick up line?
Georgia Harrison
Great – girls! Always assuming that a guy is trying to get into their pants!
My fingers twitched with agitation as I replied.
FROM: Cohen Darcy
SUBJECT : Your
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