Hardcover Soldiers

• Alex Williams, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2015

The volumes stand to attention. Hardcover soldiers, dressed in splendid tunics of maroon and cerulean with golden titles that gleam like medallions shined to brilliance.

You cannot help but admire them. Each of them are veterans of their time; pages slightly creased and painted with age, and yet still as stunning as the day they were bound. They are scuffed and worn, but in their imperfections you find a unique beauty.

The shop assistant, a wizened old man with a wide grin, has left you to the company of the books. And perhaps you feel a little silly as you look at them with the same awe as one looks at a Grecian statue, or a priceless artwork. But in fact, that is what they are. Pieces of art, no less worthy of attention than Monet’s lilies or Picasso’s 'Weeping Woman'.

You extend a hand towards them. You slide a finger down a worn spine, the pad of your index finger memorising the feeling of the embossed title. The name is unfamiliar, but it doesn’t deter you. You slip the tome free from its rank and let it fall, heavy, into your hands.

You slide a hand over the leather-bound cover; fine dust collects onto your fingers. With a gentle touch, you open the front cover and your eyes fall onto paper so richly coloured it could be silk. With another flick of your fingers, the ornate and flowing words ‘Chapter One’ come into view.

Your eyes immediately fall to the passage written underneath; drinking in the flowing imagery like a parched man gulping down a glass of cool water. You cannot stop yourself. The words are so delicately printed, the ink bold and black. It’s a certain kind of rush as the language flows into your mind, in a way that is so unfamiliar to you. More pages turn. Your back is against the bookcase, and your mind is far from reality, floating in a state of appreciation as seconds melt into minutes.

Every word holds a meaning, and they are brought together to form spectacular passages like golden threads being woven into fine cloth. The feeling slips down into your chest and immediately you wish you had a notebook so that you could capture each dazzling phrase, each remarkable description, and each sentence that leaves you breathless in amazement.

With the author’s hand guiding you, you watch the characters, bounding about in front of you, their smiles wide and childlike. You observe the scenery unfold; darkened woods and gently bubbling streams, lit by a heavy, afternoon sun.

It makes you want to run. It makes you want to write. It makes you want to...

You are broken from your trance by a knowing chuckle. The shopkeeper sidles beside you and asks if you’ve found anything.

Grinning, you glance back down and close the book. “Just this,” you tell him, smoothing your hand over the age-worn cover. “I’ll take it.”