Vast shelves filled books line the walls.
Each one filled with smells, notes, smudges and stains; hints of their owners.
Here a paper, slipped between pages; an envelope, yellowed with age.
There is no address, no label, no name; the thickness hints of the contents.
Like the books themselves; a treasure to open, a mystery to solve.
Fingers worry the seal, hesitant to spoil sweet possibilities.
Curiosity loses to wonder today.
A wybble, 100 syllables, not counting the title.
YOU ARE READING
In a flashShort Story
Short works, flash fiction and drabbles. These pieces may be as short as one hundred words, or as long as one thousand. They may be speculative in nature, or just a bit of prose poetry. Some of these works may be found in my other collections. I wa...