TM#275 Writing... To Write.
The means to the end..
He Smelled of Ink
I left Bag End as evening advanced. I had seen the little shoppe tucked in the back corner of one of the Shire’s alleys. It had beckoned to me during lunch and throughout the evening. As I pushed open the door, my senses were won over by the unmistakable smell of ink and paper. The smell flowed into the street. I looked again at the sign hanging above. Printers of Magic I was pleased to see the small printing press in the corner humming along, the owner wearing a white ink splattered robe. He nodded as I entered. I smiled at him in return, talk being impossible over the noise of the machine. My eyes were drawn to the display of journals along the wall. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I wandered over to the wall and the multitude of boxes that lined the floor in front of it. I have gone and went to writing heaven.
Finding another black journal was never easy. It was a matter of finding one that would draw my eye as well as my heart into searching out its pages. One that sang to me and begged to be opened. I needed to replace the poor little travel journal in my hip pocket, its pages strewn halfway across Middle Earth. Something that I could write in that didn't ache of lost words. But none of the ones on display spoke to that desire, they may have spoke to others. But not to myself. I stood for a time eyeing them holding an internal debate. Finally deciding against the ones on display.
I sat back on my ankles and started going through the first of many boxes on the floor. Perhaps if my fingers traveled down into the box delving deeper then when I touched it.. I would know.. As if by Magic.. It lay under several layers and with one hand I grasp the book afraid it would disappear if I let it go. With the other I pulled out journal after journal until I came to the one I had wanted. I smiled broader as I drew it out. It was covered in a black waterproof mink skin. So small and compact.. The cover a gentle caress to the touch. Yes, this was the one I wanted. My fingers trembling, I closed my eyes as I undid the ties that held the binding closed. I opened up the book, afraid of what I might see, but its pages weren't the stark white like the one I had abused since the start of my quest. Its pages were dyed a light pastel blue, lighter then the sky on the horizon. I smiled at the color as I stroked the soft fur that bound it.
With fingers trembling and my mind wandering between thoughts of words that wanted to written down and the joys of discovery I stroll through more of the shop. Not daring to set down the journal for fear I would lose the magic that it held.
My smile returned as I found a small jar of ink. Opening it my mind was instantly taken back to that of a school age boy attempting to write his first bit of words under the glow of an oil lamp at a wooden kitchen table. I think the love / hate relationship of pen and paper began in that room next to the Brandywine. As I blackened my fingers as words and letters smeared between the blobs of ink.
I shut the lid to the bottle but the memory remained.
Muse: Frodo Baggins
Fandom: LOTR
Word count 602
He Smelled of Ink
I left Bag End as evening advanced. I had seen the little shoppe tucked in the back corner of one of the Shire’s alleys. It had beckoned to me during lunch and throughout the evening. As I pushed open the door, my senses were won over by the unmistakable smell of ink and paper. The smell flowed into the street. I looked again at the sign hanging above. Printers of Magic I was pleased to see the small printing press in the corner humming along, the owner wearing a white ink splattered robe. He nodded as I entered. I smiled at him in return, talk being impossible over the noise of the machine. My eyes were drawn to the display of journals along the wall. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I wandered over to the wall and the multitude of boxes that lined the floor in front of it. I have gone and went to writing heaven.
Finding another black journal was never easy. It was a matter of finding one that would draw my eye as well as my heart into searching out its pages. One that sang to me and begged to be opened. I needed to replace the poor little travel journal in my hip pocket, its pages strewn halfway across Middle Earth. Something that I could write in that didn't ache of lost words. But none of the ones on display spoke to that desire, they may have spoke to others. But not to myself. I stood for a time eyeing them holding an internal debate. Finally deciding against the ones on display.
I sat back on my ankles and started going through the first of many boxes on the floor. Perhaps if my fingers traveled down into the box delving deeper then when I touched it.. I would know.. As if by Magic.. It lay under several layers and with one hand I grasp the book afraid it would disappear if I let it go. With the other I pulled out journal after journal until I came to the one I had wanted. I smiled broader as I drew it out. It was covered in a black waterproof mink skin. So small and compact.. The cover a gentle caress to the touch. Yes, this was the one I wanted. My fingers trembling, I closed my eyes as I undid the ties that held the binding closed. I opened up the book, afraid of what I might see, but its pages weren't the stark white like the one I had abused since the start of my quest. Its pages were dyed a light pastel blue, lighter then the sky on the horizon. I smiled at the color as I stroked the soft fur that bound it.
With fingers trembling and my mind wandering between thoughts of words that wanted to written down and the joys of discovery I stroll through more of the shop. Not daring to set down the journal for fear I would lose the magic that it held.
My smile returned as I found a small jar of ink. Opening it my mind was instantly taken back to that of a school age boy attempting to write his first bit of words under the glow of an oil lamp at a wooden kitchen table. I think the love / hate relationship of pen and paper began in that room next to the Brandywine. As I blackened my fingers as words and letters smeared between the blobs of ink.
I shut the lid to the bottle but the memory remained.
Muse: Frodo Baggins
Fandom: LOTR
Word count 602