Dead Sea Captains

There was a seemingly never ending library, the clit-a-clatter of my heals running through the passages woke the ghosts buried beneath the floor boards; a symphony of shushes condensed into coughed clouds of dust "we have heard nothing for a hundred and one years, now you have come and shattered our dried out ears". I murmured a heartfelt apology as they slipped my shoes from my feet. 

I dislocated 'The Language of birds" from its perch, as I opened it a curious chill escaped from within its leaves, inside there were two hidden rooms: one stacked to the ceiling with of precious rocks, glowing like stray moonbeams; in the other an unfriendly tea party was being held by two gentlemen who stared for too long, they sipped from translucent tea cups that moaned mournful sonnets. 

Figure I- a stray moon beam

I Wish Merricat was there with me, she would loved it. 'It must be very powerful' she would think, 'maybe I shall bury it or nail it to a tree.' I would not let her though, instead I would ask Constance to concoct us a sweet juice to make us into Lilliputians and the prettiest little cakes to tuck in our front pockets (to make us bigger again). 

We would climb through the window into the book, and nobody could stop us, not even those unfriendly men. We would rescue their poor little tea cups and go on to such adventures, bringing back the most valuable treasures: Miss Havisham's cold porcelain heart pickled in a jar; Dorian Gray's portrait hidden under Susan's old fur coat; Han's accordion, carried so so gently; Macbeth's dagger (which I will carry locked in a box); finally Anne Frank's pen, which Merricat would slip into her pocket before the officers could crush it with their boots. 

Words would run through our veins, we would breathe the spaces; eat the full stops; slip through the covers. We could become stories.

p.s. What would you take from story-land?