“You find out your neighbour’s brick house is actually made of painted books. Which one do you want to read, and what happens when you take it?”
All I can do is stare up at this incredible house.
All this time my neighbour’s house is made out of books!
I knew she liked reading but I never thought she would build a house out of all of her pride and joys.
Seeing them painted and stuck together makes me feel slightly sad.
This bound piece of literature has been abused for the use of architecture. That hurts.
As I stare closer at the books, I see the titles on the spines shining through the paint.
Sliding my finger over the rigged spine I catch a glimpse of, ‘Les Miserables’, ‘Great Expectations’, ‘The Shining’, ‘Sherlock Holmes’. Classics after classics, stacked on top of each other to build this great house that I spent time in as a child getting babysat by the lady that lives there.
I had been sitting in a house made of books.
Just below the window that looks into the dining room there is a book sticking out, ridged to the rest of its siblings. I want to save it! Save the book from this torture.
Sneakily, making sure no one sees me, I walk over to the window, peering into the window to make sure my neighbour is nowhere in sight.
Carefully I take the book in my fingers.
I think for a second to give it a push back into the wall, but for some reason I suddenly feel the urge to do the opposite and I’m suddenly pulling the book out of the wall.
The wall shakes and my hands tremble.
I think maybe to push the book in now, to try and save my mistake but already the wall is starting to collapse in.
Without any other hesitation, I pull the book out of the wall and run.
I run, just as the house falls in on itself and I hear a scream.