This is a fictional short story from the point of view of an inanimate object, in this case an antique fairy tale book. It encompasses the hopes and emotions of the book, and what it would tell us could it physically speak out.
Ah, yes, I remember the days when I was a young book. I have been passed down from generation to generation of my family, throughout the years. From the mother to the daughter, to the granddaughter, and so on. Until, that is, I ended up here. Allow me to start where all good and sad stories do. At the beginning.
I remember the day as if it were yesterday. I had just been placed on the shelf of a bookstore, brand new, my cover shining brightly inviting readers to take a peek at the world within. I watched the people as they passed by, waiting for the first person whose eye I caught. It was a young woman wearing a blue dress. She picked me up gently and stroked my spine as she opened me. I remember the way it tickled, making me laugh to myself. She stood for a moment, reading my first few pages, and, oh how they whispered in delight! I could feel her drinking in the words, allowing each and every one of them to flow through her slowly. Rythmically. And when she took me to the counter to buy me, oh the satisfaction I felt as I heard the other books on the shelves whispering with envy. For it was I whom she had chosen above all of them. And then, when she took me to my home and introduced me to the children, I could feel excitement coming from them in waves.
"Mommy, let's read about the knight and the dragon," exclaimed Edmund, the young boy.
"No no, Mommy, lets read about the fairies that are so tiny they can dance in the palm of your hand," cried his younger sister, Lily, in argument.
And how their mother laughed and told them to flip a coin. In the years following that day, I was read from every night to the children as they grew and developed into adults. Edmund, though he seemed to enjoy reading somewhat, appeared to forget about me as he grew older. Lily, however, did not, continuing the nightly tradition well up into her teenage years.
Then the sadness came. It came in the form of their Mother's death. Then I was passed on to Lily, and though I enjoyed many more years of being read from in her ownership, the memory of her Mother never faded. But much to my surprised, Lily passed away as well! I was then passed on to her daughter. And though she rarely found the time to read from my pages, she at least kept me well dusted and on a clean shelf!
Then one day, I was introduced to her daughter, Sarah. I must say this, for I must speak the truth. Sarah was an evil little girl! She bent down the corners of my pages when her Mother was turned the other way, and despite all of her Mother's best efforts to tell her that I was a book in my prime, meant to be respected, she still neglected to take care of me! But seeing as how books' voices are unable to raise above that of a whisper, I was foiled in all of my attempts to shout at the little witch! And then, one day, Sarah's Mother died as well, leaving me behind with Sarah herself. Which is, unfortunately, what brings me to my current state. In this cold, dark box, in this dreary, dusty attic.
Something that has been lost, forgotten, and neglected. I sit here in this lonely place with no one to whisper to besides moldy comic books, hoping. Hoping that one day, Sarah will finally come to her senses and think, "My, whatever happened to that old fairy tale book of my Mother's?"
Then, perhaps, she will bring me back out into the light and the warmth to be read to the children of my family for many more generations to come.