Creative Writing Assessment

PLAN:

1st person view.
In a magical library.
There is a magical force at the back of the store which is what gives the books their magical abilities.
When you read a book you are literally sucked into the world it encompasses, giving you a first hand experience of the fantasy world around you.
There is everything from dusty old books withering away in the back of the store to the new, bright and attractive looking books nearer to the front.
The bright books give a short fantasy tail, sweet and colourful, easy to differentiate from reality.
The old books hold a powerful and long story that are sometimes impossible to differentiate from reality, causing some to lose their minds once they return to the real world, and causing others to never make it out at all.
The books work sort of like drugs
Very rarely people go for the older books.
When you are sucked into the story, the story is completely on rails but tricks your mind into thinking you are making the choices.
The stores selves go from newest at the front to oldest at the back.
As you move from front to back, the store seems to transform from a clean, well kept store, everything neatly lined up, moving back to a dark and dusty mess, with cobwebs hanging from the roof and books slanted or fallen over on their shelves, some even on the ground. notes on scape paper and quills in pots of inc also scatter the mythical library.

STORY:

Pushing on the dark, rustic door, I entered the magical world of literature. Instantly noticing the rows of neatly stacked books, all bursting with vibrant colours and titles, an absolute polarity from the decaying exterior of the building.
The Large Atrium’s golden arch that takes centre stage fills me with a great sense of awe. The detailed etchings of historical and mythological figures in the walls fill my mind with wondrous thoughts and daydreams of all manners. Looking up at the ceiling which stands far above me, I notice the magnificent painting that stretches from corner to corner, just like those of ancient greek buildings.
The cheerful librarian, that’s rosy cheeks contrasted his deep brown eyes and curly black hair, raises his gaze from a white sheet of paper laid out before him, looking me dead in the eye with an uneasy smile and says,
“It’s quite a shocker, isn’t it? All that rustling, shouting, and trampling of feet on the streets outside, I can’t stand it, the tranquility of my books and library suit me far better. Just as you will soon discover”.
Upon him finishing, the books, which shivered on the shelves with an unearthly feel about them, caught my eye, diverting them from a previously locked state. An eerie yet idyllic tone wavers throughout the dusty air as I journey between the maze of shelves. Walking past a group of young boys which rest on the ground, their backs perched against the wall, their eyes fixed on the novels that lay within their delicate little hands, completely still except for the subtle rise and fall of their chests, rising and falling, rising and falling, all in perfect sync.
Intrigued by the peculiar sight, I wander on, walking into the depths of the seemingly endless shelves. The further I go, the more the disarray and neglect of the novels becomes apparent. Books had been knocked over and even fallen off their shelves. Sheets of paper and pots of ink also dot the shelves which serve as a home for cobwebs.
Dodging the papers that scatter the floor, I make my way to the heart of the library.
The lights which sit high above me off the sides of the upper shelves flicker with the arrival of a queer yet extraordinary sense of energy filling the corridors. The dusty air, which tastes dry and dull, begins to thickens, making it hard to breath.
Hearing the words float softly through the air, I feel them emit their raw power on to me and the novels as the words settled into the pages. The previously dormant books slowly arise into a quivering state, just as an elderly person would awake from a deep rest. Slowly becoming more and more vibrant till they are bursting with energy, like young children on christmas morning. At this point they shuffle off their shelves and float towards the front of the library.
Entranced by their peculiarity, I follow them back to where I’d began. Leaving behind the dark yet soothing depths of the library, making my way back past the derelict books, the young boys, who where just awaking from their serene world which had captivated their minds back into the eccentric reality of the library. Finally I pass the vibrant books and walk out into the shining atrium which houses the librarian and the inspiring painting
Quickly I realise that it has changed since my last visit to this section of the building. No longer was there an angel reaching down from the heavens towards the injured soldier, instead, the painting depicted a mix of flowers and vines entangled within each other, surrounding the injured soldier who rested, alone but seemingly at peace.
I reach the front of the building where I watch the books neatly stack upon each other in flawless unison to the right of the librarian, who reaches over and picks a small red book from the top of the pile and begins to read it.
Walking passed the librarian and the back through the shimmering gold archway, I glance once more at the magnificence that was this building before heading out the door and back into the noisy clattering of boots on the cobble pathway, the dying evening light, and the smell of animals and food. It was only now that i realise how right the librarian had been.