The old bookstore was my sacred place a place to where I could escape all the worries when I read books I don’t just read the story I be the story I end up imagining myself in the story’s and what would happen if I was the charictor sometimes I wish I could dissapeer into them ....

When I entered the old bookstore that day, to cast off the stresses of the external world, I found my friend. It was leaning in thoughtful repose upon the upper shelf of the general fiction area, practically invisible beneath layers of dust. Probably a store clerk had misplaced it, tossing it carelessly amidst unintentional adversaries. Patrons always gravitated to its neighbour, that ubiquitous, ...

The small book store tucked in the corner of the small town was more than just an old shop.

It was home.

An escape.

Like running through the forest, far, far away from all pressure, all eyes.

Only those who look down on me without judgement are there.

Birds flying through the trees, or librarians.

“Hello, Ms. Lila!” I said joyfully as I lugged the library door open. It squealed in protest.

“Hell...

The old bookstore on the corner of Maple Street had always been a special place. It was the kind of shop that seemed timeless, tucked away like a hidden gem amidst the bustling city. Its weathered brick facade and wooden sign, which read “Morrow’s Books,” were familiar to the locals who passed by daily. A bell above the door would ring softly whenever someone entered, welcoming them with a comfort...

Come when the nights are bright with stars

**Or when the moon is mellow;**

Come when the sun his golden bars

**Drops on the hay-field yellow.**

Come in the twilight soft and gray,

Come in the night or come in the day,

Come, O love, whene’er you may

And you are welcome, Come when the nights are bright with stars

No

Or when the moon is mellow;

Come when the sun his golden bars

Drops on the ...

I walk into are old, local bookstore. a smell of books both old and new meet my nose, new books have a sharp tang to them, while old books smell slightly musty, both are warm and comforting.

The old bookstore has always been my escape, but today it felt different, almost magical….

I dismiss the thought though, it’s probably just because theirs more people in here then usual, why are their that man...

As I walked along the rows of bookshelves, slowly breathing in the smell of the paper, I relished being in the space, among some of my favorite stories. I reached my hand out and ran it along the backs of the books, feeling the rough surface of the paperbacks and admiring the striking design of the books. There were all matter of colors, from the deepest blacks to the shiniest of golds and the bri...

The same wooden frame, rustic shelves, soft music, lively plants. Every familiar comfort of my beloved bookstore except this distinguished feeling I couldn’t figure out.

Usually on tough days I find solace within the romance section. So that’s where I went firstly. A velvety red spine with fancy lettering caught my eye. “The chosen princess” is what it read. I’ve never been into fantasy but th...

Everyone, at some point in their lives, have walked into an old bookstore in hopes they’d be swept away by secret magic, right?

But I wasn’t expecting that today when my friends, Laurie, Hunter and I, entered the small bookstore we used to pass by on our way to our university. Back during our first year, anyway, when we lived in a student accommodation. Now we lived elsewhere, in our third and fi...

The old bookstore had always been my escape, but today it felt different, almost magical, as it was suffused with the rich aroma of coffee. I looked up and locked eyes with the server. He had worked at this bookstore since it opened, and his recommendations were stellar. I hadn’t spoken to him without a cash register between us. But there he stood, pouring coffee, his lips forming an invitation, h...