A cupboard full of books, stuffed and stacked until no more could fit. A few were piled on top along with assorted bottles in various glowing colors. The cupboard itself was unremarkable wood stained and burned from accidents and spills. Its varnish wearing away in places where many hands have touched to open its doors or run fingers along its shelves. The books were a multitude of colors and subjects. Dust collecting on book that haven’t moved in months, others freshly thumbed through with new wrinkles on their spines. A tiny worn step stool sat in font of the cupboard on the worn out rug. The rugs flower design long turned brown from muddy shoes and dirty feet. Sunlight has bleached whatever was left to pastels. The rug is edged by dark hardwood floors, worn smooth from years of use. Recently painted walls were no match for the messes created, their perfection already marred by potion splatters. The window’s tiny squares of glass are immaculately clean, the frame not as much. Ridges were worn into the wood from the brass latch and fingers pushing the window open. The desk under the window as in worse shape than the cupboard. Two of the four drawers were stuck shut their treasures forever locked inside. A hole was burned all the way through the top of the desk fixed with a small square of glass and some metal. The top of the desk was littered with ink, paper, books thrown open on an assortment of subjects. Bottles cluttered the corners of the desk threatening to topple from their precarious perches, all stuffed with herbs and ingredients. Feather pens were scattered around the room with an array of notes tucked under them. The largest cluster was around a well worn arm chair a similar floral pattern had vanished along with the rugs.


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Writing short stories and flash pieces.

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