Paws and Pages: Bookwolf's Blog

Reflections, rambles and reviews of all things bookish, from me, bookwolf!

My Self-Imposed Kindle Ban.

I read a lot of books. And by a lot, I mean so many that I finish one book and within a matter of days have finished three more and barely remember any of what I read 3 days ago. Back in 2014 when they released one of the early versions of iOS, apple did one of the best and worst things. They made it so you couldn't remove the iBooks app off your phone. It was the best thing because it opened up a whole new reading world. It was the worst because it opened up a whole new reading world and quickly became an addiction. Within a few years, I'd read and purchased nearly 800 books. Yes, I know, how can one girl read so much? Don't ask me because I don't have an answer. Today, I took a scroll back down memory lane and found that I don't remember reading any of the books I have in my Apple books library. I decided to remove kindle from my phone and revisit the 800 books that have sat growing digital dust for the last few years. I plan on documenting this process and reviewing as many of the books that I can. The me that was reading eBooks back in 2014 is far different to the me reading eBooks today, so this should be an interesting journey. It might also open up endless reading recommendations, so be prepared for the reading recommendation flood!

White Breads Woe. Once upon a time in a land where health food reigned supreme, there lived a lonely loaf of white bread. It sat sadly amongst the shelves full of high fibre, grain filled, vegan friendly and gluton free bread that disappeared as hands reached to place it in baskets and carts. For days, the bread sat there, wishing for a hand to lift it from the shelf. It started to age, losing its fresh white colour. Yet the store owner left it there, believing that someone would buy it. On a day that was just like any other,a young child and her mother entered the store. After filling their cart with milk, fruit and other essentials, the pair made their way down the bread aisle. They passed by the white loaf, leaving its hopes crushed again. “There’s no bread for us here.” The mother said with an irritated sigh. “Yes there is!” The little girl called as she ran back down the aisle. “It’s right here!” “Your right!” Replied the mother. The bread danced in its plastic bag as the. small hand gently lifted it from the shelf. Almost as if she knew the thoughts of the loaf, the girl whispered to it. “we’ll take you home. You can sit on our counter next to miss peanut and mister jam. They seem to like each other.” With feelings of the joy the loaf reveled in its spot atop the rice as they made their way to the counter. Several beeps were heard and then the bread was surrounded by darkness as it was placed in a bag. “Have a nice day!” The cashier called as the group left the store. “Oh I will.” Muttered the bread in response. The bread was taken to a nice house with pretty blue paint and an abundance of flowers in the garden. It lived, though not for long in a state of happiness. All was happy and the bread did not see another lonely shelf again.

The Fire Of Freedom The candle flame danced seductively as I gazed into its unending depths. The curtains twirling in a lopsided pirouette caught my eye for the briefest of moments, yet my gaze was drawn back to the flame. It would take one motion to end it all, to send the flame dancing across everything in its path leaving nothing untouched. I would make my way from the house leaving no evidence, not a fingerprint would be found. Have you ever considered murder to get what you want? I have. In fact, I’ve more than considered it. The tools I need sit before mee, their wishes humming discordantly in my mind. My consideration has become a monster inside my head, tempting and taunting me in a haunting song of ambivalence. “tip the candle. Tip it.” The lyrics called to me. I clutched my head in manic desperation, wanting it all to stop. To end. So, with one quick yet uncertain motion, I tip the candle. The flames spread rapidly, eating papers and books that lay in their path. With that, I’m up and out the window. Running. Running and choking on my crimes. My heart pounds heavily in my chest like a jackhammer, yet I do not stop to rest or turn back to watch what I have done unfold. The voices have stopped now, the loss of music making my head feel empty and desolate. If I concentrate hard enough though, one voice remains. It sings of my freedom and how I shall never be found. I lean into the voice, allowing it to give me strength. With my new found strength I run free; my wishes granted at last.

The House Of Dreams

All was quiet at number fifty-four Emerald Court. The lights had all been turned off, as had the televisions, computers and other electronics used by the family. MR Jones laid snoring, dreams of brown liquid in bottles, tall women in tight dresses and small bags of green herbs fuelling his night-time pleasure. MRS Jones lay beside him, a pillow over her head to block out the chainsaw she slept with and extra blankets covering her to hide the hurt. She dreamt of safety. A house behind stone walls, two big dogs and a steel gate to lock at night. Their daughter Sophie was stuck in a nightmare, harsh words and violence keeping her trapped. Her brother dreamt of soccer balls and trophies. Of happy family times and bike rides with friends. The house was silent.  Battered and too tired to dream. It did have a wish though, for smooth walls and doors set right on hinges that didn’t squeak. For tonight it would rest until tomorrow, where new troubles would lie. For tonight it would remain a house of dreams until it would become the house of horrors once more.

The Train Of Secrets

“Tickets please.” I droned, walking the aisle of the train, occasionally holding onto the back of a seat for balance. The train tonight is loud, making my job unpleasant. The rocking, the clickety-clacking, the talking and the thoughts of the people aboard the train crowd in on me, surrounding me, trapping me in a bubble of cacophonous noise which makes my head thump. Everyone, everything on board this train has a secret. The blonde woman sitting next to the business man in the grey suit is skipping dinner with her husband to see her lover. The businessman himself holds a secret, one so dark that if his work found out, he wouldn’t be a businessman anymore. The mother, thrusting a crumpled bundle of paper at me while she tries to soothe her screaming infant knows she hasn’t got the ticket, but hopes I won’t examine the paper she proffers, her chipped glitter polish winks at me. It knows the secret, I know the secret, and the train knows the secret. the train itself has a secret. It will derail soon, tired of working. Tired of carrying people and their taint. Tired of the flood of noise, the damage it suffers. And I, will delight in that. relish it. Hold the secret close, for I am the secret keeper of the train. And we, my dear passengers are aboard the train of secrets.

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