Each of us is an ambling story and a few of us become bestsellers.

One morning, the street stood forlorn except for her and her crimson hair which were drenched in the sun's rays. Her modest slippers, her velvet skin, her floral print dress and the grin she wore upon was so potent that even the sun shied away from its flame. Her attention had been discounted onto a subject very few would turn their heads to. Her intellect seemed to sway between George Eliot and Shakespeare with brief interruptions from Chaucer and Milton. However, it was in her practice to fall back on Jane Austen for reasons of preference. Books made her drown, but it didn't seem a tad bit asphyxiating. In fact, she wished she would drown more often. If it was a jejune piece, she would move her limbs vigorously to stay afloat and if it was a seducing piece she'd gallivant in the sea hoping she doesn't touch the seabed- an encumbrance to her vivid imagination.

When a creative mind such as her made way to the room of magic down the street, or what is more commonly known as a library; the grey turned into an effulgent scene of myriad colours, outcries became deluges of melodies, sadness became ecstasy. When a bibliophile advances, the world takes a turn. Iniquity is annihilated and peace is replenished. Bibliophiles have the potential to change, a will to succeed and they do experience at some point the vice virtue of promiscuity for books which are actually magnets attracting attention, an insatiable love and most importantly- an indelible obsession.

While she was off to the room of magic, she met a crossroad. She was well acquainted with one of the two . She knew the songs the flowers crooned, the gossip the ferns relished, the kind of zephyr trees answered to and the lingering bees about her and the dove that sat on her shoulder. Whenever she trod upon the road, the Baker greeted her, Uncle Paul would put down his newspaper and wave to her, little George would be scrounging for ways to frighten her out of her skin and most importantly, she could feel a duplicating fervour of ecstasy and thrill that would run down her spine with every step that brought her nearer to the room of magic.

As soon as she reached the Baker's, a mystical feeling crept upon her. It was coercive, leaving no space for mercy. It forced her to take two steps back. She turned around and everything was washed away. Colours faded and she was widowed of her happiness. She reached the crossroad again. And the merry path, complete of acquaintances and fragrances had whisked away into the sky which seemed akin to a devastating night when the moon's lamp was obscured by rambling, sooty clouds and the stars had lost their shimmer and bats had vanquished whatever happiness lingered. She walked along the path. She knew that every road would either lead her to an end or she would come back to square one.

A little further down, she saw the library and she could see light. She took ten steps and suddenly, out of nowhere, mist invaded her way. Now, she got a feeling as if she were drowning. The only distinction was that it asphyxiated her. Her breath stopped. Her throbbing heart calmed down. She looked up at the horizon and snapped back to reality. Sentiments and hunches had catapulted her into the most fatal of experiences.

It was dark, frightening and it made her feel suicidal. The mist unraveled the dark within. It was worse than hell. Bats flew over her shoulders. Her skin was melting and her happiness abated. She walked with thwarted hopes and she saw the worst- it was a graveyard. But it wasn't an ordinary graveyard. It was one that harboured the most extraordinary corpses. She walked and walked for as long as her feet would take her. She perused the epitaphs, tombs and graves which instead of being embellished with flowers, books and extravagant gifts were decayed and inherited by pests. Out of nowhere, emanated spirits and she saw among them Shakespeare, Dickens, Hardy, Eliot, Austen and the Brontë sisters. She felt nauseous. The faces were sullen, nearly annihilated and what was more, the longer she stood there, the darker they became and the worn out books scattered across the graveyard went up in flames in tandem. She ran away. Her steps took her to the library. She looked back and saw the graveyard and the holy apparitions staring at her.

She rushed into the library and a gush of wind followed her. She hurried to the bookshelf and without tarry, undressed it and ran towards the graveyard. She launched books as far as she could. She shouted the names of the great corpses that lay and soon, the mist was obliterated and ashes rekindled their treasure. The grass gained its colour and the graveyard became a rendezvous of bibliophiles. It became an orchard of books and as for the spirits that lingered there, they would serenade readers with a million stories. And it was all because of that ambling story which proved herself as a bestseller and superseded the darkness of the world into an orchard of books, more commonly known as the origin of life.