Be the change you wish to see in the world. - Mahatma Gandhi

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all. - Helen Keller

If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?

- Lewis Carrol

I went to a restaurant that serves "breakfast at any time" so I ordered French toast during the Renaissance. - Steven Wright

- Chapter One -

-Part Two-

The splintered door opened with both a creak and a bell, making a subtle entry impossible. Still, no one seemed to be inside.

Georgie let down his cumbersome backpack and breathed in the nostalgic must of old books. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the shop, he was overcome with vellichor.

There must have been over ten thousand books crammed into the single, dilapidated room, which in fact appeared to be the entirety of the cottage interior. Dust sat on their covers, hung in the air and clung to the cobwebs that festooned the rafters.

With creaking floorboards as a soundtrack, Georgie gingerly stepped further into the shop, heading towards a towering stack of books to his right. With a forefinger, he wiped clean the thick layer of dust to reveal the title A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. It was a book he’d wanted to read when he was younger. Indeed, Georgie even thought that he’d downloaded the ebook once, but had been too busy to read it.

Blowing off the dust, he picked up the archaic book and opened it on the first page.

In his head, he read the words...

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us...

The words seemed to sing from the page in mellifluous tones, inspiring breath-taking awe as such eloquence so often does. Georgie re-read the sentence, then read it a third time, glutinous in his love for the language. In a world of LOL’s and BRB’s, the old-truck driver relished the opportunity to indulge in such masterful use of a dying language.

“Ahh, Dickens.” Came a voice from the shadows.

It was a kind voice, soft and wistful, and yet the shock of it caused Georgie to shriek in fright.

A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood at the back of the room, half hidden behind another ginormous stack of hardbacks.

“Jesus!” Said Georgie. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” Said the woman, who now stepped out from behind her book-barrier. “I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her clothing was very much like her bookstore: of a different age. She wore an ankle length dress of light blue with white polka dots, black ballet shoes, and a yellow bow in her hair. Her spectacles were large and round, and made her tiny facial features appear even more mouselike in size.

She took a step closer to Georgie, who still hadn’t recovered from the scare. Nonetheless, he was able to stammer out, “Oh that’s alright, just umm, caught me off guard.”

The woman smiled with warmth and gave an understanding nod.

“Yes, that’s the magic of Dickens.” She mused. “He’ll take you to another world, he will. As will so many of the authors you’ll find here. Why, just now I was lost in the works of Emily Brönte. Never even heard you come in. Don’t know why I bothered to get that bell. Don’t get anyone in here, and when I do, I’m off in dreamland, too far gone to be reached by a distant ringing. I only got up to make a cuppa tea. That’s when I saw you there. Sorry again for giving you a jump.”

It took Georgie a moment to respond. He wasn’t used to people speaking to him at such length. No one was. Not anymore. And especially not a stranger! It was all rather a lot to take in. When he did find his manner, and his mind, Georgie managed to get out a simple, “Not to worry.”

“Oh good.” She started up again. “Well anyway, my name’s Anna.”

“Georgie.”

“Pleasure to meet you Georgie. Would you like to join me for a cuppa tea? I haven’t had anyone in here for God knows how long. The company would be nice.”

Georgie almost collapsed. A stranger, offering tea and company to a dishevelled traveler? Was she mad?! Did she not read the news? People were dangerous. Murderous even! And those that weren’t were sick; kill you by accident. Come to think of it, what was Georgie doing getting himself into such a predicament. It was quite possible this middle-aged lady was one of those terrorist gangbangers he’d heard about on the radio.

He glanced back at Anna.

She didn’t really look like a terrorist gangbanger. She looked rather lovely, to be honest. Someone he would very much like to have tea with. But was this a trap? How was he supposed to know what a terrorist gangbanger looked like. And how could he be sure she wasn’t sick?

“Sorry.” Anna said, interrupting his spiralling stream of consciousness. “It’s just, well you haven’t said a word for about thirty seconds and you have the facial expression of someone chewing a wasp...are you okay?”

Georgie suddenly snapped out of it. What was he thinking. This woman wasn’t some nefarious killer. She was just being friendly, like people used to be.

Georgie laughed. “I’m fine.” He said. “It’s just been a while since anyone offered such hospitality.” He beamed at Anna, who returned the kindness with gusto.

“I’d love a cuppa.”

“Splendid.” Squealed Anna. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

There are so many beautiful, delightful, and amusing words in the English language, it’s hard for me to choose just one.

If pressured, however, I guess I’d pick the word ‘Eloquence’ which means the ability to use language and express your opinions well.

Not only do I love the sound of the word but I strive to obtain its definition.

Still, it didn’t feel right choosing only one, and so below is an excerpt from a longer piece. I tried to use as many of my favourite words as I could and also hope there are at least a few sentences that could be examples of eloquence.

(The piece was a bit long, so I split it up and I’m uploading part two separately. I’d love it if you checked it out. Any feedback is always welcome and valued)

Where the Coffee makes Itself

- Chapter One -

- Part One -

Georgie Gnu was tired.

In fact, he struggled to remember a time he had been more tired than he was at that particular moment. Not only had he not eaten for forty-eight hours, and not only had the previous night’s sleep been rudely cut short by a five-a.m. downpour, but, the ramshackle gadabout, with his life on his back, had walked for nearly three hundred miles that past week! Over dales and moors, crags and creeks, pikes and tarns; and all this in winkle-pickers, mind you! The blisters were agony. His knees, aquiver. The fatigue and hunger - dizzying.

But what choice did he have? A man needed to work in this world, did he not?

The irony was that whilst this wretched existence demanded he earn his living, it seemed very reluctant to allow him such a privilege.

Every town he’d passed through, from Wakefield to Woburn, had told him with a shake of their head that, No, sorry, there was no work there.

Perhaps this really is the end for us drivers, Georgie thought gloomily as he coddiwompled out of yet another town. He’d met the same disheartening answers there and a weariness had begun to tug on the spirits of the young wayfarer.

If I can just make it to London, he thought, then I’ll be right. There’s bound to be work in London!

Having just left Toddington, young Mr Gnu was less than a day’s walk from the capital, a reflection that gave him new strength. And so, with a refreshed spring in his step, the vagabond strode down the trail to continue his hunt.

On the edge of town, half-way to Wingfield, Georgie came across a peculiar looking building. A tiny old cottage with a thatched roof and wooden shutters over the windows stood wind beaten on the crest of Dunstable Hill.

As he neared the cottage, he saw a sign above the doorway that read ‘Ye Old Bookshop’. These days, one was lucky to find a book, let alone a bookshop, and so led by curiosity and bewilderment, Georgie entered the little store.

The cogs and pistons don’t run so smoothly these days, have you noticed?

In the mornings, we splutter into motion and strange noises escape the nooks and crannies that held their tongue not so long ago. They’re subtle - for now - but they’re there, distant like the air-raid siren of a neighbouring town.

The end is coming. You hear it over the hills. But there’s still time. There’s still time if you heed the warning, pay attention to that distant siren, those subtle sounds; they are both your coming demise and your saving grace.

There’s still time.

There’s still time...

Despite knowing better, we place trust in such an elusive crook.

Time: that deceitful shapeshifter, a charlatan of shadows who quickens the spilling sand in our truancy of presence.

How were we to know?

Invincible in our youth, we set fire to our insides, insolent to our opportunities and entitled in our being.

We challenge whoever or whatever thinks they can steal us from this life, staring them down with a naivety we mistake for courage.

Our minds and bodies sponge up the poisons of the world and in our innocence we confuse the numbing with liberation; the fleeting confidence with self-esteem.

But Time, despite all his deceit, is willing to teach. We just have to pay attention. We will all fall victim to his trickery, all curse his name as he cheats us. But this is the price we pay for our disrespect.

Like a right of passage, we allow ourselves to be led astray, taken by our ego into a world where we live forever and where Time is merely the dance-floor for our existence.

But this is the trap. We learn our ego is in cahoots with the spilling sand and as we are distracted by this dreamland, the years slip away.

And then...one morning, we realise the spring with which we once started the day has become a splutter.

Noises are coming from the silent spaces of our body.

The cogs and pistons don’t seem to be moving so smoothly.

We are getting older.

But if we are willing to listen. Willing to learn...there is still Time.

There is always Time.