Once you got through the ominous steel doors the Last Word was actually a homey little place. I mean, it still wasn’t too welcoming: the main lighting was dim, casting more shadows than illumination. The walls weren’t painted or plastered, instead openly revealing the bricks and mortar the building was made of. The carpets were a worn red, stained in many places with brown drips of coffee and the older blotches of dark beers. The tables and chairs that dotted the room were all rescued from charity shops, none of them from matching sets.
But once you settled in you noticed the cozy touches; like while all the furniture was mismatched it was quite comfortable. The carpets may have been grim relics but the place smelled crisp and fresh as the climate control maintained a pleasant atmosphere. And while the main lighting may have been a little dim each table sported a little lamp, just as mismatched as the other furniture. They were an unusual touch that made sense only when you took notice of the stories.
The brick walls were lined on all sides with bookcases and shelves stuffed with plastic binders of varying sizes. They were all stories of one sort or another, but there were no books in the sense of a published, sold in all good stores kinda things. The stories found here might be only surviving copies in existence.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish