This is the rough draft of a project I've been working on for a while now. I keep on going through periods where I get really unproductive and I'm hoping that I might get some feedback on it.
Halloween is the best time of the year. It is a time for frightening, for masquerading, and for comedy. It is the one time of year when it is acceptable to be yourself or anything else you would ever wish to be. It is the time to not hold back, the time to free oneself from all notions of correctness. Halloween is a celebration of the past, of traditions, and of horrors. A great number of people enjoy being frightened at Halloween, including myself.
I am writing this as I sit here, surrounded by dust-covered books in the dank, damp basement of Samuel's bookstore. This room is lined with oak bookshelves, filled with rare decaying books. Some of the books are in need of repair, and others are simply too valuable to place with the rest of the books upstairs. The bittersweet musk of aged paper overwhelms anyone who enters the basement of the store, immediately greeting their senses as they descend the stairs. I help with the store above this room, and am the only employee of Mr. Samuel...Come to think of it, I have been working for him and living with him for a while and I simply cannot recall his last name...I should know this...he has told me...I think. Oh, there I go rambling again! That is not a very polite thing to do to such a friendly journal like you! Mr. Samuel should be closing up shop soon; he had wanted to record the last sale of the day himself. He is an odd little old man, he had the need to hire me as a caretaker, and yet he still demands that I do not help him!
In his old age, Samuel has found himself not as capable as he once was at minding the store; mainly he takes it easy, sitting in one area of the store to help the customers while I mind the register. In the back of the bookstore, he sits with his feet propped up on an ottoman. His favorite chair is an old leather wingback, and normally I see him sitting there with a book of verse under his nose. With how steep the angle of his face gets while he reads, I am surprised that his glasses stay on his face, and do not fall onto the pages of the book he reads. Occasionally from my post at the front desk, I see the flash of bright white hair move from that chair and through the maze of bookcases to help a lost looking customer. Being the ever friendly man Samuel is, he views the store as his 'realm; the customers are his subjects, and his duty is to protect them from buying the wrong book. Samuel loves talking to the customers, asking them how they are, and if he can help them. Mr. Samuel always has a bright smile on his wrinkled face.
It truly amazes me how he approaches them. One would expect a ninety-nine-year old to move very slowly, using loud, jerky movements, but that is not the case with him. Sometimes we joke that he was trained as a ninja or assassin, to be silent and stealthy. Those who do not frequent the bookstore sometimes mistake him for a manikin. Once I had the opportunity to observe him whilst a new novel captivated his attention. I could barely tell when he breathed, and my only clues to whether he still lived, were the turning of pages and the different emotions in his light gray eyes. Our frequent visitors know better, for they never fall for his silent, almost motionless act. Some of the feistier oldies try beating him in staring contests; those contests always end in laughter when Samuel beats them.
He takes his time observing people; he watches them silently, waiting to make a move as he decides whether to help them. If he does not wish to help them, he will make fools of them; Samuel only helps those customers who are kind and not causing trouble. He hates when the younger crowd come into the store and cause a ruckus, from distracting the other patrons, to being rude to me at the front desk. If he can scare then, Samuel will. One of his favorite pass times is putting arrogant people in their places.