Friday, December 23, 2016

100 Words a Day 977

The library was laden with the dust of centuries. In one corner sat an old man on a chair nearly bursting with stuffing. His frail hands held the yellowed parchment he was reading close to his failing eyes, as though he was reading by a single candle, rather than the candelabra on the table next to him. His skin was sallow where not covered by unsightly age spots and the top of his head was bare apart from a few greasy wisps of hair. The robes hanging off loosely his emaciated body were equally decrepit. They were faded and torn.

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