Quill :writing my story

 Quill: writing my story

 

I’m an ancient writing instrument of great magnificence. I’m a quill. I was born in the 6^th century in China and existed until the 19^th century, whispering words to parchment.

I was usually crafted from goose, swan, or turkey feathers. Goose feathers were common, swan feathers were considered superior, and crow feathers were used for fine lines. I either had a blunt end or a pointy one. Thomas Jefferson kept a flock of twenty geese so that he never ran out of feathers.

The feathers, preferably from the left wing, were cured by heat and dried to harden them. The tip was cut and shaped to form a point.

It was all exciting in the beginning, being dipped into an inkwell and dancing across paper. I felt important to be used to sign decrees and poets to express their love and longings and scholars to record their learnings. I was also privy to secret thoughts in diaries.

It’s quite a feather in my cap that I was used to sign the Magna Carter, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the Declaration of Independence.

Life was not easy. When my tip wore down with use, I was reshaped with a knife and ouch! That hurt. Unlike your modern keyboards and pens, you had to be patient when using me, holding me gently and work me gently, because I was very pressure sensitive. I brought dignity and authority to the art of writing.

Time brought change and convenience. I was replaced by the fountain pen in 1827 with its inbuilt inkwell, and yes, it works faster, but not quite up to my page. Just so you know, I’m still proudly used by calligraphers, keeping alive the art of beautiful writing.   

I abhor the ballpoint pen. So cheap and graceless, with no personality at all. Ha-Ha! I guess I’m still entitled to opinions at least.

I’m now more than vintage. I’m nobility. I sit in antique shops or in a drawer, bringing on waves of nostalgia and watching parents explain to children my heritage.

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This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z 2026 challenge. 

 

Plant : All I need is tender, loving care.

 Plant

 

Hello there, my plant parent,

It’s me, your green, well-behaved cutie, lighting up your day. I’m sure that you’re grateful that I never argue or pick a fight. I‘m just a quiet little fellow thriving on sunshine, your affection, water, and positive vibes.

I fondly recall the day you decided that you needed a plant in your life, went out, bought me from a handcart, planted me in a pot, and assumed the role of plant parent.

I’m aware that you were never a plant person and are a 'late bloomer.'

Though I wouldn’t call you a ‘green thumb,' you take care of me pretty well, and I’m grateful for that. Your gardening skills and knowledge may not be world-class, but you never shy away from learning, trying, and improving.

You talk to me, try to water me regularly, make sure that I get the right amount of sunshine, feed me with homemade fertilisers, and generally try to make my life comfortable. I notice everything.

I shall not dwell on the occasions when you have neglected me, overwatered me, or have forgotten to water me. Yes, my leaves drooped and my spirits too. I forgive you and remain positive, stretching towards the sunlight. I decorate your home, purify the air, and am a quiet observer of the happenings in your home.

I thoroughly appreciate the fact that when you go on a vacation, you place me in a tub of water and hope for the best.

My favourite part?

The delight and excitement on your face each time you spot a new leaf. You post and share pictures of me on social media. You’re one happy person, and I feel loved

So here’s to me and you.

Let’s grow and thrive at our own pace—slowly and steadily, taking one leaf at a time.

Thank you for my siblings. I love the company. 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026

Onion: tears and layers

I’m the onion, the root vegetable with a papery skin that brings tears to the human eye. Hey! I don’t do it on purpose. I’m just made that way—layered and strong. LOL. I come in 3 colors—yellow, red, and white.

Do you know the real reason why I make you cry?

When you cut me, you begin to cry because cutting releases an enzyme that converts amino acids into a gas called propanethiol S-oxide that generates tears.

I begin my life underneath the soil. Hence, I’m covered in moist mud and grow in the dark. One fine day, I’m pulled out, cleaned, thrown into sacks and taken to the markets to be sold. You buy me and take me home to use me in your cooking. I can also be consumed when I’m not fully ready. I’m then called scallion or spring onion.

Once I enter your kitchen, I know my days are numbered. I avoid looking at the chopping board. Each time you peel me, tears begin to stream down your cheeks as if I’ve broken your heart. Sometimes, you even leave the kitchen for a break. Sorry, I don’t mean to cause you so much distress. Again, it’s just my DNA.

I’m the most common and widely used ingredient in your dishes. I’m the backbone of your kitchen. You slice me, chop me, puree me, saute me, and roast me. Fry me to a crisp brown and then puree me. There’s hardly a dish in which I don’t feature. You use me in your curries, dals, pulao, chutneys, burgers, soups, and salads raw. Yet you don’t give me due credit when a dish turns out well. You're busy singing the praises of the new spice powder that you tried or the rosy red tomatoes that you used. 

I’m laden with health benefits, like promoting heart health, reducing inflammation, reducing the risk of certain cancers, etc.

Soak my skin in water overnight and feed your plants that water and watch them thrive.

I may ruin your breath and bring tears to your eyes, but I know my worth. Your dishes wouldn’t taste the same without me. 

Which other item in your kitchen deserves its own story?

This post is part of the BlogchatterA2Z2026 challenge. 

Newspaper narrates

 Newspaper

 

I’m your newspaper. I’m delivered to you early in the morning by an enthusiastic delivery boy who drops me outside your door.  

I come bearing news from all around the world. I‘m generally white, sporting the news in black ink and put together at unearthly hours, as you slumber.  

I’m amused by the riddle that you humans have created around me—What's black and white and read all over?

As you know, I’m divided into sections and columns—national news, international news, local news, business news, sports page, obituaries, crosswords, word games, and comic strips. My cousins the tabloids arrive with all the latest gossip. 

In the good old days, I was respected, even revered. Whatever I said was the gospel truth. Your dads, uncles, and grandads began their day with me. How awesome is that!

I watch many of you reach for your cellphones as soon as you wake up and I feel a little abandoned. You seem to get all that you require from your glowing screens or what you fondly refer to as the 'idiot box. I feel like a misfit in your digital world.  

Once in your hands, you skim through me; on rare occasions, you might read an article in full. A few of you are still old school and believe in me. Thank you.

I’m not just your news provider. You find a dozen other uses for me. By the evening, the news I carry is considered stale, so you use me to line your shelves, clean your mirrors, and mop up your spills. I’m shaped into conical bell holders, and you even sell me.

One thing that makes me proud and happy is that Indians observe January 29^th as Indian Newspaper Day in remembrance of James Augustus Hicky, who founded India’s first newspaper, namely Hicky’s Bengal Gazette.

People don’t think much of me anymore. Still, I’m hanging in, doing what I do best, giving you your daily feed of Taaza Khabar. 

THis post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z 2026 challenge. 

Money Talks

 

Hello! How do you do!

'Tis the crisp notes, plastic in your wallet, and the jingling coins dancing in your pocket, greeting you.  

You humans, you obsess over me, you almost worship me; to some of you, I’m the centre of your universe. I’m flattered, but remember there are things I cannot buy, and you will do well to keep that in mind. I cannot buy you good health; even the richest folk cannot escape illness. However, I can buy you healthcare. I cannot buy you friendship, but I can help you maintain friendships. Love, respect, and time are definitely out of my reach.

 In my early days, I was a bag of salt or grain. I’ve evolved from the barter system to metal coins to paper and plastic. I lived in leather pouches and chests, but now, besides your wallets, I also live in your phones and computers. You cannot see me or touch me, but you work hard for me. You’re always looking for bargains and looking to spend as little of me as possible. Well, thrift is a good habit, but don’t get too miserly—like that Scrooge. On the other hand, don't get carried away by sales and discounts. You actually end up spending more than saving. 

I see you joyful, crying, celebrating, fighting, and arguing because of my presence or absence. I’m embarrassed when you flaunt me and saddened when you waste and abuse me. I’m so proud of you when you use me for a good cause—when your generosity enables comfort, dreams, and safety. To some of you, I'm a means to an end, and to others, I'm the end. 

It is said that I’m the root of all evil. Well, that depends on how you use me. Use me wisely, and I can open doors and windows for you. The lack of me is also said to be the root of evil. It may cause you to turn devious, ruthless, and even murderous. That again causes me great sorrow.

I’m neither good nor bad. It’s about how you view me and what you make of me.  

Does money control you, or are you in control of the money you have? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026. 

Light: The Bright Side

 

 

I’m something that you desperately miss during a power outage. If you’re a bookworm, be it natural or artificial light, you can’t do without me.

I’ve been around since the beginning, ever since God said, “Let there be light.” I travel fast, faster than you running to catch the last bus. You humans adore both the natural and artificial me. I’m in the functional light bulb, tube light, and streetlamp. It’s the gorgeous me in the chandelier and lamp.

You love me dressed in gold at dawn and in weaves of silver at night. I live in the stars. It was I who guided the three wise men to the stable where the little babe Jesus was born.

I can shimmer like auroras, glow like fireflies, and strike like lightning. You’ll see me twinkling on the Christmas tree and in the steady, tranquil flame of a diya. In fact, Diwali is also known as the ‘festival of light’ because I symbolise good and drive away the darkness of evil. How do you love fireworks? It’s just me strutting my stuff. Plants love me and use me to make their food. You are constantly advised to feast your eyes on the natural me when you wake up and not glue yourself to your phone. I’m so important when you click your selfies and pictures. Good luck with that!

Lighthouses fascinate you. Well, it’s me guiding the ships to safety and informing you that your home is dusty. You, humans, also love making a crack at me when you say, "Don't be a tubelight.” I don’t feel offended; I can take a joke.”

Then again, I don’t just physically provide illumination; I’m also used metaphorically, and that’s quite a feather in my cap—I stand for positivity, hope, truth, and guidance. I may also be used to describe a romantic interest or someone you love dearly.

And how I love this little quote by Marianne Williamson,

“Light is to darkness what love is to fear; In the presence of one, the other disappears.”

So I’m always busy, dispelling darkness in your rooms or reporting for work at dawn, painting breathtaking sunsets shining down from the moon and stars. When I dance on the waves, the ocean sparkles.

And the rainbow? That is definitely a showstopper. I collaborate with a few raindrops and some sunshine, split into seven shades, and stretch across the sky, looking so stunning that you can’t take your eyes off me. Naturally, I lap up all the attention I receive.

Have you ever hummed this cute little song?

This little guiding light of mine

I’m going to let it shine

Let it shine, all the while

Let it shine….

I’ll always be shining, racing and creating beautiful pictures and patterns and used metaphorically. Enjoy me, but don’t waste me.

 

 Has there been an occasion in your life when my appearance or disapperance has upset you or put things in order? 

This post is part of the BlogchatterA2Z 2026 challenge. 

Keys : A bridge between worlds

Key: A bridge between worlds.

 

I’m your key, small enough to disappear into the darkest recesses of your pocket and cause a mild panic.

Once upon a time, I was new and shiny, not worn and scratched like I am now. I was assigned to one particular lock. Then you came along and bought that lock, and we’ve been together ever since. You fitted me to a keychain and carry me everywhere. You made and have kept a copy of me with your neighbour, just in case you leave me at home or change bags and purses in a hurry and forget to carry me. As the years went by, I grew duller, and the keychain grew heavier with the weight of other keys. Still, we are all happily keyed in together

.I travel with you everywhere, and before you set out anywhere, I notice how you make sure that I have been safely tucked into your bag or purse.

Despite the care you take, there have been occasions when you’ve left me behind, or I have fallen under the sofa or between the cushions.

You simply hate it when you can’t find me, and I look on in amusement from my hiding place as you storm heaven. Eventually, you discover me in some odd place; you’re relieved, and your face is wreathed in smiles.

You curse and swear as you sometimes turn the house upside down in search of me because you just can’t remember where you placed me.

I don’t own the house you live in, nor do I walk in and out, but I work as a bridge between the noisy outside world and the sanctuary that is your home beside security and protection. One small twist and one small click and you’re in the space you belong, or you've secured your home. 

You may change the lock and retire me, but until then, I remain in your service, as you hear that familiar click that tells you, you’re home. 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026

Jar of Things

I'm a clear glass jar. When you brought me home, I was full of sweet, flavourful strawberry jam. When the last of the jam had been scraped out and finished, I thought my fate was sealed. I would be trash. However, like many Indian homes, you decided to keep me, and just like that, you saved my life. Ah! Sustainability and reuse!

However, I feel like a nomad. One day, I’m sitting on your kitchen shelf, filled with some aromatic masala or pickle; the next, I’m chilling in your fridge full of homemade hummus or letting your oats have a good overnight soak. Then I find myself in your closet in a piggy bank avatar. Who am I? I’m suffering from a full-blown identity crisis.

Then I get pushed to the back of beyond for months, lost and forgotten, and suddenly, when you’re on a cleaning mission, you rediscover me and hug me like a long-lost friend and give me prime importance in your kitchen. 

On the kitchen shelf, when I'm labelled neatly, I feel important and organised. Without a label, I feel disoriented and am left guessing like you. You expect chilli powder, but it's 'bottle masala' (your signature community masala). They share the same fiery red hue. I watch you and say to myself, "Well, it's not my fault." You keep me away from the reach of the kids. I’ve heard you hiss, “Be careful," more times than I can count.

I like being useful. I don’t complain, even when I’m empty. I know I will be filled.

I may be simple and transparent, but I hold things that are important to you, and that makes me happy. 

Is there an object in your home that follows the same fate as the jar?

 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z 2026 challenge

 

Ironing out the Wrinkles

 Ironing out The Wrinkles

 

I’m an iron, a cold, heavy wedge of metal and plastic, sitting at one end of your ironing board, waiting to be picked up and put to work.

My job is to iron out the wrinkles from your clothes so
that you may take on the day dressed in your confident best.

I work only when I’m heated. When my cord is plugged in, the little light in me glows. You wait patiently until the light stops glowing. Then you know that I’m ready for work.

I love being glided over fabric, smoothening one crease at a time, from collar to cuff. I know how important wearing well-pressed clothes is. Children also need to wear well-ironed school uniforms. You just can’t show up in the world in creased and crumpled attire.

I hear you mutter in exasperation when a stubborn crease refuses to give in or when you’re running late. I’ve seen you tackle school uniforms and hurriedly run me over clothes that don’t even need ironing, either.

Am I dangerous? Yes, if you’re careless or absent-minded while using me. I’ve been left plugged in and forgotten, or dropped and blamed for burns I had nothing to do with.  

On a lighter note, you may recall that episode in the sitcom "Everybody Loves Raymond" where Raymond’s mother, Marie, “accidentally” burns Raymond’s brother Robert's lucky suit because she did not want him to go for an interview for a new job. We, too, get dragged into family drama.   

I may be unglamorous, but I’m an integral part of your home, and without me, you would look like a crumpled heap of laundry.  

And yes, there’s something that makes me a little sad—when you feel lazy and simply dump unironed clothes at the laundry. I’m sensitive too, you know.  

So here I am, dependable, at your service, waiting for the next pile of laundry. 

When was the last you paused to appreciate the little things that helped you look your best? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z2026 challenge.  

Go Green.

 Green

 

I’m green, the fourth colour of the rainbow. You see me as the colour of leaves on plants and trees, as well as tiny sprouts emerging from the soil. I’m associated with nature because the pigment chlorophyll, found in plants, is green, and if you are a skilled gardener, you might be called a ‘green thumb.'

I live in emerald, jade, mint and moss, to name a few. I have more shades and variations than any other colour.

You humans associate me with hope, relaxation, and freshness. But you also see me in an unflattering light. Ever heard of the green-eyed monster? Yes, jealousy. That dark side was given to me in the 16^th century by Shakespeare in his play, The Merchant of Venice.

I’m also the colour of money and the “go" on your traffic light. I’m constantly encouraging you to move forward. I love how you adore me during the monsoon, when I paint the trees and plants with a fresh, new coat of green. Yay to me!

I’m proud to be featured in the song, The Green Green Grass of Home, and figure in the title of a book—Anne of Green Gables. I can be found in your flags and faith and even your movies. Did you enjoy the movie, Shrek? No prizes for guessing why I ask you.

To the Irish, I’m the colour of good luck. Their country is called the Emerald Isle, and the Chicago River is dyed green during the feast of Saint Patrick in March.

I’m everywhere, in your homes, your gardens, and celebrations. Whether you look up to me as inspiring, relaxing, or guiding, I’m delighted that you return to me again and again.

 

What does the colour green remind you of? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z2026 challenge

Home Sweet Home

 

I have been home to you for the past 31 years. ,I can vividly recall the day when you walked through my doors as a nervous, blushing bride carrying your dreams with you.

Slowly and steadily you embraced your new role as a homemaker. Within 15 months, your first son was born, and your second son arrived within two years of the first.  Motherhood was a completely new experience for you, but you did your best. I watched you struggle, and I’ve seen you both broken and whole.  I’ve heard your banter, your whispered secrets, your laughter, and your arguments.

The boys in their teenage years drove you and their father round the bend, and I still shudder when I remember your ‘encounters’ with them during that difficult time. The slamming of my doors almost unscrewed the hinges, and the cold silences turned me into an igloo. I understood that it was a passing phase. Now I watch you deal with the empty nest syndrome; you’re not alone, because I, too, feel a little empty. 

I know you’re proud of me. You love the sights and sounds outside my windows. Never mind the leaks, cracks, and peeling paint, I’m still a refuge, companion, and comfort zone to you.

You wish you could spruce me up a little more, clear out the clutter and junk.  But don’t stress over it. Hearing your laughter, seeing you create memories, and watching you care and share with and for one another is all that I need. 

I do not speak, but I feel everything. The order and disorder both make me feel lived in. If you were to let me go, I would miss you to the moon and back. 

What stories would your home tell if it could speak? 

This post is part of the BlogchatterA2Z 2026 challenge.

Freedom Speaks.

 Freedom

 

I’m freedom. The dictionary defines me as a state of not being held prisoner or controlled by somebody else.”

(A few years ago, I penned the following lines on freedom.)

Oh! To be free

Just to be me

To say as I please

To stay or to leave.

 

To hold on, to let go

To say no.

To learn and to discern

To marry or to live alone.

 

I live as a hope in the hearts and minds of those shackled by the chains of oppression and injustice.

Children longing to be freed from the horrors of war and other evils hanker after me, longing to live as children should.

 

I’m sought after by women denied their rights and subjected to inhuman treatment.

You’ll hear my name whispered in prayers, poems, speeches and songs of protest.

You’ll get a glimpse of me every time the oppressed dare to think of a better life.

Nations have borne long struggles to make theirs. 

I’m often bruised, beaten, buried, silenced, or delayed, but I grow stronger when you summon the courage and come together to speak up against any cruelty or injustice that you may witness.

You must never give up, never lose hope, and continue to fight for me, and I will rise like a phoenix and be yours. Everyone is entitled to me. 

 

Where does freedom show up in your daily life? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026.

Envelope Tales: An autobiography.

 Envelope

 

I'm but a simple sheet of paper, folded and fashioned into a paper holder or cover for documents, money, greetings, letters, etc. 

I’m usually functional and plain and not someone who would attract a lot of attention. You’ll find stacks of me in stationery stores and in your homes. I also usually live quietly in drawers, cupboards, or shelves to be picked up and used. 

As I mentioned earlier, I have been created from paper and come in varying sizes and shapes. Some of my siblings are fashioned to be pretty and fancy because they carry gifts.

I feel important and good about myself because I am a means of human connection. I convey both good and bad news, letters of acceptance and rejection, messages of hope, promise, disappointment, and everyday matters. 

I get sealed, stamped, and sent off—I’m quite the traveller too, journeying on ships, trains, and aeroplanes across land, air, and sea. My journeys are not glamorous. I travel in bags and postal sacks.  I get bent and dirty, but more often than not, I bring your news to you. Once upon a time, humans took great pleasure in slipping birthday cards and other festive greetings into me, sealing and stamping me, and trotting off to post me. Virtual greetings have replaced me to a large extent. Wedding invitations also sport a virtual format today. 

On rare occasions, I am lost in transit, and you are deprived of the news you wish to receive. I am slipped through mail slots, and when collected, I am torn open either in anticipation or excitement. Some of you, humans, use a letter opener to open me so that the letter inside remains undamaged. I feel a sense of pride when I finally touch base with the recipient, even though I may be discarded eventually. I have done my job—carrying messages.

Today, I may be a little obsolete because humans are communicating a lot through the virtual world. Nonetheless, I will always be of some use, especially during festivals, occasions, and ceremonies where only the good old-fashioned envelope will do.

 

Some fun facts:

·       The earliest known envelopes were made of clay in ancient Sumeria, dating back between 3500 and 3200 BC. These envelopes were hollow clay pockets meant to carry and ensure the safe transit of money.

·       Since China was the birthplace of paper, it was also the birthplace of the paper envelope, where it was originally used to pay money to government officials.

·       Early handmade envelopes were made from paper cut in the shape of a kite, rhombus, or diamond. When folded, this forms four symmetrical flaps that meet in the middle and could be sealed by a single blob of wax.

·       Edwin Hill and Warren De Lau Rue patented their envelope-making machine in 1845.

·       The pre-gummed envelopes of today appeared in the late 19^th century.

·       The reusable Manila envelope, originally made from Manila hemp, was made in the 1930s. Today, it is made from heavy and durable tan paper and designed to carry large documents. 

What would you want me to carry for you?

TThis post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026

Clutter Gets Candid

 Clutter

 

Clutter is my name, and I bet you aren’t too happy to see me. Well, I

just feel chatty...

As you may be aware, I don’t appear all at once; I grow over a period of time. At first, you are hardly aware of me, or even if you are, you ignore me and promise yourself that you’ll deal with me later.

I have this knack for multiplying. I spread across closets, shelves, tables, drawers, and cartons, weaving myself into your life and becoming a nuisance.

I take up not only your space but a great deal of your time as you sift through me to find your keys or documents or whatever it is that you may be looking for.

I’m the eyesore that you so want to be rid of, but you procrastinate, and when the time comes to throw me out, I bring back a memory, or you remember how much I cost, or I am a gift, or you plan to wear me someday when the time is right.

Then there are days when you declare war on me, and I’m either thrown out or packed for donation. Your busy schedules and workworn days continue, and once again, slowly but steadily, I begin to live rent-free in your home until the next eviction.

I’m not invincible. Once you set your mind to getting rid of me and steel yourself against sentiment, it’s a piece of cake.

So goodbye for now till we meet again. There’s the scent of eviction in the air. 

How do you deal with clutter? 

This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026

Disappointment: The uninvited guest.

 

 

I’m the uninvited guest,

The one you didn’t expect

Or met. 

I’m the slump in your shoulder,

The quiet ache in your heart,

The frown on your face.

Its success

You wish were on your plate.

 

I come from expectations that didn’t materialize. You hope the promotion at work is yours; you study hard, but your results are not what you expected, or your travel plans are cancelled, or

life just doesn't go your way.  Then I slip in, and your happy face is gone.

I may linger, but I’ll gradually disappear as you decide not to wallow in me but to pull up your socks and get on with your life. I'm not happy to hurt you. I simply reflect your hopes and dreams. 

Try to see me differently—God never promised us a rose garden. Disappointments and change are an unavoidable part of life. Therefore, treat me as a teacher. Yes, I am the teacher you never wanted, but through experiencing me, you learn patience, you learn never to give up, and to always look ahead. Although you resist me, I shape you.

 

On Disappointments

It’s okay to be down in the dumps.

As you experience life’s many bumps.

Don’t fret for too long.

Tomorrow brings a brighter day,

A new beginning is on its way. 

Do you take disappointments to heart, or do you try to move past them? 

This post is part of the BlogchatterA2Z challenge 2026. 

Between the Pages: Life of the humble bookmark.

 Bookmark.

 

 

"Hello! Are you going somewhere? I'm sorry, you cannot

continue to read.  Don’t you want to mark the page so that when you return, you can pick up where you left off and not waste your precious time searching for it? Use me, I say."

Yes, me, your bookmark.

Let me tell you something about myself.

I come from humble beginnings. I’m not made in some large factory, but more often, I’m crafted from a scrap of paper, a strip of card, or a piece of ribbon. Sometimes, I’m homemade, all fancy and pretty, sporting tassels, and often I’m just a bus or train ticket or a receipt.

Today, you may find me in a new avatar, namely a ‘magnetic bookmark.’ As a magnetic bookmark, I’m small and foldable, fitted with an inside magnet that clips to a page, preventing me from slipping out.

As a bookmark, magnetic or otherwise, I find myself stuck in a novel, a cookbook, a textbook, or a manual. I’ve travelled with you across lands and oceans; I’ve seen you laugh and cry, grow inspired, and stay motivated.

I’ve also been lost—left behind in a library book, a hotel room, under a bed or behind a sofa, or been replaced by dog-eared corners. When you purchase a book, I may be gifted to you as an accessory, quietly waiting between the pages.

I'm small and unassuming and content to live my life doing my job, helping you return to your story.

My origins are really old:

The term "bookmark" has its origins in the 6th century, and one of the earliest known examples was a strip of leather attached to a codex, found in an Egyptian monastery. Before page numbers were standardized, bookmarks were an essential accessory for readers.

Over the centuries, bookmarks have evolved in purpose and design. In the Middle Ages, they were called bookmarkers or registers and were fashioned from strips of parchment or vellum. By the 15^th century, silk ribbons sewn into the binding served as bookmarks.

During the Victorian and Edwardian eras, bookmarks took on an artistic hue, with designs embroidered, tasselled, printed, or even made of silver or ivory.

Libraries used them to teach children how to handle books with care.

Do any of your bookmarks bring back memories of your favourite books or stories? 

 This post is part of the Blogchatter A2Z challenge 2026