Short Stories

The Great Library

I run my hand gently along the spine of a small book, then lift it, rubbing my black-gloved fingers together. Dust. Light brown. The kind that gathers on things long untouched.

"You're getting old, friend." I murmur.

Pulling the book off the shelf, I gently blow the dust off the face of the cover through the slit that makes the mouth of my mask. "Let's give you a little exercise, shall we?" I lovingly, carefully open the book, floating down to the ground, and pad lightly over to one of the many armchairs spread around the building. With a delicate sweep, I turn the first page and start reading.

The building, the Great Library, the haven of knowledge over which I preside, is silent but for the slight rustle of the pages I turn. Nobody has been here for millennia. Nobody but me. How do I know? Because I've been here the entire time. I remember when people used to come here. They asked me questions, begged for my wisdom, browsed all my library... but as the years went on, the number of travelers seeking knowledge dwindled. And dwindled. And soon, there was nobody at all. It's saddening, really. Fewer and fewer books are being written, and fewer and fewer are appearing in my library.

See, my Library is a collection of all the knowledge held on this earth. Which means that any book, any word written appears here. On a shelf. Categorized and organized and beautiful. And I oversee all that knowledge. In my past, I have been called many names. But I prefer 'Rift'. A being that bridges the gap between pure knowledge and humanity. If any mortal were to see my skin, their minds would overload. So I wear a mask, gloves, jumpsuit, and cape, so I do not harm any who come here in search of wisdom. But, lets face it. Nobody is going to come here for a long time. Maybe not ever again. The world just.... doesn't care much, anymore.

I pause in my reading, one page half-turned, and sigh. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes I get flashes of loneliness. I don't understand why everybody is so disinterested in books. I mean, they're wonderful. Small worlds contained in pages of words printed on paper, created by some of the most imaginative humans to ever grace the earth- small memories, legacies, left behind to be remembered in a world who would otherwise forget who they were. It's poetic, really. A long story itself, stretched out since time began. And nobody is interested. Frowning, I slowly close the book. Oh well. I have to start cleaning, anyhow. I carefully float up and push the book back into it's spot, then begin floating towards the section I'm scheduled to clean today.