The Dusty Bookshelf Novels & Stories

The blue sofas were very hard to recognize as they had been coated in thick layers of dust. Even the shelves had large amounts of dust on it, while the books were interchained with thick webs. More of those webs hung down low from the ceiling, threatening to mask whoever walked in without caution. Our steps left footprints on the ground, and it was impossible to see the people in the portraits on the wall. Everything had thick layers of dust on them. It was creepy, but not creepy enough to chase me away. "You hide first. I'll wait." He said. "No cheating. You can't use your abilities to find me, okay?"

"Take a look." The book was covered in heavy, embossed leather and in the center, in script, was the letter K. What the hell was this? A scrapbook? What kind of scrapbook could Dusty have been keeping? He continued eating in silence, preparing himself for whatever he was going to see, while Marliss and Lou gave him what he called the deadeye stare. Finally, he pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth, and opened the book.

I turned to him irritably. "Treat that, and go back to Jiusel." He did not speak so I turned around. I never heard him uttering words. I left him there, and just went to the library. I turned to the old man, and greeted him. I never forgot how Aleo Sentina the librarian changed a lot. It's really like that when you get older. I headed to where the chemistry book I was looking for was located. It was a one subject that I have difficulties. I don't really know what to do just in case.

Although there were not as many books in here then the main library, there was still hundreds. She sighed softly as she slowly stepped down from the ladder from yet another shelf. Nothing. No sign of the book, she looked around losing hope, her eyes travelling to the far end of the library. The shelve that ran along the entire back wall looked even more worn and dusty than the rest of the room. Scrunching up her nose she walked over to it, unlike the rest of the shelves that had a sliding ladder attached to them, this shelf had nothing. She tilted her head up brushing away the few strands of hair that fell in her face, curiously scanning the shelf. Something about it not having a ladder int

It was lined by thousands of shelves with numerous volumes of books in hardcover and paperbacks. In the middle of the numerous shelves was a large reading table made painted brown. I pulled myself to my feet and walked towards the table, leaning on it. It was dusty of course, but I was too weak to care. I placed my head on the table and drew in a deep breath, tears flooding my eyes.

Dust motes, disturbed by our violent entry, danced in the few slivers of gray light that cut through the grimy, high-set windows, illuminating a vast, shadowy expanse of towering bookshelves that receded into an abyssal darkness. The door, splintered around the lock, wouldn’t latch. Jake immediately threw his weight against it, his boots skidding on the polished marble floor. “It won’t hold! I need to brace it!” he grunted, the strain evident in his voice as the door shuddered under an impact from the other side. A pale, grasping hand shot through the gap, fingers clawing at the air.

Hands that had built shelves and fixed leaks and carried groceries without complaint. “I thought safety was enough,” he said quietly. “So did I.” Silence again. Outside, a car passed slowly. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. Ordinary sounds. A normal afternoon in Briar Glen. It felt surreal that something so final could unfold in such stillness. “When are you leaving?” he asked. The fact that he said when instead of if made my chest tighten. “I haven’t packed yet.” “But you will.” “Yes.” He stood up and walked toward the sink. Turned the faucet on. Turned it off. Just to have something to do.

DREA My legs walked towards the bookshelf in the corner, tracing my fingers along the books. I laughed to myself. This bookshelf was just here for the aesthetics. I doubt if he’s ever touched it. My hand traced the wood of the shelf, my face forming a frown. Why was this— I slightly pushed the shelf with a hand, and I felt it wobble. He should really get this fixed before it falls on someone. I pushed it again but this time, it didn’t just wobble.

I wander into the library, drawn by the scent of old books and leather. The room is lined with shelves filled with volumes of every shape and size. A massive mahogany desk sits in the center, cluttered with papers, pens, and a half-empty glass of whiskey. I run my fingers along the spines of the books, trying to distract myself from the anxiety gnawing at my insides. Titles like "The Art of War,"

In the far corner is a sink and a crude-looking toilet. Hooks line one of the walls, all empty. The air smells like rust and dust. But then, something catches my eye. A shelf near the back, almost hidden in shadow. Not plastic packages this time. Books. Old ones. Their spines are worn, leather cracked. Some have gold filigree. Others are thick and bound in cloth. I move closer, squinting to read the faded titles. “Lineage of Power.” “The Lost Coronation.” “Treaties of the First Blood.”