#72 The Library

by Bobby Siebert

In Gramps’ shiny and metallic house, there was only one spot with color. Mom said it was a painting. It didn’t make sense to me. Black, blue, spatters of yellow, and a small red circle.

I tugged on Gramps’ coattail. He leaned towards me, his gold front tooth glinting under his grey beard.

“What’s that?” I whispered.

He smiled. “Have you ever heard of a library, Illinken?”

Gramps could be silly sometimes.

“A library? Of course! Everything has one! Music, books, games, assignments . . .” My voice trailed off, washed over by the sound of Gramps’ laughter. The glint of his gold tooth flashed as he chortled.

“I mean the old kind,” he said. “Come along.”

He stopped before the painting. “You like books, don’t you?” He grabbed the red circle and pushed. “Behold,” he murmured. “A true library!”

The painting swung outward, revealing another room within. A huge gold chandelier hung from the cavernous ceiling, showering the room in a warm glow. A soft maroon carpet blanketed the floor, and in the corner, a stone fireplace lay before two leather armchairs.

And the walls, lined with rows and rows of brown mahogany wooden shelves, were inlaid with vertical rectangles of leathery material, each a different color. They looked like three-dimensional wallpaper, like the ones of extinct grey wolves at school.

“Illinken.” I turned around, finding Gramps standing by the wall. He reached for the wallpaper beside him, and tore out a single rectangle, this one a deep crimson.

“This is a book.”