The Word Keeper - A Short Story
THE WORD KEEPER I can’t recall the moment that everything split. But I do remember the feeling of being built entirely of fibers that were once so masterfully entwined they came alive. And I was that life. Have you ever torn a stalk of celery, or stripped a piece of string cheese? Imagine them twisted together, melded into blood and guts. That is what you are, and what was me. Then something caused me to unwind. I cannot recall what or why and it doesn’t matter. I know I streamed through space, peeled apart and came together again, at least enough to maintain a sense of “I”, though that had been lost at some point. Imagine going down a waterslide and then through a tunnel of emptiness and black. Then coming out again. There was a room where I came out, or walls at least. Stacks and stacks of books formed two side walls that extended beyond my periphery, and a third in front of me contained a small niche on its left, as I faced it. The stacks of books extended up
