The Blue Hourglass

By Tara B. - Year 8

The child, ghostly and ethereal, came to the library. The interior was eerie and pitch black, the ceiling towering high, filled with more books than the grains of sand in the hourglass clutched to the spirit’s chest. Small fingers closed around the hourglass as the library’s sides drew inward, the books breathing closely, each whispering a tale. Onwards walked the child, though piles of words, as the mountain’s weight pressed down on its shoulders. The sand in the hourglass seemed to fall at intervals, like the beat of a heart.

Deeper still the child went, its small form swallowed up by the mouth of the mountain, the jagged teeth of books poking at its fading presence. The child had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. It had no name, and barely a face. It was a raw entity from the stars; the only thing to cling onto was the hourglass.

Onward went the child’s feet, never making a sound. The hourglass had almost run out. A soft glow emanated from it; without rotating the glass the clear grains floated upward. Like the turning back of time itself. Golden rays travelled in rivers. The child slowed, and seemed to stutter, like a mechanical creature rusting away into disrepair. The books leaned closer still, whispering in a soft chorus of voices, some flickering their dusted pages, waiting for the child to fall.

The figure picked itself up and walked forward, illuminated by the sand's glow as it fell upward. The book’s cacophony grew louder, now echoing through the chasm. It sounded angry, like a hive of bees: one singular voice. The child, showing no trace of emotion, was drawing closer to the library’s centre. The sands seemed to return to normal. Around the corner, and there, at the core of the library, was the fallen star.

A ghost of a smile played across the child’s face as it walked forward. No longer would it have to cling to that wretched hourglass, with its dying breath trapped in an eternal cycle. As the wisp ascended the steps, drinking in the light, the cavern’s sky lit up with thousands of tiny blue dots, just as the hourglass's grains lit up with a soft blue glow, each an individual colour: Prussian blue, turquoise , navy, aquamarine. All was there as the child brushed the star, allowing the library to be obliterated by the blinding light… And then, only darkness. The child was gone. All that was left was the hourglass turned on its side, the sand spilt on the floor.