A Blank Book of Words
Pilar Olivas ~ Flash Fiction
Not very long ago, we all knew a certain small child. The one who is sweet and innocent and full of enthusiasm for life. This one was a little girl. When she was too young to remember, she received a blank little book of words. She was very curious, though unsure of what to do with it. Like most small children, she played around with it at first. Soon, words would come to her and burrow into the little book, making comfortable little homes for themselves. As the words came to her, she rifled through the pages, breathed in the sweet scent of the paper, and traced the sounds with her mouth.
When she found a new word, she would throw it out into the world to see what it would do. It was quite interesting. Some words drew out laughter or affection, some of them caused anger or embarrassment. Some of them made a combination of all these things, like the time when she was 3 years old. She had just found a brand-new word and, eager to try it out, she screamed, “Damn it!” right in the middle of church. It was such a wonderful experience to explore every word she found.
But it wasn’t always so fun. Hearing the wrong words was frightening; finding the wrong words was even worse. That’s when the book of words changed for her. Some things stayed kind of the same. The laughter was still there, loud and bright and cold, drilling its way through her head and festering in the hole it made. Sometimes she found notes next to the words, warning her of the dangers they held. Other times, she added the notes herself. Sometimes the words she was looking for were hard to find. Sometimes the whole book went completely blank leaving her silent and empty and alone. She’d look to other books to find more words to fill that empty space. They were amazing, they were beautiful, but they weren’t her own, nor could she take them for herself.
Nevertheless, there was always a drive to share her words the way she saw others share their words. So she kept on trying. She’d spend hours working in her book of words, writing, rearranging, weaving them together until they sounded right. Then she’d proudly walk up to a group of people before hesitating. After all, sharing words is difficult and her delivery was still young and clumsy. What if she pulled out the words she had painstakingly woven together, and no one liked them. Were the edges still too rough? What if she threw the wrong words around and someone got hurt? Maybe it was best to keep them to herself.
For years, the book sat in a dark, damp corner. Meanwhile, she tried to replace the book by snagging the words of others and arranging them as best she could. She made sure the new words would resemble her own so no one could tell. Sometimes she’d take out her book in the dead of night and translate her words into the ones she had collected. That way, they would be better. The words she couldn’t find a translation for stayed hidden. The once-sweet smell of the paper began to sour from the mildew that had grown on it, the bindings creaked when it opened, and the pages felt brittle and old. So eventually, she locked it away for good. She got by for a while on the borrowed words she found. But eventually, she ran out of the other words and no matter how hard she searched, she was always at a loss.
Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. She unlocked the box where she had hidden it. She flipped rapidly through the pages, speaking every word out loud. She made mistakes, mispronounced them, overshared them, and misunderstood them. But more importantly, she found her place in them. She let everyone around her hear them. Those who saw her place in the words cherished them even if they didn’t understand. Those who didn’t moved on and filled their books with the words that suited them. There were still days when the words disappeared or didn’t make sense. There were days when she wanted to keep them and contemplate them rather than share. But she never worried, because eventually they would find their way back to her and out into the open.
The last time I saw her, she was no longer the child I remembered but a young woman. We talked for a while, and she told me about all the amazing things that had happened to her since we parted and all the amazing ways she had thrown her words into the world.
Before we said goodbye, she pulled me tightly into a hug and thanked me for the conversation. Then she pulled a small package out of her purse, handed it to me and said, “I need your help. Find a place for this. Somewhere where it will matter.”
She walked away and I looked down at the package in my hands.
When I unwrapped it, I stared in astonishment at the little book of words. It was just like the one she had carried around when she was small. Only, when I opened it, it was completely blank except for a short note written in a careful script:
I would like to give this blank book of words to someone new. Not to give them my words or replace the ones they have, but to help the recipient find and collect their own. To write them, speak them, sing them, contemplate them. To give them inspiration and their words a place to call home. I’d like to reassure the new owner that if the words go missing or if there’s a day when won’t leave the page, don’t worry and DO NOT try to tear them from their home and expose them to the world when they are not ready. If you take this book, fill it up, protect it, cherish it as something sacred and beautiful, but never be afraid to share it. The book may be small and shabby. People may ask why you carry a battered old notebook around. Don’t listen to them. This is not a notebook; it is your book of words, and it will be valuable because of what you put in it.
Pocketknife
Ariana De Curtis ~ Poetry
I got my first pocketknife when I was eight.
I may have been young, holding something
older than me, with more history than me,
an object so full of knowledge. A gift
given to me to hold onto through life,
I still keep it close, in the small nightstand
beside me & hold it to remember. Its heavy
black metal, cold to touch, like winters
happily spent with you playing in the snow.
Its wooden handle, dark, long veins running
along it, gentle as that birch forest behind your
apartment in the countryside I wish to return to
I miss those days, now that I have grown.
Now that I understand why that pocketknife
never truly belonged to me. It belonged
to what could’ve been, if the war had never
started. If I had never moved away. If only
time were not such a cruel foe. If the girl
could’ve learnt to understand you, despite
your stubbornness, and we would've spent
another summer in those woods, stabbing
chicken onto skewers, starting fires &
cooking food. So now I hold onto the knife,
hoping for it to take me back. For it to change.
For our lives and world not to be evil. Grandpa,
(even if I never called you that), I miss you.
Does Daylight Pour Differently
Emily Masters ~ Poetry
There is sacred in the mundane
The carefree song of a shallow stream
Is no less holy than a Gregorian choir
Accompanied by organ or by robin
It is music all the same
Does daylight pour differently
Through a rose window over a chapel door
Than through green-dappled canopies?
Glassy dewdrops reflecting a rainbow of
sunrise shades is as worthy of reverence
as richly-stained glass in high gothic arches
The heady incense sketches the same
Curling contours as overhead clouds
Take off your glasses and tell me the difference
Between candles high on a darkened altar
And fireflies flickering on dusk-lit fencelines
There is mundane in the sacred
Basilica spires did not sprout, cancerous,
from the crust of the earth
And seraphim did not speak cathedrals
Into glorious, immediate being
How many hands have hewn this marble?
Carved monoliths into saints and angels
Or sewn robes from which to speak salvation?
Sistine ceilings are a vision
Purchased with salt and sweat
To turn a structure into a sacrament
Mundane in the sacred, indeed
It is worldly, it is simple, it is human
But that does not make it less holy
Discontinued Perfume
Ariana De Curtis ~ Poetry
At the antique store, I saw
the glass bottle slender & tall,
a golden cap the same color
as the liquid swirling inside
like waves of molten sunrays.
My fingers feel the stinging
& metallic cold as I unscrew
the top, sliding a fingerpad
onto the sprayer. The scent
wraps around me with a sizzle,
settling on my skin. If I close
my eyes, I can see my mother
standing near the mirror. Her
hands deep in work, smearing
foundation on her face to cover
the wrinkles I never saw. Applying
rosy lipstick with care, then spritzing
perfume all over. As it sinks into
my neck now, the scent feels like her
warm embrace. I can taste the dusty
makeup melting with the pure amber.
My mother’s scent.
Guardian Angel
Rose Weisberg ~ Poetry
Oh, my sweet, faceless angel, whoever you are
My celestial sister, my own lucky star
I shall fold up my hands as you spread out your wings
And sprinkle down blessings as the Nightingale sings
Then, as milky-white moonbeams descend on the land
May you vest me the powers of golden dream sand
May the heavenly bodies their nightly course chart
May the pilgrims of peace slow the beat of my heart
These are the words that I ardently pray
Until sunshine transforms darkness back into day
These are the things that I truly believe
Though the eye cannot see what the soul can perceive
Et In Arcadia Ego
Ariana De Curtis ~ Poetry
After Poussin
Do you think of me when you look at the cracked paint?
Did you mistake my sadness for foolishness? Loss?
You numb it with a laugh, a drink, and remember
how I’d dare to say I was a realist, seeing it so clear
as lightning striking a lone tree. Look, how it ignites,
fire raising, raining down the spit of Hell. The soil
now suffocates me. You—my shepherd—threw soil
over your child, preserved in everlasting in paint
on the canvas I cried on. My heavy, salty tears igniting
as I grappled with the inevitable. I explained to you, loss
is bitter as biting a lemon, but I couldn’t get enough. Clear
evidence for you who after years cannot remember
why I loved it so. In my soul I knew, still, I remember
the words it bore. Et In Arcadia Ego, tomb open over soil
dripping over, vines growing on stone. The sun rays so clear
they blind you, ‘til you feel acid in your gray bones and paint
skin alive with makeup. You reach for my things, the loss
sits in the room with you, it fuels your rage, igniting
your being. Once, my own veins were harshly ignited,
burning words I wrote to make out life’s silence. Remember
how I sunk in my bed, wishing to erase the pain, the loss
that devoured and hunted? I’d say I dug my own grave, soil
seeping between stiff fingers, rain melting blood into paint.
In its suffocation I found breath, in its darkness I saw clear
clouds with winged beings floating. I was already a clear,
transparent body which you refused to see. You ignited
my existence, let emotions become medium for the paint
brushed on canvases now that you know all I gave. Remember
me, I beg, as you recall the high soaring birds. As you let soil
fall over the deep grave. As you steady yourself with loss.
Very soon somebody will tell you, “I’m sorry for your loss”
and you will look up at the starry sky knowing how clear
my words were. It was always among us, clawing through soil
to catch us by the foot, to drag us down into the depth, ignite
our souls until they become soot. So, dearest, only remember:
It is the sole certainty gifted from birth, written in paint
gathered from soil, reborn too. I promise—it’s not all loss.
Look at the dried paint, feel my gone soul right and clear
beside yours, as you ignite the light and fight to remember.
A Thrilling Lack of Context
Emily Masters ~ Poetry
It’s a rusty nail on the floor of the McAllister’s bathroom
It’s a ‘Days Since Our Last Incident’ sign set to two
A misspelled softball team shirt, sold in thrift stores by the dozen
Or the sight of one spare shoe on the roadside, sodden
Like the water-warped cover of a library copy of It
Warnings on storebought tiki-torches - ‘External Use Only’
Overheard words from the other self-checkout
“After what happened with the whales.”
“Not since the stir-fry situation.”
“I want another divorce.”
A one-star review with a novel of implications
contained in four words: “Strayed from God’s light”
On an Etsy cupcake cookbook.
Like the hand-written sign in all-caps on a wall
Differentiating “Light Switch” from “Fire Alarm.”
Sometimes I feel drunk on insinuation
Spilled tears, spilled juice, spilled scraps of secrets
Stretching red string in a smoky room, fixated
Single-minded over a puzzle piece missing its puzzle
Instead of the other way around.
Not an unanswered question, no, that would imply
Enough information to know what to ask
In the end, I think
No matter how it frustrates me not to know
A part of me knows the answer