Academic Papers

          The pages were a hard lump in her hand, and she winced at the angry black ink slashed across the first page. She didn’t need to read it. She knew all the strife and despair that were etched across the once pristine pages. Of course she did; she’d written them herself.

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          “Out writing stories of woe, Apple,” the voice, deep and tinged with laughter, interrupted her thoughts and she looked through the crowd on the busy Toronto street to see a tall man walking toward her; his back slightly curved, making him appear much shorter than he was. His white dress slacks and deep blue silk dress shirt open at the collar matched his light-brown skin and long, dark hair. His brown eyes twinkled, and his smirk hinted at the jab he knew he’d delivered. Of all the fucking nicknames…she’d lived with this one for far too long…One apple and she’d been tethered to it forever.

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          “You know I can write about happiness,” she replied, “And I thought we were done with nicknames, Cocoa.” She matched the smirk he’d given her as she watched his fade from his lips. “Are we not too old for these games?” she asked. He nodded and his gaze fell to the pages in her hand. She crushed them slightly in her grip.

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          “Still writing, after all these years. Don’t you ever get tired of it all?” His eyes filled with concern, and she felt a warmth that made her want to lie down against him, but she shook her head. The book was calling to her, she could feel it.

 

          “Don’t start, Kokopelli. You know we don’t have a choice in this…you are a musician, after all. Do you still feel the draw of your flute?” He stared at her thoughtfully, the two of them completely ignored by the early evening crowds that parted around them, everyone completely oblivious to the pair. Her gaze slid sideways, searching the faces of those who passed but they all seemed ordinary. She could almost see the book, floating there in front of her. She ached for it…her fingers tingled with excitement.

 

          He reached out and caught the tendrils of black hair drifting out of her messy bun, drawing her attention back to him, “Your hair is blacker and eyes bluer.” She rolled her eyes; this is always the way when she meets fellow artisans. They talk in circles, avoiding the truth, never answering the questions asked of them. “You seem taller. Have you grown, Ari?”

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          Another nickname but closer. She laughed, “Or your back is more curved than it used to be, so you seem shorter.”

 

          Kokopelli laughed with her. “I deserved that. But I see you have work to do,” he looked pointedly at her pages. “And I have a recital to get to. But maybe write a happy story for once...hmmm.”

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          Ari’s frown returned and she glared at him as he began walking away. Sighing, she started walking…her eyes searching the crowded alfresco restaurants with their outdoor patios lining the King Street Corridor on either side of her.

Write happy! It wasn’t that she couldn’t draft a happy story. She could but what was the point? Boring! And she had never done boring…she created stories that became epic—

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          —and there it was.

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          The book practically glowed, identifying itself as the one she’d been looking for; nestled against a woman standing just inside a patio, wrought iron tables and chairs filling the charming sidewalk café. Her brunette hair was meticulously curled, makeup creating a perfect “natural” glow and her brown eyes scanned the crowd as if she were looking for someone.

 

          Ari barely noticed the woman; it was the book that held all of her attention. She stepped over to it, breathing in the musky smells of an old story aching for new pages to revitalize it. Opening it carefully, she could see the tattered pages almost falling out of their binding. It was clear other storytellers like her had been here, worrying at the pages but this book was meant for Eris’s changes—something much different than what the original author had penned.

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          Grimacing, she read the first few pages filled with happiness. “Fucking happy stories will be the death of me,” she sighed. Maybe Kokopelli was right. Maybe she could only write stories of woe. With a quick flick of her wrist, she pulled the pages free—the slight whisper of tearing made her grin.

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          “Excuse me. What. Are. You. Doing?”

 

          The voice was angry, each word clipped, and Ari looked up into the distraught eyes of the woman…the owner of the book. Glancing behind her, she turned back and realized the woman was looking directly at her. “Just reading a book.” She shrugged her shoulders, quickly pulling the torn pages behind her.

 

          “Is that my book?” the woman asked as she nodded toward it. Ari cocked her head to the side and studied her. She’d always been allowed to add her pages unbothered—this was the first time anyone had caught her out.

 

          “It is.”

 

          “Then why do you have a right to read it.” The woman tore the book from her hands and clutched it to her red Ralph Lauren clothed chest.

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          This is interesting, Ari thought to herself, a trill of excitement that she hadn’t felt since that day she’d tossed the apple into the fray causing her to shudder. “I’m just fixing the pages that are falling out.” She held up her seemingly pristine white pages and waved them toward the book. Her smile widened as she felt the pull of the leather-bound tomb that confirmed that this was, indeed, the book fated for her chapter.

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          Confusion crossed the woman’s face and her grip loosened on the book, allowing Ari to slip it into her arms. “What is this?”

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          Ari gave her a warm smile as she placed the book down on the closest table to them. The woman followed her, mesmerized by the book before them. Ari had never had anyone watch while she worked her new pages of strife into completed works—it was thrilling having an audience for once. “This is your life, my dear. Before you are even born, the pages of your life are set in ink and everything of who you are and who you’ll become is here.” She flipped through the book as she watched emotions flip across the woman’s face. First surprise, then marvel and finally back to confusion.

 

          “Why are so many pages blank?”

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          “Hmm…” Ari glanced down at the pages. She’d sewn her mischief in so many books throughout history that she rarely read what she tore away. The books were always predictable but as is the way of mice and men…and Gods…not everything should be. It was her job to make things interesting. Ari could see the story but only eyes trained to see the ink could read the words. “Because you haven’t reached this part of your story yet. And we all know, you should never read ahead, or you’ll spoil the ending.”

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          The woman’s hands reached out and she traced the pages as if she could possibly find her story in braille before she drew back as though she’d been burned. And maybe she had. Ari had never seen anyone reading their own book. “Who are you?” the question was barely a breath from the woman’s lips.

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          Ari cocked her head, wondering if she should answer before she replied, “My name is Eris.”

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          “Strange, it sounds so familiar.”

 

          “I’m sure it does, I inspire epics.” With a slight jostle of her hand, she pushed her pages into the space she’d torn free and watched as a gold light sealed them to the binding. The new pages were home.

 

          “Are those pages happy?”

 

          “They are for some.” Eris answered. They were happy for her, and, at the last moment, she may have added a happy twist instead of just strife. “But should life be nothing but happiness?”

 

          The woman shook her head and Eris found herself liking her.

 

          “And will it hurt?” Sadness filled the woman’s eyes and Eris felt a pang of guilt as she placed her fingertips on the woman’s forehead. She watched as her gaze went blank and then slid away from her, unseeing, completely forgetting the image of Eris cradling her book.

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          “Only for a moment,” she said softly as the woman moved on and Eris allowed the book to slip from her grasp. The pages she had torn free, ones full of love, and laughter, and happiness, turned to ashes in her hand as she added, “And only at the end.”