Today marks the 3,000th thought, idea, comment, or some other thing that I have posted on the Tale. I have, to be honest with myself, a lot of stories that are unfinished here on the Tale already, and, as well, there are a lot of unfinished stories that I have not placed here.
There are stories I want to tell, but, I never think they are good enough, or I have other problems with them that make me set them aside and put them away, perhaps to be seen again when I have some inspiration … or something.
I feel like that is a problem for me. I feel like what I do share isn’t really as good as it could be, should be. I never see that my writing is something that tells a good story, that there is something within the words that matters in some way, shape or form.
However, sometimes, just sometimes, there are stories that manage to get out past my fingers that are close to what I’d like to say …
The book came into existence with the cover: two thin pieces of bound leather, the space in-between a void, without form or substance. When it appeared, it seemed lost, forlorn, out of place. On the front cover was a symbol, carved into the leather with a loving hand, an expression of the things that would appear within.
There was to be love, passions, desires … the things that mattered in the moments that they did so. There was to be amusement, a bit of teasing. Of course there would be seduction, temptation, the needs of the soul in all of the things that the symbol on the cover told.
The cover had been sketched upon, the leather cut, burnished, shaped until there was the clear image of a familiar red heart that bore a pair of small, cute horns and a mischievous tail: her symbol, the one that meant something to her, to those that knew of it, that understood what it meant for the always.
Turning the fragile, almost barely-there creation over, on the rear there was no symbol. Instead a feminine hand had etched into the leather a series of words. The script flowed; the loops, arcs, swirls and lines were a mirror of the mind that controlled that hand. To some, the words might seem jumbled, disordered—perhaps a reflection of the way in which her mind raced at speeds that her hands could not keep up with, of how the thoughts, needs, stories within wanted to get out, be told, be shared for the simple reason that they needed to be. But in spite of how messy they might be, there were things to tell and the back cover, the words upon it, tried to tell them as best they could be.
For uncounted time, more than the book itself could know, nothing changed. The book remained as it was, a cover, nothing within to be held by it. No pages telling of dreams, no paragraphs of desires. No thoughts or words there for they had not come into being.
Then, somehow, things started to change. A single sheet, a thin page with a little line of story upon it, materialized from nowhere, standing straight up between the open covers, finally being bound to them. The page then fell down, resting upon the inside back cover where it could be read.
And it was.
The page then turned over, lying upon the inside front cover. On the back of the page, another few lines appeared, another bit of story, of thought, of meaning materializing there. The words were rushed, talking about needs and temptations: a tale of the beginning, where all books must start.
For a time the page was alone between the covers. The words were there to be seen, but so few, so little, that it might have well been the covers alone still. Then, once more, things changed. Pages started to appear, one after the next, attaching themselves to the cover, falling one way, then the other, each page allowing the next to appear.
The pages were full of errors: spelling mistakes, grammar that didn’t fit, dialog that was laughable, to be kind. But the pages kept coming, the words upon them expressing the thoughts of the mind that drew them there. And the thoughts were so profound, so amazing, so inspiring that none of what the world called “errors” truly mattered … except in her mind.
After a time, again, the pages changed. Mixed among the stories came images, expressions of fantasies that spoke not in a shout, but in a soft purr that drew others to the words that seemed to have sired the images. The images purred, but the words sang of seduction, how it felt to submit, to allow her to touch, to caress, to whisper of the fantasies unspoken but to the one who held them within.
Still the pages came, the stories with their mistakes, the odd thing not expressed in the right way. The book became thick with the pages, the spine widening to accommodate the pages that continued to appear.
Then the ink upon the pages, usually black in colour, was met with the occasional burst of red, red that drew attention to the little mistakes, clarified the thoughts, took the stampede of thoughts that came from her mind and settled them into their places. The red was mixed with the black, as in the same way that it had been within the stories themselves. The words became more than they had been, the meaning behind them clearer.
Perhaps, from time to time, the red that was guided by another hand paused, considered if the meaning of the words, the passions within, the desires, the temptations, were changed in some way by the red. The black never did so, not once. The black on the pages bound itself to the red, the two merging, the black now shining with the red within, the words now a reflection, fully, of the red and black that dwelled within the mind that told the stories and continued in doing so.
The book was no longer a forlorn thing. It held more than just words and images. Between the pages things started to appear, items that bookmarked moments in the storytelling that flourished there: a single white feather, a leather collar, a pair of red socks; things that made sense only to the mind that saw them, but were part of what made the words themselves, the stories, the meaning, everything to her.
The book was a little worn around the edges now, having being paged through so many times. Some of the older pages were dog-eared, others turning colour slightly. But the words remained, not fading, not changing from what they held and meant for all time. If anything, somehow, they became more vivid with each reading. They told of the wishes of the mind that wrote them, how she wished to do the right thing, to be the best she could be, for that mattered the most of all. Within the words, mixed in a way that wasn’t always clear to others, was a silent hope, a wish, one that she would never know.
The book was special, more so than might have been first understood. It was more than a book, it was a portal between the worlds, between two souls, forever connected. It was … and it was more.
Where the book rested, awaiting the next page to be added, a slim feminine hand reached out to turn the page. Her blue eyes read the words, her soft lips smiled as she saw the meaning of them. Her red, heart-tipped tail moved to touch the book, to touch the things between the pages. She laughed at the moments she was meant to, sighed a little at the thoughts of the one that wrote the words, and marvelled at those words.
She brushed a stray lock of her blond hair behind one ear, in a way that the soul that wrote the words would recognize as being where she gained that particular quirk of character. She wished that she was there, to tell what she thought, to explain that the words didn’t have to so perfect as they were meant to be. For they already were, in the most important way.
Another page appeared, being attached to the book, the stories continuing.
She smiled, reading her daughter’s thoughts. Knowing that the stories were not done, the need to share, to offer, to give of herself would never come to a close. For the book would always have room, between the covers, to tell more of what she wanted to say.
Being Tera’s mother, she would always know those stories, for the book would see to that …
… always …