m review — short fiction — sticks and stones
Sticks and Stones
by Tina M. Ontiveros
I met him at my office Christmas party. My policy was to avoid work related social functions whenever possible. When it was necessary to attend, I always brought along a good book. Such was the case that night. I sat in the corner, reading. The name of the book is not important. The plot, theme, and story are insignificant. The important thing about the book is that it is where I found him.
As I was preparing to close that book, a word caught my eye. He set himself apart from the others. He was Bold and Striking. He leapt from the page, though those around him tried to keep him firmly in his place. This sentence is not complete without you, they said, this book is not complete. I felt the same as the other words, but he was Convincing and something kept me from confrontation. The word burned itself into my mind as I walked away. Once we were alone, the word and me, I tried to persuade him that he was not meant for life outside the book. He became Firm, he became Stone, and he became Unwavering. He could become many things but always he remained a word.
It was soon clear to me that my initial instincts were correct. There is no life for a word off his page, out of his paragraph. I was very aware of the stares as we walked down the street. He was more than a Thought. He was at once Matter, then Air, then Man. I needed to walk home, but what would people say to a woman walking down the street with a word? It is not proper. They were sure to notice him. I decided to hide him in my mouth for the journey. We ducked into a deserted alley together. He folded himself up, stacked his ever changing letters atop one another, and I placed him carefully on my tongue. He fit without too much discomfort. I could not talk with other people for fear he would be seen. This did not leave me without conversation because he continued to change and rearrange himself in my mouth to convey all he was feeling. Though I could not see him, I could read him very well. During his time in my mouth we were alone on that crowded avenue. We walked around the city for three hours, becoming acquainted. He danced to his own rhythm, the beat of his constant changing. During this time he was Love, Adoring, Playful, Security, Brilliant. The sky began to darken, so I started toward home. We stopped at a newsstand to take in the daily headlines. He made witty remarks on the state of affairs. Of course, I must have looked very strange to onlookers who soon began to suspect I was either dim-witted, or about to vomit. Not only did I respond to him with low humms and closed-mouth giggles, but his movements tickled and I often contorted my face in reaction to his dance on my tongue.
While my friend and I were engaged in this playful banter, a man approached. It was then I noticed we had an audience. Adults were watching me, children laughing with me. This man was helpful, a leader. He interrupted to ask if I was well. I could not answer without revealing my companion. My mouth remained shut and I looked away to give the impression I had not heard. He asked again, only more slowly and very loudly. Any people nearby who had not noticed my odd behavior were now intently watching the situation. The man seems to think it is necessary to speak louder, my friend spelled to me. At this comment we began to giggle again. This made the good citizen angry. He insulted me. Others joined him. I felt meek, but the word was instantly Forceful. Before I could react, the word did. He became my Defense. He burst out of my mouth and changed himself into every form of vulgarity known. The onlookers all assumed I had blurted out these foul insults because the word had leapt from my lips.
Suddenly all was quiet. He was sprawled out on the ground, a jumbled mess with no definition. I stood there under the scrutiny of all those eyes, thinking it was over too soon. I was not ready to end our conversation. He showed no signs of life. I looked down at him in shame. Had he died for me? What is life to a word? The crowd began to move again, the people dissipated, disgusted at the woman who spoke so offensively in front of all those children. The helpful man shook his head and spoke under his breath as he walked past me. Crazy woman. I looked down at my friend. They stepped on him as if he was not there. He was broken. I turned and walked away, trying to make sense of what had happened. Why did I feel so changed? In just a few short hours, he had left an impression upon me, written himself into me. Could I go back to my life now that I had known a brief existence with him?
I tried. I went home to my empty apartment. I read as usual, but none of the words held any meaning for me. I went to bed, but I could not sleep. All I could think about was him and how he had made me feel and how much of myself I had given to him in so short a time. I thought of him all through the night. In the morning, I got up and went to work. Another day in my life. Saying yes, blending in.
I walked past the newsstand on my way home that evening. I looked on the sidewalk, where he had fallen the night before. There was no sign of him. I swallowed the lump in my throat and went slowly home. As I approached my apartment door I smelled something delicious. I heard noise, like a drum. I was suddenly wide awake and my heart was racing. I opened the door. He was There. He was Cooking. He was Dancing, as before.
"How did you get here?"
"After I left your mouth, I fell to the ground. I was swept up that night and jumped onto an empty soda can in the garbage. Later I made my way onto a newspaper and then some mail. I was able to send myself here. I was dropped right into the slot in your door. I had to change several times to get here, but I am Flexible."
I stared in disbelief. "You must be hungry?" he spelled "You are late."
"I'm sorry I left you. I didn't know. I thought you were…"
"Forget it, I am Here now."
How his poetry filled my life. My tidy, cold, and empty apartment was transformed. Now it was our home. Now it was warm. It was full of color and music. He loved to be Color. He loved to be Music. So much can be contained in a single word, and how it can make you complete. The throbbing of his transformations became the heartbeat of our life. He brought new things to those four walls. Now there was symmetry. Where I had art, he was Science. What was tidy was now lived in. What was broken was fixed. Where I was pink, he was Blue. His constant drumming was my comfort.
He was my Lover. Vigorous, Forceful, Virile. He could change so rapidly I would lose my breath. In bed was where he could read me as well as I could read him. Here he was Flesh and Blood. He manipulated himself for my pleasure. Powerful, Gentle, Intuitive, Impatient, Fast, Slow, Rough, Smooth. Everything a lover should be, he was. Always at the right time. He loved to play our initial game, where he would get in to my mouth and dance poetry. He loved to roll off of my tongue and down the length of my body. He was Rolling, Caressing, Kissing. Sometimes he was Playful, sometimes Serious, Intense, Breathing, Touching. Always rhythmic. Always what I needed.
I often wondered what his true form was. What was the first word? Was it Love? Was it Stability? Was It Balance? Or were these simply what he was to me? I could never learn this about him. I sometimes felt I did not know him. Could I know him? Did he have a basic form? Or did any of this even matter-would the first word define him? Does a word have a soul? He was not driven like men. He did not have a selfish ambition. He had no weakness, and so was not vulnerable. A word does not know self doubt. He seemed only to know abstraction. Color and drumbeat. I could never find the source of that beat. I could never alter his rhythm. Only he did that.
We seemed to complete one another. He was my Companion. Ours was a partnership. When I was timid, he was Courage. Sturdy, Resolute. He was all I had been lacking. I had been hollow before I found him. Waiting to receive him. Waiting for him to insert himself in my life. He also needed me, or so he spelled. I softened his sharp edges. I could always interpret his meaning. I loved to study him. I sometimes underestimated how much he needed me. I had become his page. We could spend endless hours lying on the floor, laughing, rolling about together. At times like this he expressed himself beautifully. He was Lyrical. We shared secrets. It was in these moments when he was Honest that I sensed it could not last forever. He was at times Restless in the night. He was Thrashing. His tempo would change and I was startled awake by the foreign pulse. It was deeper, darker, slow and deliberate. Changing fiercely. Sometimes, I could not even recognize him, he became so Distorted. One moment Rigid, and Tense. The next moment Shattered, or Melted. I would pick his pieces up for him. Try to put him together again. Give him meaning. Start a new day.
He could be Jealous at times. There were practical matters to consider. I had to work. I had to pay the rent. I went out into the world. I had experiences he could not be a part of. Sometimes, I was late. This made him Angry. This made him Curious. Where had I been? Who had I been with? He began to demand I take him out with me. He was Determined. Once again I gave in to him. But where do you take a word? I was self conscious with him. I introduced him to the library. He was Fascinated. He was Proud. He was Connected. Sometimes, I would lose him there, among all those other words. Eventually, I began to leave him. At first an hour or two, and then all day. Non-fiction, mystery, reference. A different section every day. He became Familiar with the entire building. Sometimes, he would refuse to come home unless I took some materials. Books, magazines, journals. The floor of the apartment became strewn with words. In this way he brought home his new friends. Now we were never alone. We no longer existed for one another. Words of every sort infiltrated our life. Some were wise and kind, others scary and threatening. When we did have moments alone, he was Aloof and Distracted, at times even Harsh. I began to misread him.
This invasion became unbearable for me. At times, I was sure the words were discussing me in a language I could not translate. There were some to whom he paid special attention. I would cringe when I watched him relate with these letters, dance with them, join together with them to form new meanings. Finally I decided I had to do something. I waited until he was Asleep. I began quietly to gather together all of the publications in a large box. I wanted them out. But you cannot contain language. Man has no power over words. They began to slip away from me and spill out of their pages. In the commotion he became Aware of my attempt. Not only did the words remain, they ridiculed me. This time he did not defend me. He was Lost to me. Disconnected, Severed. I stayed away more often and for longer periods.
In my loneliness I sought new companions. I also began to feel connected with others. This made it easier for me to avoid him. I would have drinks with co-workers and attend parties I once evaded. My isolation with the word had made me appreciate the outside world. I felt freedom in the absence of his constant beat. I realized I could dance without him. I began to flirt with men. I was unrestricted, uncensored. I never brought friends home for fear of the impression the word would make. Sometimes I would remain out all night or even went away for weekend trips. But each return was more uncomfortable than the last.
Though he had his entourage, he still expected me. He was Possessive. The infatuation with new text began to wane. He became Anti-social. He had me return books to the library. He wanted fewer and fewer around. At first he would go with me, mildly interested in new readings. But then he began to stay home. He wished to be Alone. He was Dark. Often he was Bitter. Sometimes Violent. Always Resentment. Black, instead of his former Blue. His beat was slow and solemn. Pacing. He was Insulting and Punishing. He had kept only a few choice books. They were overdue but he forbade me to return them. The other remaining words, his favorites, were Mocking, Taunting, and Scorn. He would play with these words while I watched dejectedly. Even this play seemed forced. They could not fulfill him anymore. I was still enjoying my external life, still anxious to avoid this internal life. He would be Rejection one moment and Needy the next. I learned that the childhood saying was wrong. Sticks and stones could do no damage compared to the pain inflicted upon me by this single word. He was Unhappy and he blamed me. I had taken him from his former life. To me he became Poison. Naturally I began to dream of escape. Dreams become plans and I think he sensed this. He went from Misery to Rage. He was Unsafe.
When I angered him he would jump into one of the books. Play with the other words in an attempt to make me jealous. I knew this. I depended upon it. I had decided to leave him on a Monday. I was purposefully late coming home from work. I looked at him for the last time and found I had no love for him. I was tired. I had deliberately frustrated him. When he scribbled himself into that book I felt nothing. I slammed it shut and held it tight. My only concern was for the reimbursement cost I would owe the library. "A small price" I said aloud to myself. His beating was distant and faint, but panicked and angry. I was illiterate to him. I sat on the book while I built a fire in the grate. I then bound the book with layers of packing tape. Shortly after I threw it into the flames, his drumming stopped. He warmed me that night for the last time.
Tina M. Ontiveros of The Dalles, Oregon
"Sticks and Stones" is an M Review 2006 Short Fiction Finalist.
Tina M. Ontiveros is an English literature major in her junior year at Marylhurst University. She lives in The Dalles with her husband Ronnie, son Sol, and daughter Lily.
