The Story

By Edmund X. DeJesus

I bought the book for its cover, a deep red leather that caught the light and seemed to hold its glow within. The book's title--"The Story"--was spelled out in chasings of gold leaf on the front cover and the spine. I thought it would look splendid on my bookshelf.

I opened the book in the shop and gave an exclamation of surprise. Its pages were totally blank. I smiled wryly at the title and said aloud, "Now that's ironic."

The book did look wonderful on my little shelf, and I was pleased with my purchase. However, after a few days it occurred to me that, since its pages were blank, I could use the book for my own purpose. As a diary perhaps, or a journal. Or, I thought with a smile, to write a story myself.

I pulled the book down from the shelf and opened it. To my surprise, I saw that the pages were not completely blank after all. On each page, at irregular intervals, there were various punctuation marks: commas, periods, colons, even quotation marks. It was as if there had once been a story printed there, but all of the letters had been swept away, leaving only the punctuation.

I thought this very strange. Perhaps it was some kind of artistic statement: instead of actually writing a story, the author had instead created the punctuation--the framework--for a story. The reader's mind might be meant to imagine its own story within the punctuation. Or it might be some kind of poem. I remembered some E.E. Cummings poems that had very complex punctuation bunched in prickly thatches.

I shook my head and said, "How absurd." I replaced the book on the shelf, uncertain now whether I should write in it or not.

Now, whenever I caught sight of the book, I narrowed my gaze at it in perplexity. It was a question, a puzzle, almost a taunt and a challenge. It didn't simply sit on my bookshelf anymore. It waited for my attention.

At last, I snatched up the book and determined to write something in it, if only my name on the inside of the cover. I opened it to the first page, and was struck dumb by what I saw there. A little way down the page, in large type, it read, "Now that's ironic."

My memory flew back to the bookshop. I had made that very remark when I had first examined the book and seen its blank pages. And now those very words were printed here before me.

I flipped through the pages in a mechanical, mesmerized sort of way. And then I gasped. Several pages into the book--in an area I was sure had been devoid of anything but commas and periods--were the words, "How absurd."

I nearly dropped the book then, but my eyes fell on a single word printed all by itself. The word was "now" and as I thumbed forwards, I saw the same word, on its own, in several other places.

I did drop the book then, and actually backed away from where it fell. I felt a fool for doing so, but there was something not right here. Either my memory was failing me, or my eyesight. Or else that book was behaving in a way that books do not and should not.

I walked to another room. I carefully considered what I remembered. I conceded that I might well have overlooked the punctuation marks at first. They are small, after all, and if you are looking for words printed on a page and don't see any, it's not surprising that you might not notice some stray periods and commas.

But I was certain that there had been no words printed in that book. Even my cursory riffling through it would have shown some of these words, they were so plainly printed. Besides, I had been looking for words in it, and surprised at not finding any.

There was only one conclusion, both inescapable and inexplicable. The words had appeared afterwards. After I had seen the blank pages. The words had appeared after I had spoken them.

I strode back into the room and picked up the book. I opened it to the first page again. I examined the words, "Now that's ironic." I paged through from there and found the other instances of the word "now". I had said "now", and "now" was printed in the book.

It suddenly occurred to me to try an experiment, a ridiculous experiment. I turned back to that first page. I fixed its appearance and sparse layout firmly in my mind. Then in a clear voice I said, "I".

The word "I" instantly appeared in no less than five places on that page, became visible as if it had always been there but dust obscuring it had been brushed away by a dry breeze.

I turned through the book and found other instances of the word "I" throughout. I turned back to the beginning. I said "said" and barked a laugh as the word became visible on the page.

Then I began rattling off all the common little words I could think of. "The", "it", "a", "in", "of", and "on" all twinkled into view. It was amazing. I could scarcely believe it was happening. Yet, I was watching it happen.

I dropped into a chair, the book closed on a finger, my eyes sharp yet unseeing. This was some kind of enchantment. Somehow, my speaking the words was making them appear within the book.

I examined the title again. The Story. I had no doubt that these were the words to a story, but what that story was, I had no idea. Still, in a strange way, I was writing this story. Creating it. Bringing it from nothingness to reality on the page.

I scarcely remember the passing of the next few days. All my attention was on the book, and trying to elicit its magic with my words. I quickly ran out of all the little pronouns and prepositions. I began rattling off common verbs, nouns, my eyes sweeping the room for words. When I first said the word "book" and watched it spread through the book itself, I smiled and shook my head.

When I completed the first whole sentence, I actually gave a victory whoop. Some words were easy to guess, by interpolating them at the right place in a sentence. Others were maddening. I started reading newspapers and magazines aloud, then tossed them aside: even I could tell how repetitive and useless they were. I seized a fat dictionary and recited randomly, flipping backwards and forwards madly. I sang songs, old hymns, children's rhymes. Words sparked into life on each page.

Again and again, I fell back into my chair hoarse and exhausted, only to rouse myself and grab at anything with print. A thesaurus I looted for the arcane and unique gems of the language, the hidden treasure of words. Synonyms tumbled against each other. I spent whole hours pacing about, trying one adjective after another, like keys in a strange lock, until the correct one fit, a missing piece in a mysterious puzzle.

At last I reduced the blank spaces in the story to a very few. I strained and struggled to dredge up the words to fill the last spaces. I was nearing the end of the creating of the story, and I was both energized and saddened. The challenge of finding those final words was tremendous, like the final ascent to the summit of a mountain.

Still, in the background hung the thought that soon the book would be complete and would, therefore, become ordinary. It would be like every other book ever printed, full of words, a commonplace. Only I would know the thrill, the magic, the serendipitous act of its creation.

At last, it was done. I sat back and let out a breath. My work was finished, the story complete. I opened my book, and read, "I bought the book for its cover, a deep red leather that caught the light and seemed to hold its glow within."

Then, turning to the last page, I saw, "Chapter 2. The next day, I was startled and horrified when..."