Little Red Book

Little Red Book

Little Red Book

The air was unusually crisp that October afternoon. But if you asked Claire if she remembered that day in particular, she would respond simply with a, "No. All days concerning school are too similar to remember. I go by months."
Now this, dear reader, isn't abnormal for Claire. School has been so painful since that first Monday of September. Instead of her emerald eyes getting overlooked by
the school populous, she often gets an ear full of comments and complaints about her wish to be the school's pariah. Everyone has to be friends in Bloomington High School. That's just how it is.
Claire's stomach gnawed on itself whenever Claire was asked a question by someone her own age. The content of the question didn't matter, as long as it was coming out of the mouth of someone who was fourteen to sixteen. She would feel nauseated if eye contact was made with one of them. Her lungs would constrict if they all crowded around her being.
She should have a boyfriend already, right? She must be involved in a group of friends that would gossip about other people cruelly, right? She had to partake in a sport, or band, or drama, right?
On that crisp October afternoon, she saw the poster. It was an ad placed on bright, purple paper, with lettering not too big or small. It announced that the author of Little Red Book was going to do a book signing at the local bookstore.
Claire placed a hand to her chest when her heart skipped a beat. She threw off her backpack, zipped it open, and the warm, red cover greeted her.
She had to go to that book signing.

Running, hidden, alone in the world,
Comfort never seems to come.

There was something amazing about the Rocky Mountains during the summer. The Caribbean Sea should also be marveled for its beauty. Boston throughout the fall, France in spring, and Everest in the grasp of winter gave Ernest a reason for living.
Just last week, Ernest returned from the plains of Africa. The trip would have been a hit if he didn't notice his deepened for another human he could share his adventures with. Every time he felt that ache in his heart, Ernest simply reached for that red book of poems.
The white kitchen that Ernest called his own seemed to seep despair. Something was gnawing at him, a loneliness so deep he felt like he was drowning. He tried to distract himself by glancing at the newspaper sprawled out before him on the dining room table. Something colorful caught his eye against the black on gray.
The ad told a tale of an author presenting at a book signing. The book was successful- a little red book of poetry that touched the nation's heart.
Ernest looked at the red cover of that book lying next to the newspaper. A smile graced Ernest's wrinkled face.

Looking at the beauties outside of me,
Saddened that something so rare could never come from inside of me.

The fresh memory of his slurred speech made Dannielle sob harder. His intoxicated breath on her face made her gag in his presence. He was ranting, crazed, and exceptionally angry. That night, Dannielle left him. That night, the man who was her night in shining armor, became her nightmare. That night, when she told him she was leaving him, he struck her in his drunken state.
Nothing seemed safe anymore. Dannie feared that her two little boys would realize their father was a monster.
The sobs were thinning now. She lifted her tearstained face from the wheel of her mini-van. Ben and Theo were asleep in bed, at the their grandmother's house. Dannie didn't have an income gracious enough to live at a hotel until she either legally kicked out her husband (soon to be ex) out of her home or bought a new house, where her children could live with her in peace.
Wandering eyes landed on an ad that Theo gave her one day after soccer practice. The Little Red Book lay hidden in her purse, but she could almost feel the smooth cover under her fingertips.
In the dark, Dannielle took a deep, yet shaky breaths to calm herself. She picked the ad up along with her purse, and she opened the car door. Poetry has always been cathartic to her.

At the hand of pain,
I sink into sorrow

The little red shell of a book was held tight to her chest. She breathed as much as her nervousness let her. A top hat perched on her head, a dress jacket, and off-white pinstriped pants covered her toothpick thin build. All of these clothing items hinted at a more extroverted person, not a lady who looked seconds away from a breakdown. The pacing didn't help much either- the writer of the infamous poetry book was scheduled for a book signing. She didn't look stable enough to do something as simple as flipping a coin.
~*~
The bookstore owner, mousy but greedy, who was wearing glasses before his sharp eyes. This man was a walking oxymoron. He greeted the customers with a glare that could be deciphered as this was the last place he wanted them.
The crowd didn't seem to get the message. They all looked back at him patiently. Finally, someone talked: he was an elderly man, his face worn with age, yet a voice full of youth. He seemed to match the storeowner with his very own version of contradiction.
"Sir, is Aubrey Hansen here?" It also seemed slightly conflicting for a man of his age referring to a storeowner who couldn't be over thirty as "sir."
The storeowner winced at the author's name, his mind flickering to the inane woman at the back of the shop, who was probably in tears by now. "Yes, she's just preparing things and readying herself for the book signing. She'll be out in a few minutes."
The crowd murmured in growing anxiousness, eating away at their patience.
"Just a minute?" asked a teenage girl with emerald eyes.
A woman, standing by her two children in soccer uniforms, asked, "Do you believe she'll write more poetry?"
"You'll have to ask for yourself," said the shopkeeper through clenched teeth.
"How long did you say it'd take her?"
"She's in the building, right?"
"Will she hurry up already?"
"Can you go check on her?"
"Will there be food afterwards?"
"I second that! I'm starving!"
The shopkeeper looked at the raving crowd in horror.
"Is the press covering this event?"
"Will chairs be set up for us?"
"She'll sign at that table, right?"
"This bookstore's a little stuffy."
The storeowner yelled at everyone to "shut up" and "if you wanted to see Miss Hansen, go into the back room of the store yourselves."
So, that's what about a fourth of the group did. They wandered towards the door in silence. No one talked anymore, except for the two little boys, (twins, most likely) who whispered, "Look, Mama, look!" to a woman.
There she was. Aubrey in all of her glory curled up in a fetal position. Her eyes were full of tears that were hastily wiped now that she wasn't alone.
"Miss Hansen?" the voice of the motherly woman was the first to break the silence.
"Y-yes?" the author stuttered softly.
"You seem to be crying," said Dannie, the motherly woman mentioned above, with a soft smile.
Aubrey thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. "Apparently." There was no hint of coldness in this word. She weakly smiled.
"Why are you crying?" asked a young boy, who's hair matched the speaking mother's.
Aubrey looked at her feet a good wile before answering. "Because I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?" Asked the girl with emerald eyes. "Us?"
"Yes," the author answered promptly. She was now grinning, despite her eyes were still a bit soggy. "That's why I became a writer over an actor. I'm scared stiff of public speaking."
There was a long pause before an older man said, "I want to thank you."
The author was surprised. "What for?"
The man named Ernest took a step forward. His eyes seemed to sparkle with joy. "For sharing your talent- for letting us read your words."
"You're very welcome." Aubrey felt touched.
"Thank you," Claire said, with her emerald eyes gleaming.
"Thank you," said Dannie, with her two children by her side.
That's when the talking began. Some people set themselves on the floor and some pulled a chair over by the group. They discussed what kinds of things fed their souls- mostly poetry. Topics moved to other topics which moved to others. It was hours later that someone mentioned the book signing. Was Miss Hansen going to sign anything? In no time, everyone had his or her own copy of that little red book.
"I hope you all find the things that help you prosper. I hope you all find your own Little Red Book in life." Aubrey said. Cheering, clapping and happiness followed her words.

Until, tired an feeling like what others call me-
I'm cold.
What defenses I have seem useless in my mind
When I reach into my bag of endless tricks,
Up my sleeve,
In my hat,
I have somewhere to thrive.
A magic shield that makes it all worth it
And a love we share
-something immeasurable-
but beautiful
That's when I remember to take that breath.