As she listened to him lay out the plans for the burning to a waiting servant, she thought of a red,

leather-
bound book with gold leaf and carefully printed letters buried in the ground and in her memories. Longing
pricked her and she half-closed her eyelids, startled by this uncontrollable emotion. She hadnt unearthed one
of those memories for a long time.

The servants response cut through the wave of emotions. Sir, we are on our last field. Is there any other way
to dispose of the ashes?

Impulsively, she reached out and lightly touched his sleeve, fingers coming away with black smudges. The man
turned his head to look at her.

He did not say a word, only stared straight into her gray, unflickering eyes. She breathed in the smell of red
leather and stared back at him.

Throw them into the sea.

He waited. She continued. Do not keep squandering our resources. Use the forces of nature. Throw the ashes
into the sea and I promise you they will never rise again.

Again, that stare, with clear, unblinking, blue eyes.

The smell disgusts you, doesnt it? he murmured in a quiet voice.

How else will you dispose of them? she replied steadily.

He sighed and turned back to the man and finished the dictation, then gave further instructions. Once you are
done, call the water workers and tell them to ready their boats.

The servant left, but the man stayed with his back turned to her.

With a trace of amusement, he said, Your logic has taken away my one enjoyment. I love the feel of burned
words sifting through my fingers.

She was not fooled by his conversational tone. She glanced at his hands, stained permanently black, and
muttered, I know.
. . .

In the darkening shadow of the sun, a girl named ____ trudged through glittering sand, heading towards a
house perched on a low hill overlooking the horizon. Waves lapped eagerly at her brown boots, but she
ignored them. As she dug her left foot down in the sand, she pitched forward, her boot making no purchase on
the ground. As she fought to keep from falling and crushing the load of shells she carried on her back, she
peered down at what had caused her to slip. At first she thought it was seaweed, but it was too dark and too
perfect. Before she could bend down to pick it up, something flashed out of the corner of her eye and she
turned her head towards the water. Swirling in the tide was another of the things, catching the light of the
dusky sun. She set her sack down beside her and knelt, cupping her hands under the thing and lifting up gently.
There, the words This book belongs to swirled in her hands, threatening to slip between her fingers. She
cocked her head to the side, the handwriting a vague recognition from the past. More movement in the waves
made her look up. She stared, her mouth losing its grim set and falling slack. The water was a swirling mass of
black, as more and more words swept in piles onto the shore. She promptly dumped the words still cupped in
her hands into her jacket pocket and ran for the hill.

Late into the night, waist deep in churning water, lanterns bobbing around her, she dragged a net over the
expanse, repeatedly drawing in dripping mounds of words and heaping them into waiting carts. She finally gave
up, collapsed on the soft, sinking ground where water met sand, and put her head in her hands. Moments
passed, with only the sound of waves pulsing around her folded knees. Letters trickled between her toes and
swept back out into the water, only to return with the next wave.
. . .

Light burned her eyelids. She felt old and stiff and tried to get out of her hunched position. Something like a
mold cracked from her legs and torso. Half formed sentences fell away from her lower body as she looked
around. The beach was covered with dry words, the tide having retreated ten feet away. Dense passages of
descriptions and dialogue littered the ground, covering the stench of seashells and seaweed with the perfume of
leather and drying ink. The entire coast was black. But the ocean was a brilliant blue once more. As the
morning light illuminated the scene stretched out before her kneeling form, a floating word, almost lost in the
sea of ink, nevertheless caught her eye. Picking it up to read it, she stopped breathing. Her hands turned
nerveless and the word dropped to the ground as she recognized her name. She fell to her knees and scooped it
up to cradle it in her right hand. Trembling, she reached into her pocket and laid those first words across her
left hand. Reading her palms from left to right, she finally recognized her childhood handwriting: This book
belongs to ____. Her hands clenched around the words and unclenched, then plunged into the black ground.
She opened her mouth in silent grief and wonderment as her fingers grasped the crusty edges of broken stories.