Tag: language

bones, broken or not

A short piece.

by Marcus Jonathan Chapman

I am bones when I see a friend
I am bones when I eat
I am bones when one of us survives
I am bones when I lose a friend
I am bones when I am hungry
I am bones when one of us goes missing

I am bones because
thoughts about feelings are lanterns in dark, empty rooms
I only imagine what might be there
no light shines around the heart
and
feelings expressed as words are chattering teeth
I only hear an echo of
wet cracking and heavy flapping
the feelings lost in translation

I am happy when I see a friend
I am happy when I eat
I am happy when one of us survives
but that is not adequate

I could regurgitate a thesaurus, vomiting up excited, elated, pleased
but those are just words for happy
If you missed the expression of happiness
no words will make up for it
I will not make up for it
If I do not know if I am happy
then I am not paying attention

I am sad when I lose a friend
I am sad when I am hungry
I am sad when one of us goes missing
but these are not adequate

I would be sick all over the page with sorrow, mournful, somber
only shattered teeth from the mouth of sad
If I missed the expression of sadness
in any of its degrees
I will not make up for it with words
If I do not know if I am sad
then I am not paying attention

But feelings are blood, moving in and out
always there, always flowing
I am more than that
bones remain after death
so I will know

I am bones when I see a friend
I am bones when I eat
I am bones when one of us survives
I am bones when I lose a friend
I am bones when I am hungry
I am bones when one of us goes missing

broken happiness is sadness
broken sadness is insanity
broken bones are bones
I will say I am bones
broken or not

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Ponder, Equal, Found

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator

In his hands was the Voynich Manuscript. A 240 page document from the 15th century with illustrations and text. Most interesting was the text; it could not be traced to any known language.

The illustrations themselves were also quite interesting. The first half filled with renderings of plants, unfamiliar to the planet. The second half filled with drawings of human forms sliding through tubes, being dismembered, and arranged in some sort of sack.

The manuscript had been found in the early 1900’s and now it was in my hands. An impulse vibrated through me to stuff the book in my shirt and walk out of the rare books section of one of Yale’s libraries.

Instead, I stared into the pages, past the ink, as if something would crawl out of the microscopic fibers. I pondered what this would mean but not for long. A couple of dots over one of the strange letters began to grow. The Umlauts twisted around each other growing but remaining equal to each other in size.

On the page in front of me was now a rendering of a mobile phone with a cracked screen. The text accompanying the previous illustration now changed as well.

I was still unable to read it but the entire page had reformatted itself.

On its own, the page turned and the swirling dots turned the existing illustration into a new one. This time it looked like a bowl holding parts of some sort of machine. The text changed and the Umlauts moved to the next page.

I was in awe. If I could learn the language of the Voynich Manuscript, I would come up with words to better describe my feelings. I can’t so I was in awe of the book rewriting itself while I held it. Each page the dots move faster and faster until the last few pages were a rush of wind before the book shut.

I nearly dropped the book, which pulled me back to reality.

Now I thought about what it looked like to be given the opportunity to hold the original Voynich Manuscript and return a completely different book. I was amazed how the mundane world of social pressure was a stronger pull than the wonder and magic I had just witnessed.

I set the book down and walked out of the library.