I’ve been sharing my thoughts on my reading here on Annecdotal and on Goodreads for nearly 10 years. I’ve enjoyed it immensely, although my reviews have got shorter as I juggle other demands on my energy and time. But I’m loath to give up, fearful of what I’ll lose in the process. When the latest flash fiction challenge called for 99-word stories about a lost book, I thought I’d delve into those fears. I was surprised where it took me.
I remember grains of sand between the pages and the seaweed tang of my fingers as I brushed them off. I remember your voice as you read that passage, diving from clarinet to bassoon. I remember folding over the corner so I could come back to it and try to understand. I remember the sting of my cheek where you slapped it and my mouth wide open in shock.
I lost the words when you cleared the bookshelves, the same day you emptied your wardrobe and the kitchen drawers. In taking the book, you took a part of me.