A Blank White Page

The brain is a treacherous place, but perhaps the most dangerous of all is the brain of an artist. It is more unpredictable than the maze of Hephaestus, more versatile than a mother’s purse, and more random than the march hare at a mad tea party. While it may seem a daunting task to begin to understand this strange place, let it be known that it will make sense eventually. Unless, of course, you happen to be new to this world and, for example, something as undetached as a poem.

On this particular day, at this particularly beautiful time of 3 AM when the brain should have been asleep, a poem decided to make its way into the world. There was nothing, and then poof! There it was. It sat in the middle of the passage for a moment, twiddling its thumbs, and tried to decide what exactly it was doing here, in a relatively unmarked corridor of someone’s brain at three o’clock in the morning.

At that very moment, the body connected to the brain frantically rolled off the bed and attempted to find a piece of paper in the dark to capture the poem. The resulting signal zoomed by over the poem’s head in the hallway, heading towards headquarters at top speed. Having no other direction, the poem took off after it, because ooh flashing lights!

Eventually the poem ran out of breath and collapsed from exhaustion. It was young, yes, but its memory wasn’t very good and it forgot why it was following the flashing lights relatively quickly. From around the corner, an abundance of light and color caught its eye, or whatever poems have that are similar to eyes. It picked itself up off the floor and walked towards the spectacle. The poem would have completely walked off the sudden cliff if the miraculous view hadn’t completely stopped it in its tracks.

The room had no visible walls or ceiling. If anything, it resembled a rainforest. The more the poem looked, the more it saw. Some of the trees were strewn with collections of objects. One was completely covered with spools of embroidery thread, yarn, and every craft supply imaginable. Another had books instead of leaves. It was a beautiful varied forest of hobbies. The poem had never seen something more beautiful, and it sat on the edge of the cliff, dangling its short little legs and enjoying the view for about 5 seconds before wandering on to the next thing.

As it walked, the poem passed room after room, each more interesting than the last. There was a room of mirrors, a room filled with nothing (the sign on the door said ‘Lost Ideas’), and a space that seemed to be completely filled with sticky notes. As poems often do, it changed as it went, growing and stretching and absorbing little pieces of the environment around it, so when it turned down a final hallway, it wasn’t the same as it had been when it began. It was older, stronger, more sure of its purpose…

and it was going to need every inch of its newfound gumption to get past the crisscrossed lasers blocking its way to the final door.

The poem took a deep breath, then melted into a puddle on the floor. It oozed underneath the lasers like some space creatures from an alien planet. Once it pulled itself back together, it immediately wished it had taken the ceiling. Its front was stained with dust bunnies, pencil shavings, and something the poem hoped was only ketchup. The last doorway looked a lot more daunting on this side of the lasers. It was made from a strange dark metal and stretched up to the ceiling, held together by rivets and duct tape and securely closed by a whole bunch of locks. ALthough the door’s appearance was obviously meant to be foreboding, an image completed by a ‘Keep Out!’ sign written in (hopefully) more ketchup, the idea completely went over the poem’s head. It was still rather short.

After a moment’s thought, the poem stretched one of its grubby paws up to the door bell, rang it, then stood back and waited politely. It wasn’t long before a much smaller door slid open. The poem wiped its feet and stepped inside, barely clearing the door before it closed with a snap. The poem shivered, both from the fear and the sudden chill. This room was different from all the others in that nothing seemed to be happening. A peaceful snowy field stretched far into the distance, where a matching door waited, standing up all by itself. No footprints led through the snow towards it; apparently no one had been here in a very long time. The poem thought to make its way forward then stopped. There was something eerie about this room, as if the silence was holding its breath and waiting for something to happen. Ever so slowly, the poem lifted one foot and lowered it into the snow, When nothing immediately ate it, it continued onward, confidence slowly building. Only when it turned around to check its progress did it stop. The doorway it had come through was gone. So was the one it had been headed towards. The snowy field carried on as far as the eye could see on all sides, then faded into misty nothing. If you are lost, the poem whispered to itself, the best thing you can do is stay where you are and wait for someone to find you. So it sat. And it waited.

It had begun to give up hope of ever being found when a voice spoke.

“Are you lost?”

The poem jumped up and looked around.

“You found me! I knew someone would come.”

There was silence for a moment, then the voice continued without acknowledging the poem’s answer.

“They haven’t sent us another in a very long time.”

“Another what?”

“You look different,” said the voice. “I’ve never seen one like you before, but I suppose you’ll do.”

Far away in the distance, a darkness was gathering. Like magma, it moved slowly, then gathered speed until it was flying over the land towards the poem. The poem closed its eyes tight, covered its head, and prayed for a quick painless end.

Nothing happened. When the poem opened its eyes, it gave a shriek of pure terror. The darkness had it surrounded, and as it watched, a small blob of the pitch black broke off and approached, leaving inky footprints in the snow.

The poem struggled to get a few words past its chattering teeth.

“What kind of monster are you?”

The blob resolved itself into the shape of a cloaked figure. Its laugh echoed across the field, a horrible mocking sound like screeching metal.

“Surely you know my name. I am Judgement! Creator of nightmares, wrecker of perfectly good days, ruler of chaos! I am more powerful than an earthquake, more consuming than fire, more destructive than any force of nature you can think of!” Judgement walked closer, growing until it towered over the poem. “Now I will ask a question. What kind of monster are you?”

As Judgement waited for its answer, more horrifying beings stepped out of the wall of darkness. Zombies, cackling poltergeists, ogres and goblins and towering giants and werewolves and more assorted nightmares whose names the poor poem didn’t even know. It was trying to think, but Judgement’s minions were rather distracting.

“I WILL NOT ASK YOU AGAIN!” boomed Judgement, who was rather impatient.

“I’m not a monster,” the poem squeaked. Its voice could barely compete with a whisper.

“Then why are you here?”

“I don’t know.” A tendril of darkness poked the poem and it scooted frantically out of range. “You’ve got me all wrong. Please don’t eat me or dismember me. Just let me go.”

The assorted nightmares murmured to one another, then the circle began to close. Soon the poem had barely any room to move or think, let alone run. All logical thought deserted it, and its little noggin was filled with fearsome fangs and towering beasts and a wave of darkness so overwhelming that there was only one option. It collapsed to the ground and sobbed.

Silence reigned then. All growling and snarling, hooting and hollering, ceased. The nightmares looked at each other, unsure of what to do. They;d wanted to scare the new creature, but they hadn’t wanted to make it cry. Everyone collectively glared at Judgement, who wasn’t quite sure how to handle a taste of their own medicine, and a werewolf padded forward out of the circle of beasts. It curled around the shuddering poem and sighed, humming a deep note of apology in its chest. Gradually, the poem calmed, leaning on the wolf for support as it stood. It forced itself to look into each and every terrifying face until it locked eyes with Judgement.

“I am not like you,” said the poem, “but I think I can begin to understand you.”
A sigh rippled across the circle. After all, that was all they’d ever wanted. To be understood, not screamed at or pushed away or forgotten. And in that moment, the poem realized it wasn’t afraid. It was looking Judgement in the eye and taking a stand, because this was where it was meant to be. Not scribbled on a napkin at 3 AM and rejected, but here, in this snowy field with a bunch of nightmares. This was definitely better than some garbage bin. So the poem did the only thing it knew how to do. It stayed in that circle and gently spoke to the nightmares, all fears forgotten.

Even Judgement was listening.

Author Notes: This story is brought to you by today’s poem: A Blank White Page, by Francisco X. Alarcón.

A Blank White Page

is a meadow

after a snowfall

that a poem

hopes to cross

Recommend Write a ReviewReport