The Magic in the Margins

Sam coughed into the thick smoke, his lungs burning every time he chanced a stifled breath through his old t-shirt. His eyes stung but he opened them as he was leaving the room anyway knowing full well that it wasn’t worth it. All he could see between the noxious clouds engulfing his worldly possessions were the towering flames that he could feel closing in around him. He pressed the shirt to his eyes again and felt his way towards the hallway, knowing that he was going in the right direction but still terrified that he’d never find his way out. Sam’s foot hit something on the floor and he looked down in spite of himself. It was his beloved laptop, shining like gold in the flames. “Everything that I am is in there.” He said and a manic desperation overcame him as he turned away from the exit and towards the inferno.

***

Sam woke up drenched in sweat again. He panicked momentarily, seeing the orange light from the sunset through his window before settling back in the bed. He rolled over and looked at the only thing besides himself that had survived the fire; a small, black Moleskine notebook with a pen tucked into the elastic band. He frowned at the book in annoyance as if it had pulled itself into bed with him, as if he hadn’t been falling asleep with it every night since the apartment fire that had sent him home with nothing. He was back at his childhood home, worlds away from his new university life and his journalism dreams.

Sam opened the notebook and the binding creased audibly. It was frayed at the edges and still smelled vaguely like ashes, but had otherwise survived the incident. Even the pages were crisp but that wasn’t surprising--Sam had always owned an electronic copy of everything he needed so it was a wonder that he owned a notebook at all.

Odd then, that the notebook seemed to be missing pages already; at least three sheets had been ripped haphazardly from the spine. He scowled, hating everything that the old relic stood for and the dramatic life changes that it represented most of all. He cast it aside and went to shower. Still, the little black book somehow still found its way in his hand when he went downstairs to check on his mother.

Her smile was caring but full of concern as she set an extra plate for dinner. “Feeling any better, Sam?”

“Does it look like I’ve found a way to get back to school yet?” Sam said stiffly, brushing past the table and out the door.

He thought he heard her say something about “you haven’t eaten all day” but Sam was sure to close the door swiftly behind himself before he took off towards the main street.

He let anger direct his steps again as it had every other day since the tragedy. There was nothing for him to do; the accident happened just as the semester ended, leaving him without a university job or a home at the start of summer. He didn’t even have a cell phone until the end of the week until his mother could lend him the cash to purchase a cheap one...not that he had Wi-Fi or internet at home to connect to. His mom offered her own cell but he declined, instead restricting himself to the old landline telephone at the house while she worked.

Really, all Sam wanted was a laptop so that he could get himself out of that mess! The sooner he had some electronic device, the sooner he could apply for jobs or grants that would help him get back in school, but most of all, he could journal the chaos of life the way he’d been needing to since the accident. But there had been barely enough to cover the trip home on such short notice. Even worse, many of his files had been corrupted during the accident, his flash drives destroyed. Much of Sam’s work was gone along with his dreams of becoming a writer.

His steps had taken him inadvertently to the old local library, the one he used to visit as a kid. He would have only gone for the computer lab of course, but the pandemic had put an end to that. He found himself staring through the window at a sign that read:

Have you always wanted to be a writer? The Scholastics Arts and Writing Award Foundation is now accepting submissions for scholarships! $20,000 grand prize! Ask your local librarian for details or apply online!

Sam clenched his jaw and turned away. His temper flared and he looked around for some release when he realized he’d been digging his nails into something in his hand--the book! Sam paused, then unsheathed the pen and held the tip over the paper. “This is dumb.” He scrawled finally before taking the long route home. It was dark and he was exhausted when he arrived but his mother was still in the living room.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered with guilt, catching the worry in her features.

“There’s dinner on the table.” She responded, wringing her hands in the way all mothers do when they’re waiting for the right time to say more. Sam sighed and sat in front of his food. It was his favorite; homemade lasagna. “I’m glad you started writing again.” His mother said, gesturing at the notebook beside the plate.

He didn’t argue. “I am too.”

“What are you working on?” She pressed.

“There’s a writing contest at the library.” He replied.

“The one that’s closed now?” She said, the worry lines reappearing on her face.

“Yeah but I’ve got it figured out. I’ll be okay, Mom.” He added, “Love you,” to make some of the tension drop from her shoulders. She kissed him on the forehead and let him finish his meal in peace.

At the end of the night, Sam was restless and his mind was racing. He thumbed through the notebook absentmindedly until the page he’d written on caught his eye. To the right of his irritable handwriting, in the margin, were the words:

Tell me about it. Surviving a fire just to continue to a life without purpose...

Sam inspected the book again, looking for anything that would explain. Finally, he scribbled: Exactly! Nothing happened. He winced with embarrassment over his lame one-word response and started to notice his poor penmanship too when ink bled from the page and formed the words:

I was talking about me.

Sam gasped loudly and looked around wildly as if there was someone else to bear witness. He heard his mom grumble his name in her sleep and he shouted “I’m fine!” in the darkness before writing “What are you?” and waited while his pulse drummed against his Adam’s apple.

The neat handwriting came in clearly. Sam touched the page as soon as it appeared but the ink was already dry. I'm a book, obviously. What are you?

Sam was nonplussed. I’m a man obviously.

A man who writes?

Sam paused. Sure, you could say that.

Well then. Let’s see what you’ve got.

Sam brow furrowed. I can’t.

The words did not appear right away. Give me to someone who will then. If you can avoid throwing me across a room again in the meantime, that would be great too.

“Wait, you felt that?” Sam sputtered aloud before realizing he had to write it.

As much as I can feel that cheap ball ballpoint pen you’re using.

Sam looked at his pen wildly. You have a preference?

I prefer to be written in.

He took a breath and began: "Once upon a time,” He grimaced and crossed that out. “Four score and--” How does it go again? He scratched that out too. “In a land far, far awry...” Sam saw his mistake and felt his frustration grow. “This is why I hate writing!”

He reached for the edge of the page in anger before words spilled across the page: DON’T YOU DARE.

What I’ve written is terrible.

How on earth do you know that?! You've barely begun, just keep going! He huffed and tried again. This next attempt produced a full paragraph before he paused, waiting for a reply. Go on. And he did. Sometime later, Sam noticed that his eyes were too dry...it was nearly morning. That was a really good start.

Sam wrote, “You think so? Later for now though. I haven’t slept at all.” He’d only begun to contemplate his consideration for the notebook’s feelings before he was fast asleep.

Sam woke more well rested than he’d been in a while. He rushed through breakfast (dinner) the next night in the hopes of getting back to writing and tried to scarf down his meal during polite dinner conversation. “What?” He said finally, exasperated from having to ignore his mother’s staring for as long as he could stand.

She smiled at him in the way mothers do and her eyes drifted to the elastic band of the notebook that was tucked between the pages. “Nothing.” Sam grunted in response and hid the book from sight.

After dinner, he repeated the previous night’s writing frenzy. The days became weeks until Sam found himself exhausted of ideas entirely. He and the book had explored every angle of his story that they could thing of. But every time he thought to give up, the book would prompt him: Just keep writing.

This is stupid and I can’t erase it. He’d say.

One more page. Was the book’s reply.

No one will read this. I should start all over. He’d complain.

But the book would stop him. If not for you, finish for me and all the things we’ve endured together, and all the time I’ve spent on your shelf waiting for you to notice that your words are everything that I am.

Then one day Sam turned the page and his heart sank. He wrote another two paragraphs before he stopped to address what he couldn't put off any longer. This is the last page.

About time. The book replied promptly.

Sam dropped his head. What happens now?

How should I know, it’s your story.

He shook his head. I don’t mean in my story. You’re out of pages.

There are other notebooks you know.

None that will talk. He wrote shakily as he reached the bottom of the page.

How would you know? I'm the first and only one you've ever bothered with. The ink scratched itself into the margins for the last time and it left Sam feeling empty. He still had no way of submitting his story for the scholarship and now his magic book was gone. Distraught, he gave up and refused to leave his room for the rest of summer.

One day in early autumn, his mother came into his room as she had every day since Sam had fallen ill. But instead of her slow, even footfalls, she moved with quickness that he’d forgotten she’d had. He rolled over to face her in alarm but she was smiling through tears. “Sam, you won.”

It took her a while to convince him that she’d been taking his journal to work with her every day to type what he’d written overnight during her lunch hour. It took him even longer to explain the voice in the margins.

"Something lives inside the book," he claimed, "and that's the only reason I've succeeded." But when he showed her the pages, she couldn't see the book's replies, only his notes, written in his handwriting as if he’d done it all himself. He swore it was magic, she swore it had come from within him all along, but they both agreed that the first thing he’d buy with his $20,000 winnings, would be another little black Moleskine notebook.