Adiva the Defender
Re-writer of wrongs, one page at a time.
We are all born into this world in blood and ink, but we rarely meld with the ink itself. We emerge from a fresh bath of fluids from our mother and get processed into paperwork immediately. Our feet stamped, wailing and not knowing what is next, but processed into a system that should be here to help us as we grow into adults. A papercut this evening would transform her into an excellent investigator within the pages of books and legal documents…literally. In a moment, she would dive into a page and exist between printed words and pulp, shedding light onto pages meant to be hidden. All it took was one slice on her right forefinger.
Her reading of contracts in the corner of a law office could be dull, but her training as a paralegal utilized her meticulous attention to detail. She viewed her practice as a form of craft, to ask the right questions, her precision a verbal knife to an opponent across the table she cut with a smile and quietly. Her small frame, dark hair, and glasses hid her passionate heart. She often stayed late to find the answers she needed within the law office's historic library.
When reaching upwards for a large volume covered in leather, her forefinger was cut on the edge of a page. The microbes of an ancient plant, whose dust was on the paper from being pressed were waiting to find a host. It went into her bloodstream. Alone, she felt herself transformed and liquid, as lithe as a plant. Her body seemed to thin, then caress the page. Every word became a living thing, not just printed. Adiva was about to become Adiva the Defender, secretly flipping pages of wrongs, transforming lives. Her nightly excursions within books had just begun.
About the Creator
Rebecca Siemering
Rebecca Siemering is a fiber artist and poet. She uses poetry to help her think of her visual pieces, and sometimes something visual inspires a poem. She produces sculptures with paper, white line prints, and drawings based on her poems.
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The Ritual
Every night at nine, Mara set the second place. She did it even when she ate standing at the counter, even when the sink was full and the radio was still murmuring to itself. She took the blue plate from the cupboard—the one with the chipped rim—and set it across from her. She folded the napkin into a neat rectangle. She put the fork on the left, the knife on the right, blade facing in, as if someone had taught her manners she was determined not to forget.
By Nina Pierceabout 20 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
I love the idea of this, Rebecca. I hate papercuts but if the essence of a book entering one turned me into a super bookworm, I'd accept my fate!