Ruby Red

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. A delicate hand maneuvers a pencil as it scratches its lead marks on a blank sheet of loose-leaf paper. Snap. With great force the delicate hand snaps the pencil in two and lays it dead on the paper next to its other half. Snap. Another pencil is broken and laid next to the two. Snap, a third. Six pieces of pencil side by side.

The hand retrieves the first broken pencil and places it in a small hand pencil sharpener to sharpen its broken end, with a scrape, scrape, scrape. In circular motions the sound takes us around the room from the pencils, to paper, to lit candle, to desk beneath, around to a chair in the corner, to a small bed, to a bathroom in the corner, the sink drips, drip, drop, drip, to a fan that buzzes in front of the window, then back to the pencils. Scrape, scrape, scrape. The hand sets down the last pencil, now six sharpened.

The hand picks up one of the six, it’s tip dives past the lips then tongue of a twenty something, fair skinned, ruby red lips, black haired beauty Ruby Red. Ruby wets the pencil tip and smiles, ready to write, inspiration upon her, pencil to paper…

Clunk, smile drops.

Ruby Red’s overhead light has lost power.

The page is lit only by the desk candle which illuminates the blank page. Ruby Red opens and rifles through her desk draw, finds and retrieves a money pouch and opens it to expose a limited amount of dollar bills and change.

Ruby snatches all six sharpened pencils together and slides them into her front breast pocket. Her forefinger and thumb meet her tongue to lick first, and second to move towards the candle wick to extinguish with a sizzle. On her feet, and out the door.

Ruby Reds feet hit the pavement. She clutches the money pouch in her hand towards a destination she is aware.

Up ahead, a curious site, her eyes squint in order to get a closer take.

A large gathering of people linger though furniture and wares of centuries past laid out across the front yard of an expansive property. An “Estate Sale” sign declares its intentions.

Ruby Red’s eyes travel past, intrigued by the expensive furniture, lighting, and sundries. Ruby lets her eyes not to wander, she has not the funds, she forces her female gaze onward.

Feet forward into a small building, “electric department” depicts the sign. Outside we wait for her, our eyes drift to the movement of the estate.

Hinges turn and feet hit the pavement. Ruby Red heads home. Up ahead the sights and sounds of the estate sale intrigue as we pass by, its surging power pulls us in.

Ruby Red’s feet greet grass, her fingers test the purple velvet couch, eyes marvel at the crystal of the chandelier, and hands grasp a silver fork from a collection of the like.

Something from the corner of Ruby’s eye piques her interest. Amongst a section of used books is a stack of all black, some scarlet red, Moleskine classic hardcover notebooks, at least twenty deep. From the Moleskines’ fore edge, colors and inks of all kinds. Ruby snatches one in the middle of the stack, opens it to find its pages dripping with oil paintings. Then another, sketches. Another, music notes. Another, watercolour. Another, long hand cursive writing in black ink, words, and words, and words. Fascinating. Smack.

Ruby Red closes the last Moleskine and gathers them tightly to her body in a secure hug. She walks them forward to the woman standing near the front who says, “Those are my great grandfathers.” Ruby Red smiles. “They are used.” Ruby nods. “How about five dollars.” Ruby balances the Moleskines’, while she removes all of the money she has left from her pouch, a two-dollar bill and a handful of change. Ruby hands it to the woman. The woman smiles and says, “Thank you.” Ruby smiles wide and walks onward.

Slap. Ruby proudly sets the Moleskines’ on her desk.

Strike. Ruby lights her candle with a match.

Ruby removes one of the six pencils from her front shirt pocket and sets the pencil on the blank page. She begins to review each Moleskine for inspiration. Open, review, slap. Open, review, slap. Open, review, slap. Inspiration does not yet come…

Ruby stops short of the next Moleskine, a mysterious notebook, as the fore edge pages tell us it has not yet been written in. Ruby in awe of the new Moleskine, opens it wide and finds all blank pages as she flips through. Page after page blank as she flips, flips, flips through blank page after page. Nothing. Empty.

Ruby flips to the last page, inspiration gone. But wait, something green catches her eye. What is this? Taped to the back of the blank page is an out of currency, and worth far more now, five-hundred-dollar bill Ruby, flabbergasted flips the Moleskine in the other direction to find a five-hundred-dollar bill after bill on the back of each page.

Without a thought, Ruby jumps to her feet, puts her six pencils in her pockets, clutches the Moleskine and races to leave. Ruby pauses, and steps back to snuff out her candle with her licked finger and thumb. Ruby red smile wide.

Ruby Red’s scribbling pencil marks words on the paper of her Moleskine tight in hand, as Ruby sits before forty individual people, the filmic location changes with each person as she goes, and ends with Ruby as she removes a five-hundred-dollar bill from the back side of the paper and hands it to the person in glee. Her writing begins and ends with the story of:

A musician.

A schoolteacher.

A driver.

A store manager.

A waiter.

An artist.

A nurse.

A male.

A female.

A teenager.

A young male.

An old male.

A young female.

An old female.

A black.

An asian.

A white.

A hispanic.

An american indian.

An allistic.

An androgyne.

An asexual.

A bigender.

A pansexual.

A butch.

A cisgender.

A cross dresser.

A demisexual.

A drag king.

A femme.

A gay.

A genderfluid.

A gender outlaw.

A gender non-conforming.

A gender unicorn.

A gender variant.

A lesbian.

A nonbinary

An omnigender.

A questioning.

A same gender loving.

People. People. People. Her pencil dots, period. Period. Period.

The door swings open, and the stack of Moleskins await Ruby at her desk as she returns with her full of stories Moleskine and smiles as she sits.

Strike. Ruby lights her candle, then opens her Moleskin as we flip through and find the written names of the people, with written words, and words, and words.

Ruby sets down on her desk all of her six pencils, now lead dull to a stub. She sharpens one.

Ruby takes the pencil to her blank sheet of loose-leaf paper, and writes, “Tell me your story”, and begins to write her own… “My name is Ruby Red, and I am…”

Clunk, her lights go on over her head, and she smiles as she continues to write…