I. The Letter As the chill of the November air slowly creeps down your scaly spine—still the memory lingers. You’re taken back to that night; that cold, dark, sad night as you wrote down the words concealed in a letter addressed to a dear friend. They were the words, the silly little words—the words that bleed red in love, the ones that could significantly change your life forever. On an impulse, without thinking, you tell him everything. How you will never forget the way he made you feel, the way he makes you smile, even though he is no longer around. You watch him, still in the distance and yet you keep falling—slowly.
Names are important. I know this because everything has one. At least one. Most things have more than one. Some things have many. The more names something has, the more complex it is. My name is Francine. Most everyone calls me Franky. When I was little and my mom was mad at me, she called me Francine Joanne. I earned the name Sparky among some of my friends by electrocuting myself when we were tinkering with a computer we were building. My brother calls me sis, but not as often as he calls me doofus. It has really become a term of endearment. I call him doofus sometimes too.
Naming is an important way of communicating. You see, everyone can have a different name for the same thing. And what you call something can say a lot about both you and the thing you are referring to. Names don’t necessarily have to identify the thing they refer to. Names can describe. Beautiful, grotesque, intense, mild. All of these and more can be names. Anything can be a name, so long as it can be said. Names are not bound by part of speech or correct grammar. |
Editorial Staff
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