Dear Reader-- Perhaps I should begin with a brief word of explanation.
I am a writer. Not critically-acclaimed or anything; up till a few months ago, I've only had small articles for local journals and periodicals, a few "How To" books and poetry compilations.
My editor sat me down one day and told me to take a holiday; he suggested I take a trip to somewhere spontaneous as a drastic measure to add a note of unorthodoxy to my writing. He told me I was getting too predictable.
I returned home and sat at my typewriter. He wanted unorthodoxy? I would give him that. I had very little idea of where exactly the words would take me (which is highly unusual); what followed was like nothing I'd ever thought possible.
I am a writer, and this is my tale. -Laura
>>>>>>>>>>>
Once Upon A Time...
Oh, who am I kidding? They all
begin with "once upon a time." You might as well broadcast at once,
"All right, here we go into story mode! Prepare to hear things that are
not possible in real life!" Because that is what we do, really; we hear a
story and never once do we enter fully into it. We keep our feet firmly planted
in a world our minds desperately long to escape, all thanks to those words,
"Once Upon A Time."
What time? We say that all the
ensuing story happened "once", but it's really a trick because we
never specify any particular time, just "a time." As in "any time but now." Why not?
What's wrong with the past or the present? My present happens to be very
entertaining, perhaps more so than most.
For example, I'm sitting here at my
typewriter in this musty old attic full of moth-ridden memories of yesteryear,
stacks of boxes neatly filled with decorations waiting for their seasons and
gifts to bestow upon future generations. My writing desk, a modest,
old-fashioned garage-sale steal, sits right slap against the round window that
peeks down into the next-door neighbor's back yard so I can chuckle to myself
most mornings (such as this one) as I am treated to a ringside view of a circus
none of the neighbors see: my next-door neighbor in his striped pajamas chasing
their little black lab through the bushes. It happens all the time, and usually
we all hear it, but the fence is so tall no one can ever witness it—except me.
When I'm writing in the morning I can watch.
He has been chasing the mutt for
ten minutes now. I wonder what he will do when he catches him. He never does,
really. Oh, there he goes through the rose bushes! I see my neighbor stand
surveying the thorns, scratching his belly through the paper-thin muscle shirt
that barely contains his girth. I sip my coffee, settling down to watch the
show. My neighbor grabs a shovel, but the minute he approaches the bushes and
commits himself too far to turn around very quickly, zip! The black blur
streaks from under the bushes and through the pet door to wait innocently for
his breakfast. My neighbor has no choice but to fight his way out of the
thorns. Even through the window and at this distance I can hear him screaming
dire and impossible threats toward the house and the dog, who is no doubt being
coddled by his wife, safely inside.
But I digress. Back to my question:
what if we decided to treat a book like a swimming hole, what if we dared to
dive right in, all the way in? No gradient progression, wading slowly into the
water only as deep as one's shoulders, and certainly never out of reach of the
shore—
I'm staring at the keys now; they
seem to have taken on a life of their own. I am barely able to write as the
whole contraption verily quivers with excitement at the prospect of me, the
writer, coming unhinged. Dare I? What will happen if I do? Will I be able to
return, or will I be forced to remain there, permanently separated from my
world altogether?
Oh come now, pull yourself together!
What is happening?
You are a writer, are you not? Paper and ink are your
world! You are not leaving, you are arriving!
I don't understand. How is this possible?
How is it possible? You have never doubted the scope and
magnitude of your abilities before. You have always accepted the worlds you
create.
Accepted? Well, I've written worlds, made them up, as it
were, but surely they don't exist.
Of course they do not exist out there! But there is no
way you can say they do not exist in here.
In where?
In the paper.
Scratch that, you mean "on."
I mean no such thing! I am a typewriter, I know what I am
about! It is you who are confused! Ah, how can writers be so narrow-minded?
Just stop correcting me and go through the door!
Did you do that?
What, you just noticed it? Now you are going to be like
those people who you claim get on your nerves and ask yourself the point of
writing fiction?
I should probably inform the readers that there appears to
be a glowing door standing next to my writing desk. It's strange. It fades into
the background while I'm watching the paper, but the longer I stare at the
door, the more it comes to life and changes form: now a trellis full of ivy,
now a curtain of lush hanging vines. Apparently I am intended to go through
this door.
What do you mean "apparently"? It just so
happens that this is the door you have been looking for every time you place
your fingers on my keys, or put a pen to paper. You have searched for almost
all your life, not knowing that all the time the door was right there for you.
Door? What are you talking about? I never needed to look for
doors in any of my stories, and I really don't think I was looking just now.
You might be shocked to realize that anyone who has ever
read true, great fiction has been through this door in their imagination. This
is the door into the ImagiNation. Now is your chance to go through it
physically, where so many of your readers have only been mentally.
Why haven't I heard about this door or noticed it before?
Come to think of it, I have been using this typewriter to write manuscripts for
years; why hasn't something like this happened before?
Well, let me ask you this: in all those manuscripts, as
you say, did you sit down with your whole idea planned out already, or are you
ready for anything, to let the stories of the ImagiNation tell themselves?
Planned, of course; woe betides the writer who doesn't plan
ahead!
Oh really? Who are you to decide that? You want to know
why you have never heard your typewriter or seen the door? Because you have had
your face buried in your own white paper, telling your own story all that time.
I'm sorry.
Never you mind. At least now you have changed your tack.
Congratulations, now get your rear in gear and go through that door.
Wait! What are you doing? Put me back on the desk!
You have to! Because
I am the only way you could ever get back through that
door. Take me with you and the minute you lose me, you will be completely at
the mercy of the fiction world until you find me again. Leave me here, and at
the very least I will have the capacity to keep you alive.
Wise choice. Now you can go through the door. Well? Now
what is the holdup? Go! That is the spirit!
This is the typewriter addressing you all. The Writer has
gone through the Door. She will be fine; do not worry. I will relay her
experiences for you to read in real-time. You just sit tight and wait for the
story to commence. Some people think it is all the writer directing the story,
but now I will show you how real writing happens! She has arrived. Good; let us
read.
>>>>>>>>>>
I began in a pleasant place. I
stood in a grove of trees, looking around to get my bearings. Before me
stretched a wide, sunny field dotted with blooming bushes and speckled with
brightly-colored flowers. I stood just on the outer edge of a grove of trees
that seemed to stretch to my left over the horizon, and to my right, all the
way to a mountain range that dominated the landscape, even though it had to be
many leagues distant. Behind me the grove was quite deep, though I could see a
few patches where the trees stopped at another clearing. I decided to explore
this one. As I turned and progressed deeper into the trees, I see flickers of
light waver around my feet, like specks of dust in a beam of light—only these
specks were quite large, emitting high squealing sounds, and they appeared in
the shadows as well as the light. I attempted to walk quickly; these must be
fairies, but I didn't want to find out the hard way that they're the vicious
kind!
I
tried to dodge the blinking lights, but they seemed to come from everywhere! I
cross-stepped right into some vines covered in a sticky gunk that pulled my
feet out from under me. Instantly, a swarm of six-inch high little people
spread over me, hauling with them the same dark, sticky vines. I threw my arms
about, trying to toss my captors and regain my footing, but to no avail.
As they wrapped me tightly in the
vines, I noticed that the lights I saw were tiny torches in the hands of the
creatures. The dark creatures grinned maliciously as they displayed
considerable strength to lift me up in that cocoon of vines, high into the
treetops. I had no idea what to do. I could not move, but would I dare call for
help? What if the only creatures inhabiting this place were the same species as
my captors—or worse?
The creatures cinched me up tight,
but they were not done yet. A group of creatures came down the vines toward my
head bearing a large yellow fruit. I cringed as their sharp foot-claws
scrabbled over my scalp. Several of them climbed down the side of my face
(pulling out hairs as they did) and pulled down on my lower lip, forcing my
mouth open as the others crammed the fruit in as far as it would go. A burst of
juice gushed out of my mouth and dripped down my neck. I tasted sour, rough
rind and overripe melon. Cackling and chattering, the little creatures scurried
away and left me hanging up there.
The woods were bathed in golden
horizontal light as the sun set somewhere behind me. It would have been
beautiful, I am sure, but in light of what had just occurred, there was an
eeriness, an ominous tint to the dark shadows.
The sky grew black, and a light
rain began to fall. Of course the tree canopy was so thick that no water
penetrated, but I began to feel drowsy in the warm, thick air that accompanied
the shower.
I don't know when I finally nodded
off or how long I slept, but the next sensation to register on my brain was the
sounds of gentle voices chatting. Where I had been very uncomfortable with my
surroundings before, and very much frightened of the little black things, I
detected that my present company, whoever (and whatever!) they were, would be
much more soothing.
I
felt something soft and fluttery persistently brushing my cheeks at annoyingly
intermittent intervals. I reached up to brush it away—but I was still tightly
wrapped in the green, vine cocoon. I opened my eyes and immediately regretted
it. I could not see—not in the sense that I was blind and everything was dark,
but there were so many bright lights in my face that my eyes refused to stay
open. So I listened to the chatter around me.
“You
say you found her like this?”
“Yes.
The imps must have gotten her.”
“This
does seem to be their trademark prank.”
“Aye,
your Highness; they are not very bright.”
“Well,
neither is this—being—if she
allowed herself to be caught so thoroughly.”
“What
do you suppose it is?”
“Your
Majesty! It appears the being is waking up!”
I
opened my eyes as the light died down around me. Standing on a platform of
leaves suspended by vines about three inches in front of my face was a
delicate, winged creature about six inches high. She smiled at me, and her
wings raised and fluttered, sending off a brilliant light, which made me wince
and close my eyes again.
“My
apologies,” she said quickly, settling her wings and allowing me to open my
eyes again. I stared at her. She had thick, dark hair piled atop her head and
held in place by sturdy blades of grass. She wore a dress of exquisite beauty,
some unknown, ethereal fabric, and her delicate feet were bare. She blinked her
dark violet eyes at me. “You are a very large creature,” she observed, “We
found you hanging here; I’m afraid the imps were up to their old tricks again.
Can you speak?”
I
opened my mouth and tried, “I…What—“ My voice was cracked, my body was numb for
being wrapped so tightly for so long, my throat was dry, and I was totally
confused. A fairy! A real fairy! What on earth was this place? What had I
gotten myself into?
The
fairy in front of me laughed, a high, jingling sound. “Ah, that’s still a
problem, is it? You can understand me because we put fairy dust in your ears
while you slept, but I cannot understand you because you must take fairy dust
in your mouth.” She took off, hovering a moment before me. “I will be back
presently,” she said, and flew away.
While
I waited, a group of fairies flew around my face, combing out my hair with
their tiny hands and smoothing a soothing substance over my face.
The
dark-haired fairy returned shortly with a small berry in her arms. I recalled
what she had said about fairy dust. “But that doesn’t look like—“ I began
speaking to myself (being the only one, evidently, to understand my words), but
before I could finish, she gently tucked the berry into my mouth. Involuntarily
I swallowed.
The
sweet, tangy juice flooded my mouth. I tasted blueberries, and a hint of savory
cinnamon. It was altogether delicious—then it entered my throat. A
transformation occurred, and it felt as if a fireball was working its way toward
my stomach. I gagged in surprise, but, as the berry was already swallowed,
there was nothing to choke back up. Whatever I had consumed along with the
berry (or perhaps it was a strange naturally occurring aftertaste of the berry)
tasted like the spiciest peppers imaginable and overwhelmed my taste buds.
“Water!”
I gasped, careless of whether the fairies understood me, “water!”
The
fairies seemed to know what I wanted, because a dozen of them flew down and
brought up a small, hollowed-out burl filled with a clear, fizzy liquid. It
tasted like apples, and it refreshed my mouth. The burning died, and I found
that I could now speak to the fairies as well as understand them.
The
dark-haired fairy returned, “My name is Perissa,” she said, “and if you are
ready, we can untie the vines and let you down to a more comfortable seat.”
“Oh,
yes please!” I sighed.
The
fairies first cut me down from the tree, and then when I was safely on the
ground, they began cutting the vines off me. It was such a relief to be free! I
stretched out my arms and stood up against the tree, relishing the sensation of
feeling returning to my extremities.
“Thank
you,” I told Perissa as she landed on my open palm.
She
curtsied, “Now perhaps you can tell us what you are and how you came here.”
I
sat down on the lush, soft grass. “Well, I am a human—“
I
got no further as the whole fairy population stopped and gasped. Perissa
clapped her hands to her mouth, “A human?”
she bent down to feel my hand, as if suddenly unsure of my existence. “Oh my! I
always thought they were just stories!”
“Don’t
worry about her,” a voice above my head called out. I felt something on my
head, and when I tipped it forward, the voice cried out as a small body dropped
into my lap. This creature was a male, and it had no wings. “Are there such a
thing as wingless fairies?” I wondered aloud.
The
young man stood and straightened his tunic. “Of course not!” he snapped back,
“I’m an elf! All fairies have wings, of course!” he snorted at my ignorance for
good measure. Smiling to myself, I plucked him up by one little foot.
“I’m
sorry,” I said, letting him dangle, “I didn’t know. This is the first time I’ve
seen a fairy or an elf.”
“Whoa!
Okay!” the elf waved his arms frantically, “I get the picture! Put me down!”
I
wasn’t about to let him go just yet. “Say please,” I demanded.
“PLEASE!”
I could see the elf’s face turning bright red, even as small as it was.
I laid him gently on my palm, where he
remained for several minutes as the blood left his head.
Perissa
had gotten over her shock by now. “What is your name, human?”
I
smiled at her, “My name is Laura; what is this world?”
“You
mean you don’t know?” Perissa flew up and hovered in front of my face, the
movement of her wings causing her to glow brightly. “How did you get here if
you don’t know where you are?”
Would
you believe me if I told you I had a conversation with a typewriter and walked
through a door to get here? I thought to
myself. I wondered if this world received many strangers. I was certainly the
first human they had ever seen. I hazarded the most truthful answer I could
give under the circumstances.
“I
came here through a—a magic portal from a different world,” I burst out.
To
my great relief, Perissa accepted this answer. “Ah yes, I have heard of those,
but I was never quite sure where they were. This world, Laura, is called
Phantasm. This realm is called the Fairy Glade.”
I
looked around at the fairies flowing to and fro over the flowers and bushes, at
the tall, strong trees with the dark vines winding round them, and the yellow
fruits hanging from these vines. It was all so—magical. “It’s very beautiful,” I said to Perissa.
She
bobbed in agreement, “Thank you; now, as much as we would appreciate your
presence here, I’m afraid we have no accommodations for humans—and you wouldn’t
want to get caught by the imps again.”
I
shuddered to think of spending another night hanging from the trees. “No, thank
you,” I assented.
“Very
well then,” Perissa landed on a toadstool. “I—“
Just
then, we all heard a soft whinny, and when I turned around I immediately jumped
to my feet.
As
if seeing imps and fairies and elves wasn’t enough, what should come striding
toward us but a really, truly unicorn! I stared in amazement as it came
prancing through the glade. It’s milk-white sides and the silver hooves
sparkled in the sunlight. A pure-white horn extended from the center of its
forehead, right between its eyes. I saw as it came closer that the horn had a
velvety sheen to it.
“Ah,
Jerak,” Perissa greeted the unicorn, “How kind of you to visit us.”
The
unicorn spoke with a gentle, rolling voice, much like the whinny of a horse.
“Ah, Perissa, I am only waiting to lose the velvet on my horn; until then, I am
as free as a red-horn to move where I wish. But—“ he turned his head to cast a
clear blue eye over me. “What is this?” he asked.
I
detected an air of respect from the unicorn. I nodded politely and said, “I am
a human, and my name is Laura.”
Jerak
stamped in surprise, “Is that so?” he gasped, wagging his head, “Truly I find
this amazing!”
“Please,
do make yourself comfortable,” Perissa invited Jerak, “I was only beginning to
tell Laura that she might be more comfortable in one of the dwarf-towns, where
they might have accommodations more suited to her kind.”
Jerak
glanced at the little fairies. He blew out his nose. “Does she know her way
around Phantasm?” he asked Perissa.
The
little fairy flew figure eights around the unicorn’s head. “I do not believe
so; she has only just arrived, and the imps caught her last night.”
“Squirmy
little creatures,” Jerak nickered in disgust. “Well, Laura,” he turned back to
me, “have you any guide to help you along the way?”
I
shook my head and turned to Perissa, “Perhaps if you or one of the fairies
could—“
“Oh
no!” Perissa gasped, flying over to me. “The dwarves, well, they…don’t take
kindly to the Little Folk.”
“They
trap them, mostly,” Jerak added, “Bring them back to town for entertainment and
charge other creatures to watch them dance.”
“Like
a flea circus?” I asked.
Both
the unicorn and the fairy didn’t know what to make of my comment.
“What’s
a circus?” Jerak asked.
“What’s
a flea?” asked Perissa.
I
shook my head as Perissa continued, “We can point you on your way, Laura, and
we can provide you with provisions for the journey, but I’m afraid, beyond
that, you’re on your own.”
“Not
if I have anything to say about it!” Jerak neighed insistently. “Laura the
human, I will be your guide, if you permit me.”
I
was beginning to like this courteous, gentle unicorn. “Of course; I welcome
your assistance,” I replied in the same formal manner.
Jerak
nodded, “It’s settled then; to the dwarf-towns we go!”
“Before
you leave,” Perissa said, “Let us supply you with food for your journey.”
One
hundred fairies flew around the piles of fruits and vegetables and grains,
packing into two large cloth bags, which they draped over Jerak’s back.
“Fare
well,” Perissa called after us as Jerak and I departed down the winding road to
the dwarf towns.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>
No comments:
Post a Comment