consciousness slowed

The anticipation is tangible. The crisp, autumn air creeps in through spaces in the door and windows. She stands in her room, shivering, naked. The wretched pile of tulle and satin sits on her bed, mocking her lack of royal blood. She can only pretend. She feels bitter. Her mother's voice wafts upstairs, asking if her dress is on. She grudgingly puts one foot through the mounds of fabric, then the other. An arm goes through a gaping lavender hole. Then another. Her bare back shakes with cold. A knock at her door. Her mother enters, armed with paint, brushes, powders, and other suffocating devices. Her mother clicks her tongue and zips up the open back of the dress. She sits, while her mother arranges the ingredients for disguise. A sponge piled with tan goo comes toward her face. She closes her eyes, cringing inwardly, gulping down a whimper.

the closet

I unlock the olive green door and even more paint chips fall off as it moves. I got this rusty key by giving the greasy landlord 20 bucks. The apartment is musty and dank. It's difficult to see in here. I shine the dull beam of the flashlight ahead of me, catching the dust motes my passage has tossed into the air. I make my way to the filing cabinet I glimpsed the other night at the party he held. There is just something so...off putting about him. Why can't anyone else see it? The filing cabinet is there, in the bedroom. I creep over the rancid carpet till I'm finally there. I open the third drawer down, on a hunch, and beneath a sheaf of invoices lies the box. The box I am SURE holds the truth about him. I hear a key scraping in the lock. My heart beats like an African war chant. Closing the drawer as soundlessly as possible (which isn't much), I race to the gaping mouth of the closet. The mildewy darkness engulfs me as I shut the door. ....

roger

Roger trudged home from the lake in a dreadful mood. He was muddy, soaked, drenched, sopping, unclean, saturated, itchy, awash, filthy, waterlogged, and every other kind of wet and dirty you can possibly think of. He had spent the day IN the lake instead of on it, as he had planned. But who could have planned for that surprise rainstorm, and those mean bullies, and those awful horseflies that loved his sweet skin? In his hands he held his broken fishing pole and his empty tackle box; his small boat was in pieces back at the lakeshore. But he told himself that any strong seven-year-old boy, such as himself, would not cry. Oh, no, he would not cry. He was better than that. So, with tears welling in his eyes, but not falling down his cheeks, he walked in the back door and called to his Mommy.

choice

She pulled down the shade as his car pulled away from her house. It had been so hard to let him go. At first, he would not leave, said he would rather die than abandon her. She knew that he wanted this chance so badly, and losing him was the consequence of the choice she had to make. And she had made it. That was final. She understood how important this opportunity was to him, it was the experience of a lifetime and she had to put away her own selfish feelings and live with the small glimmer of hope she had that she would see him again. If only she could.

the note

Mariah hungrily opened her lunchbox and found, next to her apple, a slip of canary paper. "What in the world could that be?", she thought to herself. "Oh well, it can wait until I’m done with lunch." So she ate her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, juicy apple, and nutritious granola bar. When she had finished, she picked up the paper and unfolded it. It said:

"Mariah, my love:
I have yet been able to summon the courage to express my undying love to you. I fear to tell you my identity lest you shun and spurn me. If that should happen, I think I might perish. But I must try, so if you would kindly oblige to meet with me by the monkey bars, northeast corner of the playground, 3:00 P.M., I would be overjoyed beyond all measure. Till we meet again, adieu."

Mariah looked up from the paper with a puzzled look on her face. Her being a 1st grader, she only understood about half (if that) of the words on the page. "Oh well", she said aloud as she threw it in the nearest trash receptacle.

the wallet

Wolfgang was a bitter, hard, cynical man, who had no love for the world. In fact, the only reason he was still alive was to spite his meddlesome relatives. He lived in a small, dingy flat and had no common luxuries such as a television, a microwave, or even a typewriter. Yet within this shabby home could be found amazing treasures, and one only had to look as far as Wolfgang’s astounding collection of books. Obviously he read in his spare time; in fact, he even read on the job. That was easy though, since he worked at a library.

One day, Wolfgang was walking through a favorite bookstore when he noticed a black, leather wallet lying inconspicuously on the ground, almost under a shelf. He contemplated whether or not to pick it up, but his curiosity got the better of him, so he bent down to retrieve the wallet. When he opened it, he saw that there were quite a few well-used credit cards, quite a lot of cash, and an identification card. The name was Georgina Honeydew. Wolfgang, though he was a contemptuous man, was not stingy or dishonest. So when he got back home, the first thing he did was call the number from the wallet. Little did he know that was only the beginning of things.

the red dress

This was her night. All of her toil, pain and sorrow had been leading up to these few moments. The anticipation surged throughout her soul. She looked down into the deep glorious eyes of the man she waltzed with. His touch, his smile, his demeanor all spoke of what her life could be; should be. She soaked in every detail: her scarlet dress, the crystalline chandeliers, the lilting melodies from the orchestra. Yet, she was plagued with the agonizing thought of midnight. What was to happen when that dreadful hour came to pass? Such a terrible thought. She must forget that for now and bask in the overwhelming rapture she felt with her Prince. She must treasure this forever.

typewriter

As I slowly crept toward the typewriter, my apprehension grew with each click. I approached the desk with caution, not knowing quite what to expect. All of the sudden, it stopped typing, and my Great Aunt (at least that’s who I thought she was) sauntered ominously into the room. She seemed very pale and sickly, with yellow, sagging skin and patches of sparse white hair. I greeted her as cheerily as I could, and she responded with a crackly, hoarse, "site down, child". I obliged, not knowing quite what to expect. Was this woman crazy? Why did I come here? Why in the world does she own a seemingly possessed typewriter? A million questions were running through my head as she came nearer. "THWACK!" My world faded into a deep, black oblivion.

ferguson

There isn’t much to say about the life of a mushroom. Or so most people think. It all depends on what kind of mushroom is being talked about. For instance, there was a mushroom called Fergi. Short for Ferguson, of course; but he wasn’t just any regular mushroom. No, Fergi was a part of a magic circle of mushrooms, which was a pathway to the Other world. Oh, and the countless things he saw. Let me begin to tell you of his experiences.

gone 2

He walked along the lonely, abandoned road silently. With tears in his eyes, he searched the vast reaches of wasteland for a sign of hope, of life, but only found rubble and desolation. This was not the place he remembered; the place he had dreamed of coming back to. Once, it had been full of lush, fragrant greenery, and jovial sounds had filled the air. Yet he had to leave; there had been no choice. Bitter feelings of regret and sorrow rose in the back of his throat. They were gone. All of them. Everything, everyone, gone. So much can happen in such little time. Your whole world can shatter so easily, like a chisel to ice; that much he knew. He tenderly stepped over the piles of debris intermixed with lost memories and broken dreams. He found a fallen, brittle log, and slowly sank onto it, quietly reflecting on events of the past years, as the memories came flooding back.

Violent sobs racked his body, until he had nothing left to expel. He took one more moment, then struggled to regain his composure, slowly rising to his feet. There is nothing left to do but move on, he thought to himself. Suddenly, he heard a faint rustle coming from the direction of a pile of rubble on his left. Startled, he looked around for the quickest escape route, sure that anything left here would not be friendly.

henry and judith

In their humble home, Henry and Judith didn’t have much. A meager supply of firewood was stacked in a corner, a dingy bed occupied another, and an exhausted table stood, somewhat off-center, towards the middle of the room. Henry, a farmer by trade, brought in what money he could with his crops, but the amount of land he owned was minimal, and thus so was his yield. Judith was a mediocre seamstress, able to mend and sew as well as the next housewife, although she did have a bit of skill at healing, which also brought in a bit of money. Every day seemed the same for this couple; their life had a monotonous rhythm to it. They never expected more than they had, never predicted that they were any different than any other townsfolk. And they were right, at least for the time being. They continued in their lackluster lives, until one day, when the Fair Folk decided to intervene.

gone

He walked along the lonely, abandoned road silently. With tears in his eyes, he searched the vast reaches of wasteland for a sign of hope, of life, but only found rubble and desolation. This was not the place he remembered, the place he had dreamed of coming back to. Once, it had been full of lush, fragrant greenery, and jovial sounds had filled the air. Yet he had to leave; there had been no choice. Bitter feelings of regret and sorrow rose in the back of his throat. They were gone. All of them. Everything, everyone, gone. So much can happen in such little time. Your whole world can shatter so easily, like a chisel on ice; that much he knew. He tenderly stepped over the piles of debris intermixed with lost memories and broken dreams. He found an old, rusty metal bench and slowly sank onto it, quietly reflecting on events of the past years, as the memories came flooding back.

It was Briana’s 9th birthday. I could hardly contain my excitement for the upcoming events. Every year Briana’s parties were more colorful, expensive and thrilling than the last. That
happens when your father is the wealthiest man in town, as hers was, he being the only doctor. And I proudly bore the title of Briana’s best friend. We did everything together, ever since we were just babies. Our mothers were the best of friends, so naturally we were too. Life was grand being Briana’s best friend. Her lavish parties were the highlight of our, and the entire towns, year. What made this year so special was the present that I had made for her. It was with all the thought and all the love my heart could muster that I had created the perfect present. I gave it to her before the party started. It was a kind of treasure box that we could put things in and bury it under our favorite tree. She loved it and said it was the best gift she had ever received. We decided to bury our treasure the next day and then wait at least 10 years until we dug it up. Her party was wonderful, as always, but something was different this year. I could never put my finger on exactly what it was until years later when I realized it was me that was different. We buried our precious treasure the next afternoon: my most prized baseball card, her favorite bracelet, pictures of us together and separately, two little baggies, each with a small lock of our hair, and a barb of chicken wire that my pants had caught on during an adventure. Those were happy, joyous times, but little did I know that one day soon everything would change.

His father had been a farmer and a horrible storm had destroyed all their crops that year, the year he turned 10. They had no choice but to go to America so his father could seek new employment opportunities. They had to start over completely, and very soon. Leaving Briana and his small town was the hardest thing he had ever done, but how easily he had forgotten his love for them both. These suppressed memories that had surfaced alighted newfound anguish in his eyes. He must find that tree, that treasure. He dug hungrily through the ruins of his childhood home until he found the burnt, blackened tree stump. Through grief stained sobs he ripped apart the dirt with his fingernails until he found his prize. The perfect treasure box for the perfect girl. He had spent so many hours making this box and the relief he felt that it was still there was overwhelming. He removed it from its sepulcher, gathered up his stamina and trod back to his car. He didn’t know if she was still alive or if she had died in the fire that had ravaged his town, but he was absolutely determined to find out.

untitled 1

As the fog started to lift from her eyes, she realized she had no idea where she was. She began to sit up, but quickly realizing what a mistake that would be, she lay back down on the ground clutching her throbbing head. She took in what she could see of her surroundings. Above her there was a light gray sky, spotted with clumps of darker gray clouds. To her right lay a vast, dense, tropical forest that was as foreboding as it was beautiful. To her left was the ocean; throwing up angry waves onto the shore she was sprawled on. Slowly she began