I am proud to present a short story I wrote during one of my creative writing classes. Our course focused on setting and a sense of place, and I wanted to challenge myself. I had a lot of fun writing this story, and I truly believe it shines as a representation of myself as a writer. I have believed in this story's potential and power ever since I created it which is why I submitted it to a special Award offered at my University. My belief in this story proved itself when I received an email in December 2020 congratulating me on winning the Monica Miller Creative Writing Award. It showed me others believe in my writing as much as I do, and it reminded me why I didn't give up all of those times nay-sayers said I couldn't be a writer. I sincerely hope you enjoy this story as much as I do. The Realm of Stories If I tell you the room is composed of dark wooden panels, each carved in intricate designs, including the ceiling, that only gives you part of the picture. If I tell you the room is a classroom, it gives you slightly more. If I tell you there are twelve desks made of oak, the space of the room, while rather large, fills. The chairs are well-made and solid, ready to stand in perfect alignment behind the desks for eternity. Windows line the left wall, which faces west, and along the south wall at the back are shelves filled with books. Most of these books have remained untouched for years. On the north wall hangs a chalk board. Sticks of yellow and white chalk fill the metal runnel below. In front of the board and to the left stands a large mahogany desk with numerous drawers filled with files and pens and bottles of ink. The east wall is just a wall. Sunlight streaming through the windows has bleached the wooden floor in particular spots. The chairs, having been pushed backwards and forwards countless times, have carved grooves into the wood. The floor creaks every time someone takes a step. This place has not seen a person for years, and if you look closely you can see a layer of dust covering the room like dirty snow. However, if you sit in total silence at one of the desks you will begin to hear the whispers: soft shuffle of clothes, slight scrape of a chair, screech of chalk, scratch of fountain pens on paper, and maybe even distant yells of “O’ Captain! My Captain!” Scholars, students, poets, and storytellers owned this room. The masters taught their pupils, passing along the hidden knowledge of the greats. The space was thought to be sacred, like the confessional at Church. The air always smelled of layers of ink, old books, and wood. But if I tell you something remains hidden within the walls of this place, you’ll want to know what it is and where it is. I don’t know if I should tell you. Although, if I were to draw your attention back to the bookshelf, tall and proud against the back wall, I might say that it holds some of the greatest tales created by story-tellers around the world, collected in secret and hidden here in plain view. The teachers, long since gone, knew of their presence, but not their importance; and the students were warned never to touch them. The men and women, who brought these stories here no longer exist. Their job was to watch over the books, to protect them and then pass on their legacy to the next Guardian. If I tell you no one watches over the stories today, would you believe me? If I tell you the bound purple volume with gold stamped letters on the middle shelf is a key to a door, would you want to open it and discover the treasures within? Suppose I tell you there is a chamber behind this door, and inside this chamber smelling of cinnamon and cloves is a letter written in gorgeous cursive on a piece of parchment that sits on another mahogany desk. Beside it is a bottle of blue ink and a feathered quill and a polished silver skeleton key. Each item has been laid precisely and perfectly in an oak box lined with deep purple satin. If no Guardian remains, then the key shouldn’t be polished, the ink long since dried, the feather withered, and everything should be covered in dust. But these items are pristine. Even the books meticulously placed on their shelves deep within the chamber are immaculate, and the separate rooms designated for the pleasure of reading have shelves for walls and even more books. The fireplace is stoked, the ashes cleaned, and the red chair awaits those who wish to learn. I assume you’ve had those moments where you stare off into space, not quite here, but not quite there. Have you ever wondered why you can’t remember what’s happened during these moments, or what you were thinking about? You forget for a reason, and I know why. If I tell you the classroom remains dusty and uninhabited for one purpose, know that it is a distraction. People assume it’s not important, but it is. And the Guardians know why, too. Whenever someone drifts off to that place between imagination and reality, time is lost. Days, months, years are spent in this space, this chamber behind the classroom façade. It’s here that the Guardians continue to protect the numerous stories created by the weavers of language. And you are one of them. You just can’t remember because in order to protect the stories you can’t remember the stories or this place. You never will remember either, at least not until you pass into the chamber once more where you will take the silver skeleton key from its place in the box and bring it to the Keeper of Stories who will open a carved chest made from polished redwood to choose the next Guardian. You shall then become one of the many stories within the walls of this in-between place, protected and remembered forever. If I tell you the Guardians are the only ones who know these things, you might be wondering why I’m telling you all of this if you’re not going to remember. Many secrets are folded within the cursive script of my words. Know that I have given you the keys. ~ Mady
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Categories
All
In the end, we'll all become stories. ~ Margaret Atwood
|