Short Story: Quest

I went urban exploring for the first time with a small group of friends. Toward the end of our little adventure, an intriguing red velvet wooden box caught my eye. My friend Brian retrieved it, I imagine my friend Jeanne felt as intrigued as I and I promised both I'd write a story about it.

Here it is.

I had heard rumors of the hidden world.

The boy perpetuated the mystery, the intrigue. He claimed to have discovered a portal to an alternate world, but I did not believe him. All I had seen was an empty field and a long white wall that stretched to the long dirt road. The local townspeople had an unwritten contract with all the village inhabitants: No one crosses the wall.

The wall, he declared, is the doorway. We must only pass through it.

Breathless and nervous with energy, he had the glazed look of a boy who had traveled far and wide, to the deep and high places. He insisted on the magic of the place, that we should follow his steps.

I and my friends, we debated on whether we should follow.

Like the Pied Piper, his lilting song of confidence mysteriously compelled us across the field, and before we knew it, we were at the brink of the secret place. The forbidden wall.

I saw no opening. How shall we pass through, we demanded.

He said nothing. He only smiled and leaned forward, nodding at us to do the same.

Hesitant, I touched the wall, then followed suit. A whoosh of bright light enveloped me and I felt propelled forward.

Felt my atoms swirl around, connecting and reconnecting, attaching and detaching, and the light shimmered around.

Suddenly a cold shiver rocked my body and we crashed through an invisible barrier.

Reeling from the shock, I slowly stood up and looked around, amazed.

How the scenery had changed.

Our band of explorers filtered into the courtyard, wide-eyed and exhilarated at the unknown and mysterious that was ours for the taking.

Yet the decay and havoc greeting us both jarred and filled my senses. I imagined the clash of civilizations, of technology, of cultures. Obscenities sprayed in red and black upon the plaster and stone echoed of other wanderers and vandals who had passed before us. Miniature seas of broken glass lay in glittering sheets upon the broken cement and weeds. The chaos of the landscape seduced us into our own personal forms of delight and mischief.

Still, the echos of the place that once was filled my imagination.

I envisioned fantastical dragons swooping down from the burning sky and an emperor robed in regalia to a cheering throng of spectators, swathed in red and cold and a brilliant array of fireworks exploding across the evening sky. I smelled jasmine and burning incense and perfume. I felt an atmosphere, charged with electric anticipation at the crowning of the emperor's new queen.

With these visions in our heads, we raced and flew from rooftop to rooftop, defying gravity, striking brilliant poses against the clear blue sky. Scaling giant rock formations and scrambling up vine-tressed walls, impromptu and amateur acrobats straining and striving only for a new perspective, a heightened panaroma. We roamed the open-air faux temple, a pantheon and graveyard of fallen gods, now profaned with the juvenile scribblings.

I understood, then. The magical world was not one of a noble quest or a daring rescue. There was no ring to find and destroy, no dragon to slay and no palace to defend. The glory of this place was in the brokenness and the decay. The unlicensed freedom it brought.

We split off in various directions, confident we would find each other again. We raced back and forth calling forth to one another, yelling in triumph as we discovered various treasures. These treasures transformed us. One found a thick wooden stick swathed in bright crimson. Leaning upon this staff, he became suddenly wise, a sage with soft, twinkling eyes of wisdom. Another found a broken horse hoof in the dark recesses of a cave. He became a daring warrior, hitting targets with precision and mightily shattering rocks and roof tiles with defiant glee. Still another found a brilliantly pink lotus, and she transformed into a beautifully regal lady in waiting, rose-colored satin and silk robes. Yet another found the frayed edges of a worn map. She became an astute, celebrated cartographer, charged with unlocking the mysteries of the farthest reaches of the empire.

I looked on at my companions with envy at their discovered treasures. I had still not found mine.

The magic of the day seemed to dwindle with the setting sun. As shadows lengthened, we trudged back to our starting point, retracing our footsteps to the white wall.

I noticed the halo of light surrounding before I saw the box itself. It sat atop the rooftop, gleaming in the sunlight.

I wasn't even sure how the box was loosed from its original hiding place. I could see sunlight striking the red velvet, brilliantly illuminating it among the broken tiles, dark and splintered window frames and jagged glass shards of the long-abandoned pagoda.

The boy, noticing my enchantment, said nothing, only smiled. He sprung and leapt, lighter than air, upon the tiled roof, freeing box from its lofty hiding place, handed it to me. I wondered at its mystery, tracing the worn, frayed edges, intrigued by the mystery locked inside. I tapped the side, listening to the satisfying echo of the hollowness.

I wondered at its purpose. Had some passionate love letter, or some tear-streaked confessional been tucked away in the hollow for safekeeping? Had it housed spice packets or cigars or some trinket from a merchant ship? Had it been the sacred hiding place of a child, full of mundane treasures that spoke of warm summer days beneath the cherry blossoms?

I ached to know. I looked for an opening but it was sealed shut. I tucked it away in my satchel, intent on unraveling its mystery in private, away from my fellow travelers.

We reached the threshold and I braced myself for the journey home, the wrinkling of the universe across a infinite, seamless fabric of time and space.

I watched my companions disappear one after another through the wall. I was the last to go. I pressed my body against the wall and braced myself for the icy shock, the disassembling of myself. Nothing. Puzzled, I leaned forward again. I only felt the warmth of the wall.

Panicking, I imagined myself trapped. I dug around in my satchel for my knife, thinking I could cut or scrape my way through the wall. My hand brushed against the soft velvet of the box.

Suddenly, I understood.

Why I could not pass and why the sunlight of this place seemed to illuminate the box for me and for me alone.

Quite alone, I knelt down, knife in hand and gently pried open the box. With some effort, I gingerly separated the top lid from the bottom frame, cutting away through layers of dust and disuse. I lifted the top and peered inside. I saw dark green felt lining the bottom and the sides, but no treasure. No keepsake or locket or partially burned letter. I felt along the inside, hoping for a secret lock or catch or spring inside. I pored over every inch of the box with the delicate care of a surgeon, but found nothing. I thought I had smelled the faint odor of crushed flowers, but shook my head at my overactive imagination.

Disenchanted, I tossed the box aside. I laughed out in derision, at the mystery unraveled, the thrill gone. It lay upon the broken stones, dulled in the receding sun.

But then, a thought.

I picked up red velvet box again, suddenly charmed by its lack of pretense. Shall I merely abandon my treasure? Dare I discard it? After all, it had faithfully carried the stories of its journey toward me upon the gentle breeze, which had long eroded with time and moth and rust. I tasted the salty winds guiding the sails of the merchant ship that brought it here from afar. I saw the glitter of jewels and spices it once held. I smelled the perfume of the heartbroken lady who kept her soul's secret locked away in there. I felt the wood of the teak tree her lover had chopped down to carve this box for her, to burn and bring her warmth with fire, to build their secret haven.

And it was mine.

I felt myself transform.

With a secret smile upon my lips, I stepped through the wall, leaving the box behind.

I caught up with my companions later.

Short Story: The Sculpture

This was my accidental foray into a genre known as magical realism. I say accidental because I did not even know that magical realism was a genre until my friend Billy enthusiastically informed me. Gabriel García Márquez (of 100 Years of Solitude) is apparently a recent famous author who is known for this genre, although I have yet to read any of his novels. According to Wikipedia, magical realism is "an artistic genre in which magical elements or illogical scenarios appear in an otherwise realistic or even "normal" setting."

This is my exploration of the tension between reality and idealism, specifically rooted in Western cultural assumptions of romantic love.

I went to the Gallery today.

I had long anticipated this moment. Though it had been months since I had last been to the Gallery, the image of the sculpture burned unmistakably clear in my memory. In my time apart from the sculpture, I often took pleasure in re-creating the memory in my mind.

The statue stood in the center of the enormous circular rotunda, set with windows which poured a steady waterfall of light to its central figure. Grand and majestic, he rose from the dais like a mythical god. His marble form was poised and alert, and every stone muscle, taut with discipline and strength and resolve. His flawless proportions elicited a sense of order and grace. His face, perfect and glorious, turned slightly upward. His impossibly blueish eyes, though marble, seemed to radiate a natural source of light from within. He gazed enigmatically, piercing the souls of all who looked up on him.

Years ago, the statue had been carefully restored and transported to the gallery from its former dominion, from the ruins of a temple, somewhere in the Mediterranean. For centuries, throngs of adoring patrons flocked to the statue, eager at the prospect of catching even a glimpse of his famed beauty. Lines formed and wrapped out the Gallery door and down the street, nearly for miles. Frenzied tourists descended upon the gallery in gaggles of haphazard lines, elbowing impatiently for a chance to have their photo taken with him, though no photograph could do the sculpture justice.

Scholars, historians and even philosophers endlessly debated over its creation and the wonder of its meaning, though none could pinpoint or unravel its mystery. Capturing the wonder and imagination of even the most famous and skilled artists, the renowned statue had inspired poetry, symphonies, and even an opera by one particularly enraptured soul. Curiosity piqued at what music this sculpture would inspire, I went to hear it for myself last autumn.

I remember sitting in the velvety opera hall, allowing the beautiful tones of the arias to envelop me and cause my spirit so soar, even for a brief moment. Yet even as the applause and excitement of the evening receded, I left the opera hall disconcerted, for I had realized the terrible, beautiful truth: All such attempts to capture the immortal were flawed and hollow at best.

And it was if this sculpture encapsulated the very Ideal locked away in every human heart.

I remembered my own early mornings of stolen moments and lazy afternoons I would spend in the gallery. I came as often as I could spare these moments. After all, the ever-changing sunlight altered each attribute, highlighting the subtleties and inspiring contemplation and an infinite myriad of emotions. Mesmerized, I would spend hours in front of the sculpture, studying it from every angle. The contours of the marble sculpted perfectly resonated with something stored up in my own heart, though I could not quite define it.

His beauty unsettled me.

Sometimes I brought my guitar, strumming softly, allowing the sculpture’s beauty to wash over me and motivate my soul as I plucked the strings, singing and humming almost unconsciously. Occasionally (though I am certainly no artist) I brought my sketchpad, merely allowing the infinite lines and shapes that I saw reflected in him to impress themselves upon the blank sheets of paper. Still other times, I brought my diary, scribbling imperfect scrawls of poetry and impressions upon crinkled pages. I could never re-create anything remotely worthy, but I could immerse myself in this. In him.

I felt I knew this sculpture as intimately as I knew my own heart.

This is how my feet carried me toward him today.

Breathless with anticipation, I pushed through the glass double doors of the Gallery that I knew and loved so well.

The clean, white corners of the display hall created a light, airy sense of space. A blank canvas, no doubt, upon which each visitor projected her deepest, most sacred dreams.

Today, the moment of reunion was even more glorious and intimate than I imagined. The gallery was deserted, save for a lone soul sitting on a bench, though I barely noticed him at first. Dust motes swirled and floated around the immense statue like delicate snowflakes, shimmering as the multicolored sunlight streamed in through the upper windows.

I slowly circled the stone statue, marveling and reveling in the moment of being reunited with my treasured sculpture. In a rush of emotion, all the memories of the hours I had spent in that room came flooding back, overwhelming me.

So absorbed was I in admiring the statue, I almost didn’t notice the young man sitting on the bench. He was sitting thoughtfully, his posture both relaxed, clearly enjoying the peace and tranquility of the room. Only briefly distracted by him, I returned my gaze to the statue.

The boy spoke, suddenly interrupting my thoughts. “Do you like it?” he asked.

Irritated to be disturbed in my thoughts, I hesitated. Though unruly locks of hair partially hid the boy's face from me, I realized the sincerity of his tone, that he sought a genuine answer. I thought of how to answer his question honestly. For truthfully, the thousand emotions and impressions betrayed my utter fascination and ardent obsession with statue, rising and burning within my chest, I thought I might burst. “I do. Very much,” I said simply.

The boy seemed to read the complexity of my expression. He nodded. I felt inexplicably understood.

“Do you know the artist?” he asked.

“The artist? Of course, I do. The artist is…” Suddenly, I was shocked to realize and remember that for all of my hours in the gallery, I did not know the artist’s name.

And nor did anyone else. For though archaeologists and scholars had relentlessly tried to discover the identity of the sculptor, all efforts had come to nothing.

The mastermind, the beautiful, sensitive soul behind this work of art remained a complete, utter mystery.

“I do not know,” I sheepishly confessed.

"I know the sculptor." He leaned forward. “I can tell you the secret. Do you want to know?”

Intrigued, I stepped closer to him. Forgetting myself and all sense of etiquette, I suddenly realized that, more than anything in the world, I yearned to know the artist’s name. “Tell me.”

Delighted, a slow, mysterious smile played upon his lips. He leaned toward me, inches from my face and whispered, “No one. And everyone"

Incredulous, I laughed, amused at the absurdity of his claim. "That is impossible."

Still, he insisted, "No one. And everyone. I should know. I was there."

Illogical paradox, I fumed. “This statue is thousands of years old! It is ancient, and you are so young. You are only a boy!” Disgusted, I pulled my face away from his and nearly walked away.

Suddenly, he turned to face me fully, and I was shocked at what I found, staring into the infinite blue of his tender expression.

Looking into those beautiful, ancient, all-seeing eyes, I suddenly understood. For his glorious, piercing gaze was an incandescent window into another universe that held all the mysteries of this world. Of my heart, of every heart.

At once, I knew his words to be true. This was indeed the soul that had witnessed the creation of my beloved sculpture.

Suddenly I felt quite small. "Why are you here?" I asked, both intrigued and intimidated by his presence.

"Vandalism," he replied merrily.

"Vandalism?" His words did not quite register.

"Truthfully. I came to destroy the sculpture." He gestured to a sledgehammer at his side, which I had not noticed until then.

My heart cried out in protest. "Destroy it?"

His eyes danced and sparkled, but not unkindly. "Why, yes."

A indignant fire rose up within my chest. I momentarily thought about grabbing the sledgehammer from him to defend the sculpture I loved so dearly. "But why?" I nearly shouted.

He sighed softly, a beautiful, ancient sound. "Its essence is Real. The most Real there is. Is that not what drew you here day after day?"

I trembled slightly, feeling utterly exposed at his words.

"Oh, the essence is certainly very Real. But the statue itself is not. This Sculpture is a mere refracted reflection of reality. The partial refraction is swallowed up in the beauty of Reality."

I uttered a quick, derisive laugh. "Not likely." But I stood motionless.

"Consider how many hours you've spent here, lost and mesmerized in the beauty of this trinket, this trifle. Despite its utter perfection and the obsession it creates, you remain unsettled. You know you do. For it is the false perfection that disconnects you from the true Reality."

He handed me the sledgehammer. "Go on. Do it."

I stood frozen, sledgehammer in hand. How could I destroy it? The sculpture that I adored and lived and breathed for? Turning toward the boy, I reared back, feeling the gravity of the moment. I thought about crushing him.

No one. And everyone.

I turned slightly, closing my eyes, allowing the momentum of the moment to propel the hammer forward.

I heard nothing but the sound of shattered glass falling around me like drops of rain.

I saw nothing but soft, blueish hues and tones of the boy's eyes explode in brilliance, flooding the Gallery at the sound of the breaking.

I felt nothing but the marvelous surge of joyous intuition as the other universe descended in the Essence unleashed.

And I was stunned to discover at last, how fragile the sculpture really was.