I like telling stories, I always have. When I was a child I would create and recreate story after story with my toys. I would rush to sleep with ideas turning in my brain, stories so vivid I could swear they were real. I swear some were real. Often I would return to the same places, meet the same people, catch up right where I left off. I remember the first time I went to that place. I was in a school, my dad had taught a lesson there. I got away from him and found myself wandering down the halls. They were endless; wide; geriatric halls. The lights unable to show me more than a few meters into the shadows. The deeper, cleaner blue of the bottom half of the wallpaper told a story too. Every locker had been removed. How curious.
I turned a corner instead of going up the stairs; a basketball court and five children older than me. I decided it best not to bother them. I was scared of them, they had bullied me in the past, though not here. I turned around for now, choosing instead the quiet, patient, fascinating room that both was and was not the local DMV. A lot of things both are and are not here. I see the bubblegum machine. It is filled with Tootsiepops but somehow I know that it will give me bubblegum in exchange for five quarters. The nice lady is here.
I see a woman behind the desk. She is tall, petite, birdlike with short dark hair. She is wearing a teachers dress. I do not know who she is but I know she takes care of children. She is so kind to us when nobody else will be. She knows it's my first time here. She wants to tell me about how it works. How we all spend our nights here. That you can get strong, creative, better, and that it can affect the real world too. She tells me not to be scared but I'm stuck, and I need to get a gumball to wake up. She tells me to figure it out like it's a test, or a puzzle in a game. I remember the five children older than me. I should have just made five quarters.
They challenge me to a game. A child among children I accept, wanting. Hoping. Accepting that they are much stronger. Accepting I have no change. Doing it anyway because I'm supposed to win. That's how I'd tell the story. I don't. I return emptyhanded to the DMV that's not the DMV. The woman isn't here anymore. I go outside, and find an old man unable to mow his lawn. He offers me the money I need to do the mowing for him. My spirits are lifted. The nice woman watches me from the full wall window of the DMV. She smiles, arms crossed. I think she's happy but I am unsure. I'm glad I made her happy.
She tells me she'll see me again, and teach me more when she does. But I'll do fantastic on my own anyway. I'm tired of this place, I spend my money, get a single blue candy shelled gumball, and eat it. As I chew I wake up with a complete memory of what happened. The smell of cut grass in my nose, the taste of bubblegum in my throat. I was scared, but I found myself back home. It was weeks before I went back. I was scared, I knew it was better not to go messing in things you don't fully understand. But I wanted more stories. I loved stories.
When I returned I found myself back in the hallway. There were doorways now. Regular; garage; open; Oh this one is interesting, saloon doors. I enter and I am now a man aged 25. I know everything I need to but not a thought more. I lived his story, and returned outside the flapping panels of the double doors. I was disoriented, remembered little, but saw on the wall a locker had been replaced. Unlocked, there was a book was inside. "The Journal of Ryan Lou", My souvenir. I have collected so many stories in my library in the lockers. I want to share them with you. I worked hard to get them.
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
izzy806
