Reality's Escape: a collection of short stories

Portal? Virtual Reality? Imagination Station?

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Quarantine was supposed to be a good time to organize your house. I had spent most of my time with my books and siblings instead, and now quarantine was over, but the organizing still needed to be done.

In that moment I am telling you about, through, all I could think was that I should not have been organizing with such vigour.

My stack of books tipped forward. I leaned backwards, trying to level out, and suddenly they all decided to follow me. I landed on the floor with shower of paperbacks and hardcovers hailing down on me. I sat still for a moment. My rear was probably going to bruise, as was my shoulder, where the corner of my boxed collection of The Chronicles of Narnia had hammered me. My head must have gotten hit, too, because the wall I was facing looked hazy and wavering.

I tilted my head. The sun hadn't risen yet, and I was feeling romantic, so the only light in my room was a candle: I figured that the wall was only playing with the flickering shadows it created. I started picking up the books: Jane Eyre and The Hunger Games off my lap, and A Novel Idea from my right knee. I stood straight and put them on the shelf, stretched and yawned, then reached down for A Flagon of Beauty. The instant that the poetry tome was in my hands, the wall stood flat and solid again.

I blinked. When it had been wavering, I could explain it away, but now that it was gone... Something had definitely changed. I carefully laid the book down again. Nothing happened. I touched it with my toe, just so that the one corner touched the trim the way it had before.

The wall rippled. I stared at it, but could see nothing through. I naturally reached my hand out. It disappeared into the wall, and I could feel no resistance. Naturally, I stepped closer till my whole arm was beyond the wall. And since I was following my natural impulses, I took a step and walked through entirely.

There was a lot of white. A chill wind nipped my face, and I put my arms around myself, only to feel that I was wearing a coat. My legs were cold, so I shuffled my legs closer together and nearly tripped on the ice. Why was I wearing kitten heels instead of sturdy boots, or rather why was I not in just my socks the way I had been? I looked down at my new apparel. The coat looked rather like a suit jacket, only it reached to my knees. A plaid skirt peeked beneath it, ending above my ankles, letting the wind in.

I looked up. Trees surrounded me, but up ahead was a cottage, and from its windows spilled a warm light. I made my way toward it, ignoring the drifts.

That her life's art might not be lost, a lace-maker's heart was turned to frost.

The voice seemed to come from no definitive place; the wind, perhaps, had created those syllables. It sounded rich and a little old, rather like if a tree had spoken. I remembered this poem.

I reached the cottage but did not knock on the door. Instead, I went to the window. There was an old woman, sitting in a rocking chair near the fire, her lap full of lace and her fingers twined with thread. Her hands shook. I watched, fascinated, as an intricate snowflake was created by her touch.

The voice had gone on, whistling around the trees, but now it came clearer, catching my attention again.

Her fingers seemed slow, when in flesh she dwelt, and would strive to show what her spirit felt.

The old woman dropped her work and flexed her fingers, stretching them, and gazed into the fire. Then she took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. The rocking motion slowly came to a stop. Her chest was still.

But she has no hands to hamper her now: what her souls commands will her art allow. And so it seems that she weaves in frost all the earthly dreams that she loved and lost.