How a Blog was Born
S. J. Chambers
Molly Tanzer awoke in an Elysian field. The grass grew long and verdant and swayed in Boreas’ gentle sighs. The sky overhead was a crisp azure with billowy leviathans swimming overhead. She knew not what world she had entered, but saw over the undulating hills a tall, pale man, boundlessly British, with rumpled head and a black leather trench coat standing before an orchard. Suddenly, she stood before him. He had some weird Jerusalem star in one eye, and it twinkled at her as he turned to lead her.
“I am here to show you the way, the way only dreams can, through the subconscious to the conscious.”
Molly looked at the man.
“You look familiar. Have I seen you in like Swamp Thing or something?”
He shook his head. “No Moore,” he said. “You must come in silence.” So she did. This Dream-Man, as Molly began to think of him, guided her through the newsprint spiced orchard. The dense foliage enshrouded them within a canopy that should be dark but was illuminated by the fruit the trees bore. The fruit seemed translucent and filled with black, scrawling seeds that cast its silhouettes around the fruit’s various shapes. Not one fruit was the same, and had wrinkles and folds of various concoctions. Closest to Molly hung swans, unicorns, griffins, dragons, and wolf-men. She reached out and touched one.
“It’s paper. . . paper fruit?” The Jerusalem eye sparkled. Molly grabbed a fruit in the shape of a hag, and peeled open its folds and saw that the black seeds were words–some colorful remarks on the depiction of older women that made her cackle. “That’s so true!”
The Dream-Man cleared his throat. His sparkling eye dimmed and his two dark, hooded eyes were unamused.
“No comment,” he said, “But, if you think it, you must write it.” Then the Dream-Man disappeared and the orchard burst aflame.
“Dude,” she cried. “Are you lurking now?” The canopy incinerated over her, revealing through charred limbs the sky. Panicked, Molly began picking the nearest paper fruits, gathering them in her skirt, salvaging each and every parcel before they went up in smoke and dispersed back into the ether.
When she awoke, her bed was filled with her spoils. She opened and unfolded each fruit and began transcribing the smoky words onto her laptop.
S. J. Chambers devotes most of her time to throwing tea parties for orphaned Chupacabras in Tallahassee, FL. When she is not serving oolong, she writes about art and books. Sometimes, she even thinks about making art and books, but when she looks into those thirsty, beady kangaroo-like eyes, she knows she must put down the pen and put the kettle back on. You can find out more about her writing and chupacabra incentives at www.sjchambers.org.