Ayesha Asad (19)
A Realm Unleashed
The tunnel was glorious: a kind of twisting, mystical realm that led nowhere and everywhere. There’re monsters down there, my brother whispered, words spilling from his lips like hidden daggers lining the inside of a jacket. The secrets once clinging to them had escaped; I trembled, and my steps faltered.
My sister, bold, unabashed, always unconcerned about others’ opinions, walked steadily onward. Perhaps at seven, four colossal years older than me, she had seen enough of the world already, discovered that books were like shutters that opened the door to fantastical knights and salivating beasts, into fluttering angel wings and dreamy faeries, and realized that they could be snapped shut when needed. The tunnel did not frighten her; it was more innocuous, more dream-like, a shift from reality.
I did not dare venture further. Though I loved to press my fingertips against the bumpy walls, treasured each tentative step I took towards the narrow, sloping corner, the unknown frightened me—I refused to meet the faeries or monsters that occupied the end of the tunnel where the carpet rose to meet the ceiling. Thus, I closed the door, stepping out of the tunnel into pale yellow light, surrounded by the comfort of white, flaky walls and sturdy beds. Monsters did not exist here.
A Realm Unleashed
The tunnel was glorious: a kind of twisting, mystical realm that led nowhere and everywhere. There’re monsters down there, my brother whispered, words spilling from his lips like hidden daggers lining the inside of a jacket. The secrets once clinging to them had escaped; I trembled, and my steps faltered.
My sister, bold, unabashed, always unconcerned about others’ opinions, walked steadily onward. Perhaps at seven, four colossal years older than me, she had seen enough of the world already, discovered that books were like shutters that opened the door to fantastical knights and salivating beasts, into fluttering angel wings and dreamy faeries, and realized that they could be snapped shut when needed. The tunnel did not frighten her; it was more innocuous, more dream-like, a shift from reality.
I did not dare venture further. Though I loved to press my fingertips against the bumpy walls, treasured each tentative step I took towards the narrow, sloping corner, the unknown frightened me—I refused to meet the faeries or monsters that occupied the end of the tunnel where the carpet rose to meet the ceiling. Thus, I closed the door, stepping out of the tunnel into pale yellow light, surrounded by the comfort of white, flaky walls and sturdy beds. Monsters did not exist here.
*
Today, I can’t seem to find my old schoolwork: the math tests that drooped under the weight of my calculations, the English essays that I constructed carefully from uniform pen lines. My mother says they’re probably in the downstairs closet, so I go, my feet pit-pattering against the tiles until the carpet stifles them.
Inside the closet, I leaf through stacks of paper stained with gray, cream-colored sheets inked with a rainbow of doodles. Bright yellow tennis rackets cascade over my feet, landing with a thud, leaving their precarious perch atop piles of smooth, wooden baseball bats, worn soccer balls, deflated basketballs, a rusted pink Barbie scooter, a thin, red jump rope, and an assortment of dusty, dilapidated suitcases. The closet is crammed with ordinary objects; beyond the suitcases I can barely discern the narrow, sloping corner where the carpet rises to meet the ceiling.
I frown. There’s something there, I feel, something uncertain, a shift in the atmosphere, the remnants of something greater than itself, a magical spell that has been retained. That pervasive, lingering feeling unsettles me; I close the door.
Later, it will come to me like the words in a once-forgotten book, the same book that I read repeatedly in my youth yet neglected as I grew older. I will remember the thrilling uncertainty of discovery, the fascination of fluttering, mythical faeries, the swell of emotion as intense as the fabled monster’s blood-red eyes. I will remember the bone-chilling fear of the unfamiliar, the cold sweat of terror and exhilaration that erupted like translucent beads on my puny body, strong and agile from years of exploration. I will remember running my fingers along dark, bruised tunnel walls; I will remember the clandestine portals that were rumored to lie at its end. I will venture into my tunnel, crawling past the corner, and strain my eyes to catch a glimpse of the otherworldly. I will not see it. Instead, I will face a blank wall, a dead end, and the sharp tang of disappointment.
But for now, let me enjoy the last few moments of peace, the moments in which my imagination, painstakingly shackled, remained obediently in its place, the final moments in which I was satisfied with the ordinary.
Ayesha Asad is from Dallas, Texas. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in PANK, Cosmonauts Avenue, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Menacing Hedge, Neologism Poetry Journal, Santa Clara Review, Pulp Poets Press, and elsewhere. Her writing has been recognized by Creative Writing Ink Journal and the Robert Bone Memorial Creative Writing Prize. She studies Literature and Biology at the University of Texas at Dallas. In her free time, she likes to dream. She was born in 2001.
Inside the closet, I leaf through stacks of paper stained with gray, cream-colored sheets inked with a rainbow of doodles. Bright yellow tennis rackets cascade over my feet, landing with a thud, leaving their precarious perch atop piles of smooth, wooden baseball bats, worn soccer balls, deflated basketballs, a rusted pink Barbie scooter, a thin, red jump rope, and an assortment of dusty, dilapidated suitcases. The closet is crammed with ordinary objects; beyond the suitcases I can barely discern the narrow, sloping corner where the carpet rises to meet the ceiling.
I frown. There’s something there, I feel, something uncertain, a shift in the atmosphere, the remnants of something greater than itself, a magical spell that has been retained. That pervasive, lingering feeling unsettles me; I close the door.
Later, it will come to me like the words in a once-forgotten book, the same book that I read repeatedly in my youth yet neglected as I grew older. I will remember the thrilling uncertainty of discovery, the fascination of fluttering, mythical faeries, the swell of emotion as intense as the fabled monster’s blood-red eyes. I will remember the bone-chilling fear of the unfamiliar, the cold sweat of terror and exhilaration that erupted like translucent beads on my puny body, strong and agile from years of exploration. I will remember running my fingers along dark, bruised tunnel walls; I will remember the clandestine portals that were rumored to lie at its end. I will venture into my tunnel, crawling past the corner, and strain my eyes to catch a glimpse of the otherworldly. I will not see it. Instead, I will face a blank wall, a dead end, and the sharp tang of disappointment.
But for now, let me enjoy the last few moments of peace, the moments in which my imagination, painstakingly shackled, remained obediently in its place, the final moments in which I was satisfied with the ordinary.
Ayesha Asad is from Dallas, Texas. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in PANK, Cosmonauts Avenue, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Menacing Hedge, Neologism Poetry Journal, Santa Clara Review, Pulp Poets Press, and elsewhere. Her writing has been recognized by Creative Writing Ink Journal and the Robert Bone Memorial Creative Writing Prize. She studies Literature and Biology at the University of Texas at Dallas. In her free time, she likes to dream. She was born in 2001.