As soon as I passed under the archway into the living room, a feeling of dampness surrounded me. The light was dimming and I thought I was falling into that fog of unconsciousness again. I wasn’t. I was still awake, but I could see my living room and my furniture vanish before my eyes. A soft breeze brushed upon my face and blew the scrap of paper off the table down onto the floor. It was then I fell into the blackness.
I began to awaken and noticed it was dark all around me. I was lying down on the ground, and as my eyes became used to the dim light, I could see shapes. They were trees. Skinny trees like you would find in the high mountains. Kind of like Aspens, but they weren’t.
I sat up and realized I was sitting on a dirt pathway. It wasn’t a road for four wheels, just a walking path. I stood up, dusted myself off and looked around at the emancipated trees hanging over each other. Down the path before me through the mist, I could see a lighted horizon. Maybe someone there can tell me where I am. I looked around by my feet and Mickie, my dog, wasn’t there. Out of habit, I looked at my digital wrist watch. The numbers that should have been lighted had darkened and stopped.
The air was so foggy. I couldn’t see much until I left the grove of trees. The ambiance became a little less dim, but still had that murkiness of some early mornings I remembered as a child when I was waiting to catch the school bus.
Something ran across my path, but in the low light, I couldn’t make out what it was. I was certain it wasn’t a cat. Small struggling flowers were trying to grow along the pathway. The grove of trees behind me couldn’t be seen anymore. It wasn’t cold out, just cool and humid. I wish I had my sweater. My tshirt just didn’t seem warm enough.
Up ahead, I saw something. I hurried on to get a closer look. It was a small structure that appeared to be a shack or a small house. As I walked closer I could see that the little shack was made of dark gray wood that had not been painted. Some weedy vine was trying to crawl up the door hinge. I reached out and turned the rusted dew covered knob. The latch slid inward making a rough scraping sound. The door moved and when it did, I was amazed at what I saw when I entered.
There was a warm glow from a lantern hanging from a rafter almost in the center of the room. I could see shoes, strips of leather, and pots hanging in disarray along the back façade of old lumber. A work table took center stage with another workbench under more pots hanging on the wall. To my right and my left of the doorway was about the same collection of pots and utensils fastened upon the thatched surface. “My spatula,” I said to myself. “It’s here.” I was about to reach for it from the center table when someone broke the silence.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” demanded a rough high voice behind me. I turned and through a curtained doorway a short squatty looking man with white hair, mustache, and a beard appeared. His clothes were rumpled and secured with a belt buckle too large for his frame. He resembled my garden gnome even to the little red hat on his head.
“Speak up, speak up. I’m very busy you know.”
I straighten myself up and announced, “My name is Susan Edwards.”©ANation2016