Imagine...

Copyright © 2021 by Fallow. All rights reserved.

Imagine... 

Eire Icelander peered at the boy in the film and concluded that he was an idiot. A plain, nonfunctional idiot. She took the remote control and turned off the TV; no one would watch a film she thought was bizarre. Then, she earned stares; some were surprised, while others were blatantly disgusted. She had complained from the onset that the film would be the worst because of the title and cover photo, which illustrated a man by a boy, crouching to his level, whispering incoherent words. But, do not judge a book by its cover, and here she was relishing five popcorn packs over chilled orange juice. She ate more than everyone else - to enjoy the worst film, you have to eat to your fill. No one questioned her anymore and continued the film. Whenever she was not allowed to pick a theatre-worthy flick, she would pull a dummy spit, complain incessantly or become a spoiler.

“What?” she threw her hands angrily into the air, “I’m doing everyone a favour by turning it off.”

Elsevier almost gasped out, “one we did not ask for,” had Jimenez not given her an elbow in the waist. She grunted, standing up. That was one of the many reasons she hated the family fun night.

Birla waited until Elsevier was gone into her room and someone else occupied her seat before shrugging, “I do not see why you hate the film. Kirk Franklin did a great job writing and producing it unless you think you write way finer than a renowned author, or you have an excellent storyline for the film. Which everyone can agree you do not.” Then, she looked around for answers, and she got them; she got a lot of them because everyone nodded. Eire was a storyteller and a writer. Having written and published two books, Eire made the entire house hear no silence.

“Ugh,” came Eire, throwing some popcorn into her circled mouth, “that is not true. Take this for an example, why would I walk through a door that has no handles and expect something great behind it? That is no form of rational thinking.” 

“Oh please,” Deuce started with a wave of his brown-skinned hand, “two things: what is the point of the fantastical illusion then? And, for all poor Bigalow knew, a lot of people could have run in that direction, causing a small rush and breaking the door handle.” Well, in my opinion, this was a good fact. The film did start with multiple people talking about some heavenly magical land - hard to enter yet enjoyable. 

Eire scuffed, “That is the lamest idea ever, even from you,” and I think that was the worst comment a person as wise as Deuce would receive. He thought the same as well because he stomped out. Now, we were six against the one Eire. She seemed to be enjoying this, judging by her poise and a continuous sip of her less cold juice. 

I looked around frantically, “Challenge accepted!”

Okay, maybe, that was the weirdest paraphrasing of the best solution my brain gave. I watched everyone stare at me and wonder the heck I had uttered. There was no backing out, so I smiled and repeated, confidently, my eyes steadying on Eire. I was the most unpredictable, and that was how I would remain for as long as I wanted or throughout a night with no parents around.

***

Chiswick breathed in and chirped into the lavalier microphone attached to the seam of his shirt, “Imagine you are in a room, stuck with two doors, one on your left, the other on your right, one black and one brown—” 

“Can someone switch places with Wick? He is blabbing nonsense. How am I supposed to imagine such a poorly crafted illusion?” she grimaced on the floor, tugging at the duvet cover that wrapped around her. Her eyes were closed blindfold to initiate darkness and sleep.

“Craquelure, do the descriptions. You are better at it. I would watch the facial reactions and write down how it is going,” I suggest. I was doing myself the extra favour of not describing some horrid experience for Eire. I was better at imagery since I was a painter, but I knew well that Craquelure understood even my queer and deadliest arts before I explained.

“Sure,” she replied, going over to Eire and switching places with a raging Chiswick. He was a mad scientist, anything story-like expected from him was utter stupidity. He gave facts as it was; straightforward and honest.

“You are about to become the next big thing!

Staring into the crowd, you see your favourite cousin beaming in a lime floral dress. You sashay to the front, hitting your shod feet on the red carpet slowly and steadily. You are almost by her side, but...”

But what? They all stare at Craquelure, maintaining the curious faces they have cast on her. I realise that is my cue. I study Eire’s face for any expressions, and when I get nothing but a half-smile on her, I know she is in for good. I thrust a paper into Craquelure’s hand, and she begins narrating a scarier version of the scene I made up, similar to the film.

She begins fading, fading into the crowd like everyone else. Her face twitches and her smile disappears. The guests are gone before you blink your accentuated orbs. You pick up the hem of your dress to begin walking to your Bugatti, knowing you imagined the crowd that came to celebrate you. You see no vehicles around but a small bush, thick and green with a door in its centre. You turn back in the other way. In vain, you still do not see your black coloured car, one you spent millions to get. Instead, you see a mansion with a concertina door. You adjust your dress, deciding to go through one of the doors, hoping that possibly one has answers to why or what you are celebrating, why your car is no more and where everyone went.

Snap! Craquelure’s finger goes, and a hypnotised Eire rises to sit. She stands and holds onto her joggers, pretending it to be the ball gown from her lucid dream. She walks up to the centre of the room, one we perfectly worked out to be similar to the descriptions we gave. She turns left, then right, then pauses.

You are in, Craquelure whispers into the microphone, eerily. Anything to add extra effects would be perfect. She had chosen the forested doors, hoping it leads to an after-party with marshmallows, something she loves, or a garage with her car. She was not the type of chic girl that fought perfection whenever she was by herself. More tomboyish, artistic and wandering. 

‘But then, whoever said forests were to be blissful?’ I resound in my head, beating Craquelure to it.

You walk into a deep stack of trees, pushing leaves after leaves, avoiding twigs on the way until you see a girl, small and crying. You wonder why as a force pulls you to touch her cold and shuddering shoulders. She flips her head to look at you with no face. 

And, Eire dropped to the floor, holding onto artificial cactuses and rubber grasses, squeezing them. I hear a sniff, and I know we have gotten her good. I thumb up to Craquelure, who in turn thumbs up to Jimenez, our cameraman, for a job well done.

‘Sweet dreams,' she whispers to you from her jingling earrings. And, it will be. Close your eyes, have some rest, and that would be the end of everything, everything that has happened. She falls in a heap, cuddling into the white pillow we had placed for her.

“That is a wrap, everyone. We did a great job acting this. We deserve an ovation,” Feyre, the oldest amongst us, cheered, punching her hand into the air. We were all excited and gathered around for a group hug.

Then, Birla pulled out, smiling. She held out her hand to the centre, “To Milano, for being our drive!”

“To Milano!” and hands after hands, we placed them atop Birla’s and mine was the last. 

To me, I coo happily.