hollyweird, [state]: a fantastic otherworld
a daily succession of loosely related wacky adventures and short stories, written by shawn barnes
any relation to actual events, places or persons is purely coincidental and not intended to draw any sort of comparison or dialogue on any particular subject or issue
date: seven seventeen seventeen
location: hollyweird charter township
time: twenty thirty-one
i got a text message from you, in my dream, or in my sleep i got a text message from you. i wish i was sure, i haven’t been sure of — of things based in this reality lately, especially your time, but i digress. in it, in the text message you told me to pack my bags and meet you at the Lincoln tennis courts at three thirty-three in the morning. i hope i didn’t miss you because i was asleep.
in the morning i ripped myself from bed and slammed my hand to my nightstand in hopes to find a phone, and message from you, but my phone wasn’t there were i remembered it. i set it in the same place every night. fuck. i don’t have time i need to know if you left if it was real. i shower and race to your parents house down the street. i put on my face, the face that smiled and gave salutations to these same parents not twelve hours before after dinner. how do i ask a parent if their child’s run away yet. “is sid home?” i’m pacing on your porch thinking i haven’t rung the doorbell. i think i simulated fourteen or fifteen scenarios until i decided “morning mrs. scott. i hope i didn’t wake you up, i just think i left my phone and i gotta get to work, any chance i can snag it real quick?” would generate the least concern and offer as little information as possible.
i rang the doorbell. a minute passes. i ring the doorbell. a half minute passes. i check the window, it’s pitch black, i can’t see your mom’s red curved couch she won’t let us sit on. i knock. nothing. i check the side windows i see a new tv mounted on the wall and big brown furniture. what? there’s a stair of picture frames along the wall where your pastel moon canvas was. i followed the edge of the house to the back while still starring in this stranger of house, the house i’d been visiting, sleeping in oftentimes, for three years.
there was a wood deck painted a glossy red in your backyard attached to your house, there was an old bearded man, dressed in a gloriously long and lavish white robe trimmed with gold thread and a thick fur collar. he was hunched over the side of the deck looking down on where i appeared from the side of the home, looking directly into my eyes as if he’d been waiting for me to find my way back here.
why do you have a deck? when did it get here, how long has it been here? where are you? who is he?
he had a backwood between the fingers of one hand and a white steaming mug in the other. he took a long drag of the wood. his stare got colder as he smoked — more piercing. a giant cloud of smoke escaped his nose and mouth like a great dragon, then in a low monotone he finally spoke: “Welcome Bastian, Let’s Create Something.”