written by R J Murray | illustrated by Taras Kharechko
When I was eight, I rode my bike through labyrinths, willing adventure to pull me in and take me to imagined worlds.
My sisters and I devoured books like chocolate, and our bedroom was a haven in the clouds where we could re-enact every story. Invisible people would appear from ladders with tales of other places. Cupboards led to Narnia, and nobody told us otherwise. We hid there and basked in the exotic smells of faraway lands, perfume and old fur coats.
We lived at the top of a cul-de-sac where houses were merely boxes to open inside lucid dreams. We knew everyone, and everyone knew us. We knew not to tread far like the older boys did. “He ran away to the woods,” they’d say, and we listened, wide-eyed, hoping to go there ourselves one day.
When it rained, we’d hide away inside cubby holes, setting up home with likeable rodents and monsters. When it was dry, we perched on pavements, collecting grit and discarded junk, waiting for scrambles. We’d gather together, pouncing on dirty coppers to buy penny chews with. We made dens under moist earth and sticks, exchanging kisses and touches whilst searching for lost treasure we never found.
In the summer, we lived in the garden, stealing bed sheets to make tents along the freshly painted wooden fence. We plucked buttercups and lit up each other’s faces. I’d pretend to sunbathe as I combed the grass, desperate to find a four-leaf clover.
In my dreams, I’d meet those faces on the pavement, fresh and brazen, under the sinking tunnel. Roller skates and boom boxes. The smell of Sunday roast. I’d search for secrets in hidden rooms, then learn to fly, over the dirt and the concrete and into the green fields forever.
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Afterwards, the house seemed lost and abandoned, like an old toy I’d thrown out. Everything was smaller than I remembered. Insignificant. In the garden were overgrown weeds and broken toys, and the wind was battering a plastic bag against the shed where we used to dream of impossible futures. The lace curtains were gone, replaced with rusty metal sheets.
As the wind blew through my dreams, I thought I saw a four-leaf clover flapping on the side of the rotten fence. The rain was beating every breath from it until it suddenly flew up, higher and higher, and disappeared into the sky.
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About the artists:
Taras Kharechko likes drawing illustrations for interesting projects and tries to do something different and unique each time. He loves working in both traditional and digital media, but usually draws by hand.
R J Murray is a writer and musician from Scotland. She recently began publishing her short stories and is also writing a children’s fantasy novel.
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