September 2011

borne back ceaselessly into the past

I chose this hotel because it has author themed rooms, though which author you end up with is a matter of luck. To my delight we end up in the Fitzgerald room. There’s even a worn paperback of The Great Gatsby on the table by the bed, sitting next to a green-glass lamp.

I say something about the green light and he just stares at me.

“What are you talking about?” he asks after the pause has gone on too long.

“Gatsby,” I say, holding up the book.

“Isn’t that one of those boring books they try to force you to read in high school?” he asks. It’s more dismissal than question, he’s already turned his attention to the rest of the room.

“Boats against the current,” I murmur to myself as he tries to figure out the buttons on the television.

It is in this moment that I realize we’re not going to last.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

journey without a destination

I just needed to get away for a while.

The train wasn’t the cheapest option, or the most expensive for that matter, but it felt like the right choice.

Maybe it sounded romantic.

And it was the only mode of transportation that didn’t require a set destination. I paid the highest listed price at the station and no one asked any questions.

There aren’t that many stops anymore, now that we’re so far from the city. Long stretches of trees line the tracks, the scenery hasn’t changed much.

I keep telling myself I’ll disembark at the stop that feels right.

So far none of them have.

And I can’t help wondering, in the back of my mind, how far the train might take me.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

deceptively simple demands with deadly consequences

They told me it would ask questions but it doesn’t. Questions would involve question marks, these are demands.

They are fairly simple demands, which is good, since the only way to answer is with the blocks: carved wooden blocks like children’s toys, each with a single letter emblazoned on one side.

Your name, it demands.

I look through the blocks, already starting to feel familiar beneath my fingers, but there aren’t enough. There’s only one A, and no Zs.

I spell out “No” but that doesn’t satisfy it.

Your name.

I wonder what will happen if I lie.

They warned me not to lie.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.