Envisage this: a veil of the thinnest matter circling the very edge of your reality. Its surface dazzles as droplets of dew glint in the early morning sun. Today, a new day, is birthed full of possibilities; possibilities to see beyond what is already there.
And that beyond is know to those who live in The Magical World of Makebolivia as, The Great Onion Skin; a magical and all powerful veil that allows our realities to co-exist in harmony. Most times.
If you scrunch your eyes up real tight then, ever so slightly, peer out through the narrowest of slits, you may, just may, see the shadowy imprint of Makebolivia over lapping your world.
But don’t take my word for it. Come, step inside my head and see the magnificence of this magical world through my purple-hazed eyes...
“So, spirited adventurer, stand next to me and we shall begin,” I, Qwigley Mo, say to you.
We’re standing inside a room, oval in shape with cobbled walls and a floor to match, only the floor is grimier and my feet slide in its residue. I fling my arms out to steady myself. I shiver. It’s cold in here. Even the flames flickering inside a heath, gouged deep into the wall face is barely warming the air.
I turn to face two vacant, high-backed arm chairs angled toward the fire-pit. Once opulent in nature, their oxo-blood leather now worn to threadbare and its gold studding popped in places to reveal mattered, grey wadding.
I take several deep breaths as I push the air deep into my lungs. My stomach inflates and I screw my eyes up in a bid to concentrate. I hold my hand out in front of me and begin to circle the number 8—the sign of infinity—above the arm chairs. My hand pivots my faster and faster.
The air around me ripples outward, charged with a magnetic pulse.
I pause, then step back as the air I work coalescences into a viscous, jelly-like stain. It solidifies and with a sniff of satisfaction I tear a hole as easy as splicing through a plastic bag.
I hear you gasp as you step forward and peep through. There, in front of you is the torso of a young girl who sits, crossed legged in the same high-backed armchair that we see in front of us. A feeling of smug curls inside my stomach as I witness the look of awe dance unashamedly across your face.
Only in her reality the chair’s leather is buffed to perfection and the studding shines like tiny golden pennies; it’s a reality where a gentle smell of Jasmine fragrances the warm, soothing air and dust speckles dance inside the sun’s rays as they gently bathe the girl in its glow.
Can you see? See how everything outside the hole remains the same: cold and abandoned and yet inside the fracture, her version of the same room, is oh so, warm and inviting. Two realities you see, merged into one.
I can sense you staring. Are you? Isn’t it as if you’re gazing through a window while a fizzy, pent up feeling of excitement bubbles up inside?
“Yes!” you say.
“Okay,” I reply as I tentatively reach up and waggle my fingers inside the fracture.
“Stop!” You cry with a shaky edge to your voice. “What are you doing?” You yank at my arm.
“Are you mad? What if—”
Of course I’m mad. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. And I’m not listening either. I want you to see The Great Onion Skin; no, I need you to see beyond the veil, to be mesmerised by a world, that up until now was nothing more than a figment of your imagination.
I wriggle from your restraint and as I do, my hand thrusts Further through the hole than intended. Oops! I giggle. It feels like warm, like partly set jelly oozing between my fingers. I waggled my hand and the air around it ripples.
SQUELCH.
The sudden noise rouses the young girl from her book and her gazes up at us. For a second, time seems to freeze and her eyes widened with surprise.
Though I’ve seen that look before, and so...
...the young girl screams, a blood curdling scream that reverberates through both realities. The fractured veil: The Great Onion Skin, quivers as my hand loiters between our parallel existence.
A door slams and a man blusters into the room. Though the door to the chamber were we dwell, simply rocks. Ever so slightly. The young girl, eyes still pinned on my presence, lifts a hand and with a shaky finger, points at me. She flounders as her mouth opens and closes but no words come forth.
And then, as if by a sprinkling of magic, she finds her voice.
“There’s a h-h-hand—in the air…” the young girl stutters.
The man follows the direction of his daughter’s finger and says,“Don’t be ridiculous—” then stops short as his voice catches in his throat. He doesn’t flinch. He growls and leans in for a closer look. Then blinks. Twice.
“How are you?” I say. I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t help myself.
As if it’s a trigger, the man screams. Maybe it’s an impulse, or your MoSapien* fight mode squeezing his brain, but the man lurches at my hand, on what would seem like floating through thin air. I leap out of the way, snapping my body back.
I crash into you and you squeal. I laugh, such a deep, belly busting laugh.
POP!
The fracture in The Great Onion Skin closes, narrowly slicing off the man’s fingers. I listen as the remnants of his howl fade into obscurity. You join in and we laugh so hard, our jaws ache and our bellies cramp. It takes several minutes for us both to catch our breath and as our laughter subsides to giggles you say, “I bet you could have loads of fun with that little party trick.”
I smile.
“Oh yes. My friend Victor would open the veil in one place, take something from your reality then open a second fracture and I would place the item elsewhere. What a giggle it is, watching MoSapiens* scratch their heads when things were never where they left them. You all think you’re going mad. But you’re not it’s me!”
“And when did you last play that sneaky game?” you ask.
“Three days ago,” I reply.
You raise your eyebrows. “I guess that’s where the expression: it must be the gremlins, comes from. It isn’t gremlins at all, It’s you!” You exclaim. “I must admit. It does sound like fun. Just don’t play that trick on me.”
“Oh I won’t!” I reply. But you know I will.
Only the story of The Great Onion Skin isn’t my story, not exactly. It belongs to Max and his quest for the stolen soul. It’s an extract from my latest fable which will be available all in good time so keep your eyes peeled!
Mischievously yours,
Qwigley Mo.
(The Great Fable Forager)
*MoSapien — those not born of Makebolivian blood. (In short, a human being.)