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THE ARCHIVE OF LOST DREAMS
By
Lissa Bilyk
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The Archive of Lost Dreams
Copyright (c) 2011 by Lissa Bilyk
Smshwords Edition License Notes
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THE ARCHIVE OF LOST DREAMS
I’m standing in front of a large writing desk made of a pale, aged wood, polished to a high shine. On the desk a massive ledger lies, open at the middle, with text entries in neat cursive handwriting all down the left page and halfway down the right. Across the ledger lies a quill with a long white feather, and next to it stands a half-full bottle of black ink. The ink is sharp and pungent. I wrinkle my nose in distaste.
The walls of the room are made entirely of rows and rows of books. Books on shelves that extend from the red-carpeted floor to the high vaulted ceiling which is painted a textured cream. There are not four walls to this room, but five, and in every corner a light fitting extends at about head height, with a soft glow illuminating the books. There are no windows, and this is the only light in the room. A librarian’s ladder rests against the wall to my left, and a man dressed in richly coloured cloth is slowly climbing down it, carrying a book. He is an old man, with faded blonde hair peppered with grey and soft, grey-green eyes. His skin is wrinkled, pale, soft-looking. He brings the book to the table, sets it down next to the ledger, and opens it to the first page.
The book is upside-down to me, so I crane my head to read the first word on the page. I see a name. That name is familiar. I look at the old man. His eyes crinkle as he smiles at me in understanding.
***
I wake up. It is morning, and the sun is shining through a crack in my curtains. It falls upon the new diary on my desk that my mother gave me for my birthday. She told me to write down my dreams so that I never forget them. I kick back the blanket and hunt for a pen. I want to write down my dream before I forget it.
After I have scribbled the best I could about the room of books and the old man and big book on the desk, I pull on my dressing-gown and go out to the kitchen. Dad is cooking breakfast. Crumpets with honey. Yum yum.
He says something about the weather being nice today. I agree, and tell him I am going outside after my wash to kick around my new soccer ball. Maybe Billy will want to play with me.
The sun is bright as I take my new ball under my arm. I have to shield my eyes. Billy is in his backyard. I climb up on the fence and yell his name until he comes running.
Hi, Katie!
Do you want to play soccer with me today? I ask, showing him my new ball.
Yeah! he says. I climb down the fence and he slips through the gate, shouting goodbye to his mum who is on her knees gardening her delicate little flowers.
We kick around the ball for a while and then we play soccer like hooligans, flailing our arms and shouting at each other. A car drives into the cul-de-sac and we pick up the ball and run to the footpath and wave to the driver. The car leaves the cul-de-sac and we take the ball back on to the road.
In the end we decide it is a draw: mostly because we didn’t have any goal posts to aim for, and Billy is very competitive. I normally feel useless and clunky next to him. When we play soccer at school the other boys try and make me feel weird for wanting to play with them. Soccer isn’t for girls! they’d shout at me. But I like soccer, and so does my dad. We play together sometimes in our backyard.
Mum calls me in for lunch: ham sandwiches. She’s too busy making a big birthday cake for an old friend to prepare anything fancy to eat. It is a massive three-tier chocolate cake decorated with little sugar flowers and edible silver ball bearings and little blobs of icing. She tells me she is going to make a sugar rose for the centrepiece and then pipe icing along the edges. I decide that is far more interesting than playing soccer all afternoon and besides, if I stay and help, she might let me lick the bowl.