Memories From A Jar

             The click of the key in the shop’s door was as soothing as ever, and in that moment, Merrien felt the day finally cast its weight upon him. His broad shoulders and upright posture slumped into a willed wish for rest, his face tired from hours of smiling and pitching his various potions. But this is fine, as this would be the start of his favorite part of each day.

Travelling upstairs, the boards creaking beneath his feet, each step gaining strength as he felt himself shifting moods, shifting his purpose for the night. Though he had the house to himself, it still felt like he could bother someone if he wasn’t careful.

Reaching his loft, he pulled from the shelf a concoction most precious:

A glimmering jar, sparkling with light. Within, little strips of paper floating, each eminating a separate color that glints majestically outward in the dim lantern-light.

He began his ritual.

First, he placed the jar on the side-table next to his most comfortable smoking chair. It was an elegant and simple step, and so routine that he felt his mind shift into the state just by observing it. (Sometimes, quite accidentally, if he’d forgotten to put it back.)

Secondly, he brewed himself a warm cup of tea. It was a pleasant concoction which went heavy on the caramel, but with a hint of rum masked behind it, to make coming out of the trance a little less jarring.

Thirdly, he took in the view. It was lovely, beyond the bay window. His shop sat upon a hill, and so the second floor bore a beautiful, inexhaustible view of the city. At night, when the lanterns come on, it was the definition of majestic.

He took his seat, enjoying the sight, and sipping gently from his drink. When it was about half-gone, he looked up at the clock.

It was almost twelve at night.

One minute till.

The perfect time.

 

He reached his hand into the murky waters of the jar, and felt around. He’d done this so many times, he could find it blindfolded. It was a slip of paper roughly 20 centimeters in length, and barely four tall. On it, was scribbled a single message, which he read over gently, relishing each letter.

 

“That one lovely day with Calypso.”

 

Merrien was not, by any means, an elderly man, but he was certainly not a young adult either. Yet to feel once more the limber strength and force of nature it was to be barely twenty-five and not even hit the better years of his life, yet.

He was always startled by the arrival of grass at his feet. It rolled outward in all directions like an endless carpet, before one side reached the horizon, and the other broke out into an ocean. The sky quickly illuminated itself into a gorgeous gradient of blue, and he found himself sitting beneath a tree, the same delicious drink in his hand.

Down the hill, he saw her. His gorgeous Calypso. Her stunning black hair threaded beautifully in the wind, as she danced spritely and cheerfully along the hillside. It came back to him that, at this point in time, they’d known each other for a handful of years, and were as close as close can be. In his maturity, he could even admit to having some late-found feelings for her, though it was not presently the time nor place to confront them. There’d be time enough for that, later.

As he looked up, he felt his voice, strong and stern, rise from his throat as he looked at the sky.

“A lovely day, isn’t it?”

“It is! I’m loving it! Come on, run in the grass with me! It’ll be fun!”

He internally groaned, which was an amusing feeling for him as, of course, he loves every second of this memory. But he groaned then, so he groaned now. Getting up from his comfortable position beneath the hammock, he glanced over into their hometown. It was the town he had grown up in, and the town he matured in. He could see the empty hill where his shop would eventually stand, and he charmed himself with his imagination from this time very neatly meeting up with his shop as it looked today, albeit far more worn than he’d ever expected. But that’s time, for you.

Walking down the hill, the slope quickly forced him into a jog, and then a sprint. And soon he found himself chasing after Calypso with the speed of a forceful and terrifying devil, every ounce of his time rough-housing and running in schoolyards and neighborhoods coming back in full force. She, a more thoughtful, and elegant soul, preferred to prance and tease, rather than sprint.

Soon, he’d caught up to her. And in a glorious crash, they landed upon the grass together, rolling around.

His joy welled from his heart and burst in a grand and powerful laugh that careened into the sky, joined by the melodic giggle of Calypso.

“You’re such a monster!” She said between laughs.

“Can’t blame me for not sitting still. Where’s your land-legs, hmm?”

“I think I’d like to stick to my books over sea-sickness, Merrien.”

“Excuses! There’s nothing but unwillingness in your heart. You can sprint, truly sprint, if you’d like!”

“Oh yeah?! Well then come catch—”

She’d stood up now, readying into a sprinting stance, but she’d stopped. He sat up, and followed her gaze out to the water.

A wooden door stood between the waves, a dry path of sand reaching forth to them like a ray on the beach.

This was unusual.

This was not here, the first time. Or any remembered time.

It was plain pale, with a golden, ornate handle jutting away from the edge. Calypso’s dress fluttered in the wind, as she went up to it.

“What is this?”

“I honestly don’t know.. I’ve never seen it before.”

“Neither have I.”

He had a moment of double-take, before recognizing that the door would be new in town, too. Still, was his imagination interfering with the details of the memory? Was it adding something different?

She put her hand on the handle.

“Wait,” he said, “it could be dangerous!”

She laughed.

“No more dangerous, than letting things end unexplained!”

She threw it open, a new life and eagerness filling her actions, her motions emphasized by the absently still seawater which set the scene of the beach around them.

She motioned for him to join her.

He was hesitant, terrified.

He stepped forward.

They stepped inside.

 

 

She watched, calmly, as his eyes fluttered open in the chair.

She was sat on the floor, cross-legged, having quietly stolen his tea, sipping it peacefully.

He looked aghast. Startled, even.

She smiled.

“Hello, again.”




(Made from the prompt, "You discover a dusty jar filled with colorful slips of paper hidden in the attic of your childhood home. Each slip contains a memory from your past, some joyful, others painful. As you read through them, you realize they hold the key to unlocking long-buried secrets about your family and yourself.", selected by Jacob, for a writing session between him, myself, Battery, Evan, and Claire. Thanks to Mildew and Marios for critiques that helped adjust the story.)