In the Attic

15 09 2012

Heavy footsteps—nails scrape against the ceiling. A cobweb falls. Skyscrapers, volcanoes, and semi trucks sound animated and possessed. Perhaps it’s Beshev’s imagination. Such monstrosities do not rest in his mother’s attic.

At nine, Beshev’s curiosity pulls the frayed rope down and too suddenly stairs tumble down from above. The dark rectangle beckons Beshev—it’ like a portal to another universe. Soon at the top step, Beshev’s sandy hair pops up into the surface of the dusty darkness.

Three sneezes and he is now a being of the attic. Bumping into splintered crates and bulging boxes his small pale hand reaches out without fear until it meets cool moist skin. Beshev does not know normal and so his breathing does not pause. His bony right index finger poke at the foreign skin while his left hand steadies itself on a callous triangular protrusion. Shapes, textures, temperature, and size are noted. Beshev whispers in awe “ the triamphorasclyde.” Yes, the form in front of him is the ancient dino horse with three hollow horns.

Beshev now started to fear his ability to orient himself. Just yesterday his grandmother winked at him after reading an ancient Jewish fairy tale on amphoric creatures. Why did Oma Thelma wink, Beshev wondered. Did she meet these creatures herself or was she just taunting him knowing he wanted a creative friend. Well, this triamphorasclyde is here and I am here.

The boy’s eyes followed the outline of the form under his small pale hand until they met ice blue circles. Tiny frozen puddles-glacier like. The arctic circles darted back and forth attempting to understand this new being—the boy. Beshev felt the triamphorasclyde’s questions, wondered and waited.

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