The Wrong End of a Telescope

The dreary rain knocks with urgency at the window, like a thousand tiny drummers. Upon opening the glass, I stare in amazement as the field in front of me pulls apart, like a mountain from an avalanche or two halves of an Oreo, revealing a large murky swimming pool. After climbing out of my window, I dive in and swim down until I am enveloped in inky blackness, and can see no more. Reaching out my hand, I grasp a brass doorknob and open the mysterious portal, pulling myself through.

Now I’m in a bright, tall chamber, filled with candle chandeliers; each candle extinguishing itself, and then lighting again, creating a rhythmic pattern, like Christmas lights on a crisp December night. To my right, a hundred faceless musicians wearing top hats and bow ties strum upon large silver ukuleles. To my left there is an enormous mahogany bookcase, filled to bursting with aged tomes and ancient volumes of every size and color. A little book keeper stands on a roll away staircase with a crate of books, everlastingly attempting to cram another novel into the sea of hardbacks. Straight ahead, I see a long hall, at the end of which a shiny carousel waits for me. I choose a tall steed, black with a fiery red mane and wild eyes. The carousel turns, slowly at first, but then speeds up, creating a panorama of blurred shapes and colors. When it eventually stops, I clamber down and stumble off and behold the new world in front of me.

Wide-eyed, I walk hesitantly towards the crimson drape, the sort you usually find in an old-fashioned theatre or a certain strange barber shop. When I draw the curtain, instead of seeing the expected crowd of onlookers, I see only a little old man sitting under a spotlight, pulling a bow across his cello strings and creating a tune so melancholy and lachrymose, it feels inescapable. 

Then the violoncellist suddenly looks up, but he has no face. In the place of what would be called a visage, eyes, nose, etc.; he has but a mouth, placed in the very centre of his head. It is withered, but curls up into a sinister grin. 

The walls start to close around me, and the cellist disappears from view. I find a ladder and begin to ascend as fast as possible as the walls press in closer. I reach the ceiling and pound until that section becomes loose. I lift the round object and roll it to the side. 

I emerge from what appears to be a hatch in a great city. All the colors: reds, oranges, blues, etc., had been stripped and replaced with a mottled grey. Turning, I look up and see a gigantic oak. Out of that large tree, flies an enormous eagle with large talons and a beak the size of a sail boat. Going in the opposite direction, I run down the street and hastily enter what appears to be a Shawarma café, the door swinging shut behind me. Everyone in this place stairs at me as if I have three heads or am singing a folk song in a loud, obnoxious voice. Then they seem to shift their accusing gaze to somewhere behind me. I look through the window and see the giant eagle come crashing through the glass, shards spewing everywhere. It snatches me up, blasting through the roof, and swiftly carries me away.

 I try to escape the eagle, and at last succeed and plummet through the air. I land in a vast pool which is full of fat manatees, and whiskery catfish, as well as other strange creatures of unknown origin. Swimming to land, I recognize it to be the very same body of water where my adventures began. As I walk away, it closes up, the earth rolling in mighty waves. I find my house and climb in through the same window. Everything is just as it should be- the same as before. Reality.