Tales from a Better Place

This is a story about August Cloud. She isn’t a particularly fantastic person. She’s relatively normal, but that isn’t a bad thing. She’s just like all of us. I will be telling August’s story because she is no longer here with us. Save your tears because she’s still alive (as far as I know), just…not…here. Her story goes like this:

August waited three weeks to open the birthday gift her grandfather got her. It had sat on her desk collecting dust. Every time she looked at it, she’d get this lead ball in her stomach that kept her from opening it. She would see the dark brown wrapping paper that seemed carefully wrapped around the small rectangular gift and felt a deep sadness in her heart. She knew she should open it, but it was just so hard. This day, she decided, she’d open the package.

Finally, she sat on her messy bed tearing open the packaging and staring at the book in her hands. Tales from a Better Place, it read on the front cover. She didn’t particularly enjoy reading anymore. She once read dozens of books throughout her adolescence, but she grew out of that phase. She found that she could no longer enjoy a book because it was hard to focus. She wasn’t sure why her grandfather got her a book. He knew that she didn’t like to read anymore. She missed him very much. He died the day after her birthday. It affected her greatly, but she didn’t want people to know that. She would save her tears until she was in the safety of her room. She’d close the door and proceed to silently sob for a few minutes. After sobbing she’d sit at her desk and numb her mind with any media she could find. That’s why it took her so long to open the gift. She didn’t want to think of him. It hurt her to think of him. She sat on her bed starting at this book and he filled her mind. Why did he get her this book? She opened the book and under the cover sat a note. The note read:

Happy Birthday my Summertime Sunshine!
I know you don’t read anymore but I got you this with hopes that you’d give it a shot.
It helped me many times when I was younger.
I felt lost and this book helped me continue on.
I hope that this book can help you too.
I hope it can guide you in your life.

Love,
Pops

After sobbing for a few moments, August was able to put the note aside and turn to the first page. Suddenly, August was no longer in her room. She was sitting in sand. She dropped the book out of fear and looked around. She was still sitting on her bed. Her heart was racing, and she was thoroughly confused. She picked up the book and turned to the first page again. As she expected, she was sitting on sand once again, but this time she did not drop the book. She held it open as she looked around. She was on a beach. The white sand clung to her jeans and spilled into her shoes. A very soft breeze wiggled the palm trees and ruffled her hair. The water was a gorgeous shade of blue. The waves intermittently splashed gently on the shore. She looked back down at the book and read the only line on the page:

Chapter 1: A Beautiful Beach

Those were the only words on the page. She looked back up and reaffirmed that she was, indeed, on a very beautiful beach. Putting her awe and confusion aside, August decided to test a theory. She walked along the shore until she encountered a stick. She grabbed the stick in her free hand and drew a smiling face in the sand. She dropped the stick and held up the book. After taking a deep breath, she slammed the book shut. As she expected, she was back in her room. She swallowed saliva and decided to test her other theory. She opened the book back up to the first page. Again, as she expected, she was on the beach. In front of her was the face she drew in the sand and the stick lying beside it.

August wasn’t sure what to do with this information. While it certainly was fantastic that she was on a gorgeous beach, it seemed to only be available as she held the book open.

“I wonder…” she said aloud. She kneeled down and placed the book on the sand. She put the stick across the pages to keep it propped open. She released the book and the stick and took a step back. She was back in her room. The book was no longer in front of her. Her heart rate spiked, and she sucked in a breath. She panicked, looking around her room franticly. Her gaze landed on her desk, where the book sat. It was closed and there was no stick in sight. Gingerly, she lifted the book. She opened to the first chapter and felt the warm sea breeze caress her face. The smell of saltwater tickled her nose. She held the book in one hand and used her index finger to keep the page. She looked around the beach. Not only was she on a beach, but she also seemed to be on a small island. The sun was setting, and a reddish sunset tinted the sky. On the center of the island seemed to be a small house. It looked older and rather dilapidated. She walked through the sand feeling the tiny grains fall into her shoes and tickle her toes. She trudged towards the house.

As she walked, she observed the house. It was a ranch-style home. The windows were covered with old wood planks. It looked as though it withstood the tests of time. If the house was painted it no longer looked it. The bare wood was a dark brown and looked feeble. The shingles on the roof were falling off. She was surprised there were any left. She was surprised there was even a house here at all. It looked crooked and as if it were built haphazardly.

When she arrived a few moments later she saw that the front door was missing. August felt nervous. A lump formed in her throat.

“Hello?” her question bounced off the walls of the house. She could feel that the house was empty. She knew it was waiting for her to enter. She stepped into the home. The rotted floorboards creaked beneath her weight.

It was evident that someone had once lived here. There was a small round table in the center of the room. On the table was a book and a box. August walked to the table and inspected the book. It was a small leatherbound journal. All the pages were empty except for the first. Written in sloppy handwriting was a message that read:

Make the story your own.

Love,
Pops

August grabbed the box that was next to the journal. It rattled when she moved it. She removed the lid and looked at the abundance of pens that filled the box. There were so many different colors. She picked a pen with purple ink.

“Make the story my own?” she wondered. Confusion filled her brain. Suddenly her eyes widened. She took the pen and opened her book. Her heart was racing again. Beads of sweat dotted her brow. Underneath the chapter title she wrote:

August stands in a beautiful house.

When she looked up from the book she now stood in a lovely little home. The round table was now a large mahogany table. A candelabra stood at the center of the tabletop. The candles were lit, and the little flames danced. She laughed to herself. The story was hers. Her grandfather left August a world of her own.