A Slip of Imagination

Awakening, Eleanor felt cramped and uncomfortable.  Getting out of bed, she stretched and then was startled to recognize the bed was not her's, nor was this her room.  In fact she had no idea where she was.  The furniture was ancient and the windowless room was lit only by light from an adjoining room.

The unfamiliar long nightgown was itchy and scratchy on her skin.  Feeling a draft she donned a threadbare robe thrown onto a nearby stool.  Still shivering, bare footed she quietly crept toward the open door, cautious of what she might find.

There were no human sounds to give her a clue. The only noise was the cracking of a small fire in the giant fireplace at the far end of what looked like a sitting room.  An old fashioned rocker was placed near the hearth.  Nearby sat a basket of wool, the accompanying spinning wheel was placed closer to a small window.

Eleanor drew nearer to the fireplace for warmth and peered out the window.  She saw nothing but a pale white sky, no buildings, ground, or trees.  A bird flew past carrying a twig no doubt intended to build a nest, but where?
Puzzled she sat in the rocker, rubbing her hands to stimulate her circulation and weigh the shock of the profound change her life had taken.  Eleanor had no idea why she wasn’t at home in Trestle Downs, an upscale community of 20th century homes.

Gazing around the room again, she saw a leather bound book on a small wooden table near what she concluded was a type of work space with only a hint a kitchen.  A few bowls made of simple pottery were nestled together on the counter next to a pewter mug, pitcher and a wooden trencher. 

On the wall next to the door leading into the bed chamber hung a chipped mirror. Trembling Eleanor rose from the rocking chair, then looking into the mirror, her breath was caught short as she viewed her reflection.  Although she was already confused and overwhelmed by what she could not understand she wasn’t prepared for further distress.  Her normally tan complexion was now pale and her face was narrower, almost pinched.  Her amber eyes now stared back through blue orbs underneath fine arched eyebrows so light they were hardly there at all.  Her rich brunette coif had transformed into heavy golden tresses nearly trailing the floor.

Reeling, Eleanor leaned against the wall for support until she could breathe again.  She felt her heart pounding so wildly it rang in her ears.  Finally she managed to force herself towards the counter where she found the pitcher was full of water. Gulping quickly, it went down the wrong way.  Sputtering, gagging and coughing she began to turn blue.  She tried to beat herself on the back the way her mother used to do when she choked.  Nothing helped.  Never had she had such a difficult time recovering from something so common.

Drawing her last gasp, Eleanor swore lightly as she saw a large black spider dangling above her, suspended on a silver thread.  The spider’s mouth curled into glee, followed by triumphant laughter that echoed through the tiny chamber.

The leather bound book that lay on the table remained unopened, ‘A Child’s Collection of Fairy Tales and Poems.’

[WC: 553]