Faerie Tales by Alex Jane Scala

The Girl Who Used to Dream by Meisje R.

...And the Door Will Open by Thia Odiorne

Evolution by Kenna Kettrick

Review: Pan's Labyrinth by Frances Nicole Rogers

Horizon by Taline Boghosian

A polite knock came on the door before it opened. A towheaded boy peered with big brown eyes into the room.

"Hi, Grandmamma," chirped the boy once he saw for sure that she was awake. "How're you feeling?"

Louise cracked a smile, her first for today. "I'm fine, Charlie," she said. "Come in, dear, come in."

The boy came inside and shut the door. He was Louise's great-grandson. At ten-years-old, he was unusually smart for his age, perhaps a bit shy and sensitive, but well-mannered and thoughtful. Louise didn't like to play favorites among her children and grandchildren, but she couldn't help but reserve a special place in her ailing heart for young Charlie.

"I have something to show you," said Louise, motioning for him to go to one of the windows. "There's a key on the sill. It opens the closet."

Charlie found the key tucked away in a depression in the ledge. It was one of those old-fashioned brass keys, with square teeth and a decorative handle. After curiously turning it over in his hands, Charlie went to the closet, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door. The closet was empty except for a hatbox tied with string on the floor.

"Bring the box over here," said Louise, patting the space beside her on the bed.

Charlie did as he was told. The box wasn't heavy, but some solid objects shifted inside as he carried it. Placing it beside Louise, he sat down on a chair next to the bed.

"Do you know what's inside?" Louise said with a twinkle in her gray eye.

The boy shook his head.

Louise reached up with a frail hand and pulled the knot of string loose. Charlie slowly lifted the lid.

"My dreams," Louise breathed.

A slight crease formed between Charlie's eyebrows. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Louise smiled. "Since it's almost my time to go, I can finally tell someone a secret I have always kept close. Do you want to know what it is?"

The boy nodded.

Louise picked her head up a little, and Charlie leaned in to listen as she whispered: "I can bring things back from my dreams."

The boy blinked. The slight crease between his eyebrows returned. "I don't understand," he said flatly.

Louise chuckled, which was a nice feeling. "Whenever I wake up from a dream, I usually find that I've brought something back from it," she explained quite matter-of-factly. "Shall I tell you the whole story?"

"Yes, please," Charlie replied, caught between wonder and skepticism. He sat back in the chair, pulling his feet up and wrapping his arms around his knees.

*****

When I was a little girl -- exactly your age, I believe -- I discovered a white rabbit under my bed one morning. Now, you must understand, my family and I lived on the third floor of a brownstone building in the middle of the city. It wasn't Easter or my birthday, so my parents wouldn't have thought to surprise me with a gift. Where on earth would such a creature come from? But here was this animal, perfectly snow white, with pink eyes, a twitching pink nose, a cotton-puff tail and two long ears that stood straight up when I uttered a surprised "Oh!"

As I chased it around my room to try to catch it, I was struck by a feeling of déjà vu, as if I had done this already. Impossible, I thought. But then I remembered that the night before, I'd fallen asleep while reading a book: Alice in Wonderland. And I'd had a dream about chasing a white rabbit down a hole, just like Alice in the story. I must certainly have caught it, because here it was in my very room! I showed the rabbit to my parents, explaining that a friend from school had given it to me, and that I had been hiding it in my closet. However, as I expected, they would not let me keep the little creature, as they were both allergic to its fur. They took me, crying all the way, to a pet store, where they assured me that the nice salesman would find a loving home for it.

All this left me feeling quite confused. For the rest of the day, I exercised my burgeoning mental powers, willing things to appear out of thin air — but that didn't work at all. The prospect of dreaming up something amazing made me too excited to fall asleep. So it was no wonder that the next morning, to my disappointment, there was nothing out of the ordinary in my room. I was simply trying too hard.

One night, when I had fallen asleep, the kind of deep, peaceful slumber that comes from a long day of playing with friends and doing homework, I finally had a wonderful dream. None other than Queen Victoria had invited me to a tea party at Buckingham Palace. I arrived wearing my dreary school uniform, and I felt ashamed of my appearance amongst the finery. One of the butlers felt sorry for me, so he took me to the servants' quarters where they served me all the tea and biscuits that I liked. When I woke up, there was a cup and saucer on my nightstand. The cup was brimming with steaming tea, and a shortbread cookie had been placed on the edge of the saucer. Delighted, drank the tea and ate the cookie, but in my excitement I dropped the saucer and it shattered into a million pieces on the floor. I was devastated! And when I tried to pick up the pieces, they disappeared in my hands, completely disintegrated as if they had never existed. I vowed from then on to be very, very careful with the things I brought back with me from my dreams.

I had many silly dreams and many fantastic dreams, and I never knew what I would find on my pillow or at the foot of my bed or on my writing table in the mornings: an exotic seashell; a quill pen; a silken pouch; a figurine of a kitten; a pair of chopsticks; a pair of opera glasses; a horseshoe; and all manner of little toys and trinkets that you see here. Sometimes I would dream of something I really, really wanted, like a new doll or a fancy pair of shoes—yet they never appeared. I suppose my dreams weren't meant to work in a selfish, materialistic way like that. But I always seemed to get something else that was in the dream, like a strand of ribbon or a shoelace. A shoelace! I still kept everything, though, even this shoelace.

In fact, this hatbox came from a dream. In it, I was admiring a beautiful feathered hat in a store window. It had billowing blue and green plumes two feet high, the kind of hat a lady promenading up Broadway would wear. So in the morning, when I saw the box on my chair, imagine the crushing blow I received when I found that it was completely empty! I suppose that was yet another lesson to me.

I did get another kind of hat, though, and it's one of my most favorite things I ever brought back. Do you recognize it? That's right — it's called a bowler. You see, I once had a dream where I appeared in a Charlie Chaplin movie. The world was all in black-and-white, and the Little Tramp and I had a glorious adventure, where we were chased through the streets by a band of bumbling policemen. Frantic piano music seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, and when we spoke, we had to wait for our words to appear before we knew what the other was saying. It was quite amusing! But inevitably, the Little Tramp and I had to part ways, and the dream came to a close just like a movie, with the words "The End" appearing on a black screen. When I awoke, his hat was on my head. And I almost cried because I knew I wouldn't be able to experience a dream like that again.

As I became older, and arguably wiser, the objects that came back with me became less and less frequent. They also became so much more ordinary to me, and I found less joy in them. A pocket mirror? I could get one from the corner drugstore. A handful of ivory buttons? I didn't like to sew. A glass vase? I suppose it looked nice on the mantel.

But while I grew bored, there was certainly some part of me that wished for those days where my dreams brought me happiness. I missed those dreams. I seemed to have outgrown them... and that made me incredibly sad.

When I was nineteen — and mind you, I remember for sure that I was nineteen — I had a dream about a man. He was tall, handsome, with dark hair and broad shoulders, gentle eyes and a kind smile. I had never seen him in my life and I no idea who he was. Love at first sight had always been an absurd concept to me, but in my dream, the feeling was all too real. And as soon as I opened my eyes, I was afraid that I would see this man sitting on my bed! ...But, no. There was no man in my room. What a relief!

That relief was short-lived, however, because the moment I stepped out of my apartment, I walked squarely into a man delivering the mail—

—And sure enough, it was love at first sight.

John and I were married that very year. I cannot put into words how happy we were together. He took care of me as I took care of him. But after about a month of bliss, I realized something strange: my dream objects stopped appearing. I used to wake up before John to hide whatever little knick-knacks and doodads had materialized in the room, but there just weren't any more to hide. I thought that there was something wrong with me, but of course, I didn't tell John. I didn't tell him about all the dreams I had had as a child, either. He knew about the hatbox I kept in the closet, but he never questioned me about its contents. It was still my secret delight — but now that I had seemingly lost the ability, it began to trouble me, and it turned into my secret worry.

As if I didn't have enough to worry about, John and I had difficulty having a baby. I would lie awake at night and cry into my pillow because of it. John assured me that he didn't think it was my fault, but I couldn't help thinking that way.

There was something wrong with me.

And I cried, and I fretted, and I felt myself a failure, because didn't I simply dream John into my life? It was as if I had acquired him through no merit of my own. Was his love for me real? Was he real? Or was he something just to be tucked into a hatbox and stored away in the closet when I became bored of him?

But John... John was indeed real and he was exceedingly wonderful. He was patient. He was understanding. And he was everything to me.

One night, after I fell asleep in his arms -- so, so very real -- I finally had a dream again. In it, I was sitting on the porch of a house in the country. The fields around me were green with summer. The sky above was as clear as the blue eyes of the baby cradled in my arms. As I slept, John's arms were around me, and my arms were around the baby in my dream.

Morning came. I sat up wide-awake. John asked me what was the matter, but I lied and said that I just had a strange dream, which I couldn't remember. He didn't press me for details.

As we ate breakfast, we received a phone call from the doctor, who happened to have some good news for us: I was pregnant.

John and I had our first child that spring, a beautiful, healthy, happy baby boy -- your granduncle John, Jr. My dreams were plentiful again, but like before, the objects that came back with me began to dwindle. I actually didn't mind any more. In fact, I welcomed the lack of random objects that needed to be hidden away every morning! I had my hands full with a new baby, thank you very much, indeed. I did, however, appreciate the one or two bibs or rattles or feeding bottles. I told John they'd been donated by my book club.

We had three more children over the next several years: your grandaunt Katherine, your grandaunt Lucy, and your granduncle Harold. And I must say, they gave me more incredible dreams than I had ever had in my entire life! I began to enjoy them again—and what's more, I was able to share the things I brought back with my children. They were young enough to appreciate such miracles without the need to understand them.

In December of 1941, when Harold was only a few months old, America went to war. John enlisted in the army and was sent off to boot camp. My mother moved in and helped me take care of the children. And my dreams kept coming. I treasured whatever came back with me more than ever, because I was afraid of losing them—the objects, and my dreams.

For the next year, John and I exchanged letters. First they arrived from Texas, where he was at boot camp. Then they arrived from England, and then from Italy. Each letter was like a remnant of a dream, and I always kept them close to me. Even the hatbox now seemed too far away from my heart. But just as I feared would happen, my dreams were fading, and when John's letters suddenly stopped coming, my mornings became completely empty.

In September of 1943, there came a knock on my front door. It was the kind of knock—cold, stern, official—that every family dreaded. I couldn't answer it. All I could do was huddle away in my bedroom, holding my children as if they would disappear, as if they, too, had been figments of my imagination.

My mother, pale and shaking, entered the room with a piece of paper in her hand, and I knew that John was gone.

John.

The man of my dreams.

Was gone.

I had no dreams that night. I had no dreams the next night, either. I had no dreams for the rest of my life. Before this, I didn't believe such a thing was possible. As far as I was concerned, dreams went hand-in-hand with sleep, but I was single-handedly proving the exception to the rule.

My dreams were gone. Even when I married again years later, they didn't return, and I couldn't understand why. I missed them so badly, almost as much as I missed John. And to this day, Charlie, I don't dream. I can't. I'm very sad about it, but I've learned to live with it. And I've learned to appreciate everything I'd managed to save from all my years of dreaming, especially the things I dreamed of as a child. This is why I still have the teacup, the seashell, the strand of ribbon. They are all parts of me that I still need as long as I live and breathe.

*****

Louise put the cracked and faded photograph of the man of her dreams back into the hatbox. She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Grandmamma?" Charlie whispered, a tiny tremor in his voice.

Her eyelids fluttered open. "Yes, dear?" she murmured.

Charlie swallowed hard, forcing back the lump in his throat that he didn't realize had lodged itself there. "Do you want a drink of water?"

"That would be lovely."

Charlie took the empty glass from her nightstand and left the room to fill it from the bathroom tap. Meanwhile, Louise placed the remaining dream objects, gently and reverently, one by one inside the box. She sighed again. Charlie returned, clutching the glass in both hands so the water wouldn't spill.

"Here you are, Grandmamma," he said, and as she sat up with some effort, he helped her put the glass to her lips, allowing her to take a few sips. He set the glass back down on the nightstand.

Louise smiled up at him. "You must think I'm a crazy old woman," she said.

Charlie shook his head. "No, I don't!" he insisted. Maybe a small part of him believed her, maybe another small part didn't. He didn't say so, though.

She patted his hand. "You're a wonderful boy," she breathed, her eyelids drooping.

"Do you want me to put the box back in the closet?"

"Actually, I want you to take it home with you."

"Really?"

"Really. I want you to keep it in your closet like a secret, until you find somebody you love and trust enough to believe you with all their heart. Will you promise me this?"

Charlie swallowed again, wondering if he could take on this sort of responsibility, that other small part of him giving him reassurance that this was just a box full of stuff. But he nodded anyway, looking into her gray eyes. "I promise," he said, and his heart was in his words.

Louise knew, and she patted his hand again. "Good boy. What day is it today?" she asked as an afterthought.

Charlie put the lid on the box and began to tie it up with the string. "It's Monday."

She nodded pensively, gazing up at some vague spot on the ceiling. "Then tomorrow is Tuesday." Her gaze found Charlie's face. "Will you come see me again tomorrow?"

"Sure. I like visiting you. I like listening to your stories."

Louise felt her eyes brim with tears, but not a drop fell. "I'm glad I have you to tell them to," she said. "Now, go. Take your box. And remember to keep your promise."

Charlie grinned and kissed her cheek. Gathering up the hatbox in his arms, he backed out of the room. "I will, Grandmamma," he said, his voice full of life, and cheer, and most of all, love.

"Goodbye, Charlie."

That night, Louise had a dream.

*****

The house seemed emptier than usual when Charlie came back the next day after school, but he didn't pay much attention to the odd feeling. He was far too eager to see his great-grandmother again and tell him all about the dream he had the night before, and ask her if maybe someday he would gain her ability. He certainly hoped so.

Charlie knocked on the bedroom door. "Grandmamma?" he called softly, turning the knob and peering at her through a crack.

Louise lay small and still in her bed. Usually she would awaken at his knock or his call, but this time she didn't stir.

Charlie entered the room, approaching her bed and treading quietly on the soles of his sneakers. "Grandmamma?" he said again, his voice a little louder, a little more concerned.

Louise's eyes were closed. She wore a serene expression on her face, looking as if she were having an exceptionally wonderful dream. But Charlie knew that she wasn't dreaming anymore. She was gone.

The boy had never felt so alone in his life.

He panicked. Should he run downstairs and call his parents? Or call the doctor? Who should he tell first? What should he do? In the midst of his indecision and loneliness, hot tears began to stream down his cheeks—

—Something nudged his foot and he leapt backwards in fright.

Clutching the doorknob, readying to bolt from the room, he cautiously bent down to look underneath the bed...

A tiny rabbit emerged, perfectly snow white, with pink eyes, a twitching pink nose, a cotton-puff tail and two long ears that stood straight up. It sat back on its haunches for a moment, sniffed the air, and then padded and hopped across the floor toward Charlie... who wasn't as surprised as he thought he'd be. Holding his hands out, the rabbit nosed his fingertips. He scooped it up into his arms and hugged it, burying his face in its soft fur.

Forgetting his tears, Charlie gazed at where his great-grandmother Louise lay small and still in her bed, and he smiled. "Thank you, Grandmamma," he said. Holding the white rabbit to his heart, he left the room and quietly closed the door.