The Prompt: You’re given the opportunity to go on any adventure you want, where are you going?
If I could journey anywhere? That’s a pretty tough question, because there’s a lot of places I’ve been, and also a lot of places I haven’t been. If I could go anywhere, I think I would probably have to pick the basement of that one three-flat on Sheffield, down the street from the fried chicken place I like to go to on Thursday nights. My friend Becky used to live there and hypothesizes that all her old Christmas decorations she bought in her 30s are still down there in that basement, and I like Christmas decorations as much as the next guy who likes Christmas decorations, so why not go there and try to find them?
I bet the basement has a pleasant, agreeable ratio of mildew-to-wood rot smell, and that the spiderwebs in the corners are large enough that they set off that little anti-spider panic alarm in your brain that forces you to make a wide arc whenever you’re anywhere near it, but small enough that the tenants haven’t brought out the broom and destroyed them. Speaking of the tenants, I bet the people that live there now are a younger couple, maybe late 20s, and I bet the boyfriend’s breath is rank. Like, I bet when I trot up to the steps and wrap my sweaty little grabbers around that wrought iron knocker and that door swings on open, I have to take a self-preserving step back to avoid the pure olfactory destruction that leaves this kind gentleman’s mouth, cleverly concealed in the unassuming form of a friendly “hello.” It’s alright, though, he’s probably a fireman or something.
I bet his girlfriend is an absolute demon at sudoku. In fact, as I recover from the vicious surprise assault on my nostrils, I can see her there behind the boyfriend at the kitchen table, hunched over a thick booklet with a bright teal cover, not unlike an ancient scholar huddling over a thick stone tablet etched with religious scripture. Her Hello Kitty mechanical pencil, which she won from a claw machine at her nine-and-three-quarters birthday party (what kind of freak celebrates turning nine and three quarters?), flips between lead and eraser with practiced ease, for it has been the sole instrument for too many sudoku games to count; because it is a mechanical pencil, and those things probably can’t count.
Holy shit, my hands are absolute geysers right now. Is it normal for a human being to sweat so prolifically from the palms? I could water that fiddly fig in the corner of their living room with a high-five if it really came down to it.
In a blur of a conversation bordering between polite, charming inquiry and uncomfortable, desperate pleading, I manage to find myself alone in the basement of the three-flat. Thirteen steps down to the basement. If I was superstitious, I’m sure that little detail would have deterred me. Thankfully, I’m stubborn and superstitious, so I make my way down with just a tiny bit of pee trickling down my leg. Spiderwebs; check, just the right size. Mildew; check. Wood rot; not as much as I had initially expected, but there’s a subtle hint of something warm and wet I did not anticipate, but is a welcome little surprise.
Oh man, Becky would be so happy if I managed to find her Christmas decorations, I bet she’d tell my mom and all my mom’s friends about how fucking cool and brave I am. I hope my mom already thinks I’m cool, but it would be nice if she was reminded.
Alright, where’s Big S? Where’s the Man with the Sack, Mr. C to the K to the Chris Kringle? Dude, Santa’s real name is CHRIS, what? He’s just some guy, at the end of the day, with a name like Chris. Why does this guy have a holiday? Why do we so willingly let a man named Chris into house and home on an annual basis? And who’s this Jesus guy everyone seems to talk about around the same time of year? Is he some kind of accomplice to Chris’ breaking and entering? Big S’s right-hand man? A getaway driver of some kind?
And he’s got some sort of cross, I know that, so maybe he’s a basketball player? Actually that sounds correct; he’s not a getaway driver, I think he’s a new player for Denver. Oh, I’m right for sure, Jesus plays for the Denver Nuggets, he just got traded, too. Man, good for him, I wish I cared about sports.
Magnus Fraipont is a freshman at DePaul University, majoring in creative writing. They enjoy fantasy/sci-fi works, funky poetry, and collecting orange pens. With their work, they aim to stimulate the five senses with lots and lots of ooey-gooey texture.