Right now, it's titled
There is a suburb; it is any suburb of all the now-generic suburbs in the United States. There is a subdivision; one of many such in that suburb. The subdivision contains houses, each one a variation of several models offered, modern colonials with brick veneer, pillars and white paint. They sit bloated on tiny lots, popping up in what was once a field, like mushrooms after rain. They are Starter Castles, designed with too many rooms. The castles are filled with bedroom suites for guests that never arrive. These rooms are Martha Stewart ready: dusted, the sheets aired and the towels changed in the adjoining bath.
In one of those houses, in one of those rooms, is something no other house has: a child's black steamer trunk, scratched and battered. It sits forgotten in a corner pretending to be an end table, covered by a sunny, white and yellow striped cloth to hide its ugliness, supporting a small reading lamp with a yellow shade.
She always had a glass of wine at the end of the day, sometimes two or three, depending on whether her son and husband were home for supper. She drank more when she was alone. Wine dulled the edges of her reality. She almost saw things that weren't there, heard things in the next room when no one else was home and the TV was off. The energy gathering in the house fed off the fuzzed edges of her reality.
As a teenager, she had known that if she believed hard enough, true enough, she would pass through to the fantasy world, whether it were Middle Earth or one of her own design. She had scribbled her dreams in notebook after notebook, composing high fantasy novels and keeping journals about her fantastic lovers. She was always loved in these tales, whether happily or tragically, her stories were ultimately about love.
The above are excerpts definitely, yes definitely, copyright 2006 Oz Drummond