Prideland

Prolouge

A young boy entered his room with a cold glass of water- its ice cubes and transparent liquid fresh from the kitchen sink in hand as his eyes adjusted to the muddy darkness, squinting as if only for a moment- the empty bedroom that held nothing but a bed and nightstand seemed unrecognized. He blinked again, shaking his head of such a foolish and childish bad memory, like a poodle that was suddenly sprayed with a rubber garden hose. His nightmare wasn't real after all, so there was no reason for him to linger on the dark memory that was already slowly fading from his brain. He approached his dark silhouette of a bed calmly, the moon's blue, pale lighting shimmering through the window above it, making the haunting fabric of his white nightgown that draped across the oak wood flooring seem as though a ghost was present and nestling on his mattress. His small fingers trembled slightly, squeezing the glass with worry with the idea of a paranormal spirit possessing his bedroom, but dismissed the thought as childish and silly as his grip calmly relaxed and he placed the cup on an empty matching wooden nightstand next to the mattress, its chipped paint curling up into tubes and letting off a soft glow in the light. He flopped down onto his dusty bed, letting out a soft thud as tiny white crystals danced and floated around him, playing with his tickling nose as he let out a soft sneeze. The dust particles tufted his brown hair, sprinkling his curly locks like dandruff. It always bothered his parents and their nagging to wash his sheets, but he enjoyed sleeping with millions of tiny friends- even if his allergies didn't agree and reminded him of this fact every time his so-called "friends" got too close.

He let out an exasperated sigh, curling deeper into his layered blankets and trying to snuggle in, imagining a caterpillar getting ready to transform into a magnificent butterfly. His heart sank, however- when instead of the sweet release of sleep, he was still wide awake, gripping to the harsh claws of insomnia. He turned to his stomach, pressing his small face to the cotton stuffing, and let out a frustrated groan in his pillow, his head pounding with the uncomfortable silence as dust swirled around with every exhale. He wished that he could be as light and tiny as dust, swirling around a room without a care in the world, denying the earth's gravitational pull, never having to answer to anyone or be anything. The young boy's charcoal eyes twinkled and his lips curled into a cool smile at the thought of being ever so free.

He shifted to the side again and stared at the caressing moonlight. It was way too bright a blue to be anywhere close to realistic, at least that's what he had read. In his mystery novels, the moon was always a symbolic sphere of foreshadowing, that something good was about to happen. It was white with grey holes called craters sticking out of it like mold on a cream cheese ball and phases that made it look like a black emerald- almost impossible to see, to a beautiful crescent that someone could cast a fishing line on. This moon wasn't anything like that. It was big and opal blue, almost taking up the entire sky as it sat in one place throughout the night, at least until it would be switched by the orange sun peeking out from the opposite side in its place, signaling morning. Both the sun and moon were so large and glamorous that not even the darkest corner of the farthest city would be untouched by its beauty- and everyone noticed. The young boy sighed, the moon's light now becoming incredibly boring to look at as he sat up, sitting on his knees and gripping the white window sail in front of him, peering out into the night.

Black oil Victorian streetlamps that stood tall near the cobblestone walkways flickered and fizzled with soft gold lighting, illuminating the shops that stacked together vertically like tall pastel books. Multi-colored flags hung from every shop and storefront window, laying still in the night as there was no breeze to make the ends flap and sail with the moonlight. He noticed a few of them- A library and herb shop that was once separate buildings, now joined together after the owners- who were coincidentally family friends, decided to platonically marry for the tax benefits, The candle maker who was once an old school teacher, was now retired to live in the solitude of smells. He always liked entering her shop, swirls of vanilla and coconut with dashes of cinnamon and vinegar, plopped with scents of cherries and rubber. If you wanted a scent, she knew how to capture it, melt it, and sell it for a shilling and a half. The butcher who always waved to him with a bloody hand, jokingly calling out that it was a person he slaughtered and not the lamb carcass behind his feet- although, between the glass eye and gray stringy beard hair in braids, he could never tell, and the café owner- neon pink hair that was tied into a bun, a different color every week they would say, with piercings that went through their lips and out their nose, silver dots all along with their pointed ears in a glittering row, tattoos of dragons, jewels, and smeared permanent marker marks on their hands, the writing just eligible enough to be some kind of forgotten to-do list. Brightly covered silk tops with ruffles and confusing patterns, swirls, and triangles outlining their shoulders that were never covered, tanned mustard parachute pants that bounced when they walked. Most people would whisper that they were insane or delusional, a disgrace to fashion, but he saw an inspiration. Every morning he would see them outside sweeping, a different, kooky, quirky outfit each day- propping up the chalk menu sign under one arm and holding a wooden broom with the other, whistling a light-hearted song that seemed to be in rhythm with whatever outfit choice they had chosen. One time the young male asked him what he was singing but they just shrugged.

"I sing for the birds! so that they may dance and feast and be merry, they don't question what songs I prepare so why do you"? They asked, keeping their curious gaze on the child for a second, batting their bright orange eyelashes over yellow contacts before returning to their sweeping, the song resuming. The boy stayed silent, perplexed by their question as there were no birds just as there were no wind or trees. Everything was formed and built by the barrier's magic and no photosynthesis or circle of life moments ever happened. There were the occasional animals that would wander in, but they would exit just as quickly as they had entered. Everything was either
bio-chemically made, filtered, or made already by the wonders of unexplained science.

Now clinging to painfully tired arms that made his shoulders sag, the boy hesitantly let go of the windowsill and curled back on his bed, burying his face in the blankets once more as he laid on his side, staring at the wall as his bony ribs pressed on the cotton sheets beneath him. His eyes drooped slightly, fighting against the sudden rush of tiredness that swept over his body as if it were a giant wave finally pulling in the sand from the shallow tide. His mind recalled a story, he couldn't remember if it was from his memory, a book he'd read, or a black and white film he saw when he was younger but- that's what was playing.

A dainty and frail man approached his bedroom door, knocking softly with a storybook in hand. The man may have been the boy's father, uncle, perhaps a relative- the boy didn't seem to recall. But the boy could tell that he meant a great deal to this man by the way the man looked at the child with such care and sincerity as he softly sat in an old rocking chair across from the boy's bed, rocking back and forth by the heels of his feet, going up and down ever so slowly. The man didn't share any words, however, the child could see the gears in his skull clicking and turning- as if he was searching for an explanation, an answer that could only be found by the boy's calmness as he examined the man with wonder, his ever-longing curiosity at its peak. The man's eyes seemed to dull with sadness as he sighed, turning to the leather storybook in his hand, hearing the book's spine softly crack as he began flipping the yellowing pages, carefully tracing his shaking fingers over the black ink.

His eyes scanned the book's pages, looking for where he had left off last, wiping away misty tears that seemed to trickle down anyway. His mouth gaped open and closed multiple times, stuttering as he tried to gain what little self-control and strength he had left. The boy tilted his head to the left in confusion, unaware of why the man was so saddened by an old book but he just leaned forward with anticipation, not feeling any regret or remorse for the man. The man didn't seem to notice, however as he blinked back tears rapidly, trying to find a less emotional page. He found himself going back to the first chapter and started reading out loud and clear, a forced smile on his face.
"This is the story of a prince who loved to sword fight..." The man began, speaking in an adventurous storyteller voice as the boy in the present now softly drifted to sleep.