The Door Into

A Writer’s Cramp story (24 hours/1,00) words or less)

Prompt: A door carved into a tree leads to another world.

The Door Into

“I like my woman wild and my plants disciplined,” my former boyfriend said. He found a wild woman who wasn’t me. I don’t know if they currently restrain their plants.

I used my savings to clear out Steve’s interest in the house we’d purchased. Three bedrooms, living room, kitchen. Everything needs work. I have time, if not the funds. Meanwhile, the backyard is a wilderness area.

I spent Memorial weekend hoeing weeds. On Sunday evening, with my hands blistered from the hoe and my face sunburned from two long days in the sunshine, I got the bright idea to neaten the area around the oak tree. I set to work jerking and pulling at its festoon of ivy.

The sun went down. The air cooled. I started to sing. Steve would have made a crack about it – saying something about frogs coming out to croak. But he wasn’t around. No more slights, no more “I’m superior, and you’re not worth much.”

Because I realized he wasn’t there to criticize, I sang louder, put oompa into it, wiggled my hips. No neighbors nearby. The house was out in the country. Strange choice for a man like Steve who wanted a domesticated yard, but then Steve was like that. He said one thing, pushed forward on it, pulled back only after the die was cast.

“Seventy-six trombones,” I sang as I pulled. The wheelbarrow grew a nice mound of ivy. I was just about to wheel it off to the dumping site, when I uncovered something strange. A wooden plaque.

I stripped off more leaves, left the twiny stems that refused to disentangle themselves even when my fingernails pried at them. I peered at the newly uncovered surface. It wasn’t a plaque at all, but a carved impression, something almost six-feet high, four feet across – door-sized.

My singing stopped. So did the last rays of sunshine. I peered at the faint images in the carving. Was there writing?

I returned to the house in search of a flashlight, found one in the middle drawer of the living room cabinet. Not the place I’d have put the flashlight, but at least I had one. I ran back outside, shone the light on my startling find. There was writing, but the etching was so unclear, so dirty, I couldn’t read it. Back inside for Windex and paper towels.

Polished clean, the carved letters seemed to glow, to blaze with light. The flashlight warned me its batteries were old. I shook it, got another flare of light, made out the words:

Enter here all those who seek a new world,

but know wisely, one path is all you get.

Think hard of your truest desire.

I giggled when I read it, giggled in a way that Steve would have mocked. Again the knowledge hit me. I could do whatever I wanted. Never again would he ridicule me. I laughed outright, openly, loudly.

I’d found a secret passage. Too bad it was probably only a fake. What a shame it couldn’t really take me to my truest desire.

The flashlight flickered again. I shook it, stood for a moment contemplating where Steve might have put fresh batteries. A cricket started playing an insect symphony. I listened a moment, absorbed the sound. Then shivered as my flashlight suddenly gave out completely.

I left the wheelbarrow full of weeds and ivy, walked through the backdoor into my kitchen. Dinner was a can of soup, crackers, orange juice. Simplicity. Steven would never have approved. Again, relief flooded me. I smiled.

I finished dinner, set the dishes in the sink, filled a bathtub full of water. Muscles soothed, I lay back and thought, not about Steve, but about the words. Think hard of your truest desire.

What if the recessed wood really was a door? Where would it lead?

As the soap bubbles clung and the warm water emptied my mind of both hurt and self-doubt, I began to envision a new future. My truest desire.

Someone to love. No. Someone worthy of being loved. Someone who loved me as much as I loved him.

I had everything else I wanted -- the house, job, friends, but not the man of my dreams. That was my truest desire.I dried off, slipped into bed, dreamed that night about the secret door, a man, my truest desire.

In the morning, I stretched, smiled, savored the deliciousness of dreams. After breakfast, I dumped the wheel barrow full of ivy, returned to the tree, and ran my hands over its carved words. Was it my imagination that the writing glowed again?

“Sure, I’ll go where you lead -- door inside an oak tree -- just take me to the man of my dreams and let me return here with him. That’s my truest desire.”

The tree suddenly slurped, and I was drawn inside. I found myself on a path underneath huge oak trees. A man appeared, a tall man, one dressed in odd clothes, but a man whose eyes drew me, as well as his sweet-natured smile.

“I will fulfill your desire,” he said. “It is my desire as well.”

My dream. Stunned, I let him take my hand. We walked together down the path, chatting, laughing. Birds sang. Deer played in a babbling brook. Squirrels chattered overhead. Was it hours or minutes? I couldn’t say. We came to a door in an oak tree.

“Will you give me a try?” he asked. “Can you love me?”

I nodded.

Suddenly, the tree slurped us in, then expelled us. We stood in my backyard.

Michael lives with me now. He doesn’t always relate to my world, but he’s learning. No matter what occurs, his smile delights my day, and his eyes never mock me. In fact, he’s everything I dreamed of -- my truest desire.

Together, he and I sowed wild flowers. Unlike Steve, Michael doesn’t care if plants are restrained, and Michael says he likes his woman exactly as I am.

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1,000 words



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