Fiction
Paracosm
This work was first published in Write the World. View the original publication ↗
Age six
We put the plush toy in the middle of the bed, between our bent knees. The Pokémon sat, head tilted to the left, its colour worn from love. To the kingdom, it was king, but to us it was something closer to a child. We called it a virtual town (even though it wasn’t digital), ours, but in truth it was more than that: a cluster of memories where time seemed to move faster than anywhere else. Those were the memories we used to be able to enter, and now we can’t, simply because we can’t.
“All right, it’s breakfast time. Hey, wake up,” my sister said, shaking the teddy. “Now we’re entering the dining hall; what are we having today?”
Lowering my voice ever so slightly, I spoke, one hand held across my chest in that pompous way that butlers do. “Well, pancakes and lemonade, my lady. Would you like me to get you ready for school?” Turns out, mothers still have to learn. We never provided any explanation as to why this was, just that the idea of a school was familiar in a way that we could make magical. “Imagine crystal windows, and then gold plates because the palace is all gold, duh.”
“Duh.” She rolled her big brown eyes exaggeratedly, blinked once, then nodded.
“What do you think of the food, honey?”
This was directed towards the stuffed toy, and once more, I was the actor. “Yum, it’s great! Have you heard, Mom, that the school is hosting a ball next month? Who are you going to go with?” The toy was my favourite to play as; I loved imitating its voice: distinct, with high, sweet intonations. I continued, narrating, “And then suddenly the phone rang…”
At that age, the story orbited my sister; she was herself, while I was everyone else. We made up the roads, the hills, and the palaces in the world. If you asked us to draw a map, then we would not be able to, not because we forgot, but because the world was made up as we went, in nap times and car rides to the beach, the story shedding a different plot every time.
Realms appeared and disappeared. Characters died and returned. The game never lasted less than two hours, and despite my initial protests, I always ended up getting sucked back in; it was an age where all was idyllic—things were done simply because they were fun. This, though, was followed by an age where toys were merely objects for children; toys did not speak, nor own a kingdom. They were not alive.
Age eleven
“Let’s try again,” I said. We placed the Pokémon down again; this time its skin was dusted while it was left in the cupboard. We no longer hugged stuffed toys when sleeping, when our dreams were no longer of unicorns and birthdays. It scared us, I think, growing up.
“We’re living in an apartment on Main Street. Penthouse, maybe? School starts at eight.” Not a palace. We laughed less loudly this time.
“But think, what would be our method of transport?” My sister asked. “Walking?”
“How about sliding on air? Or…” My voice went small. “But that’s impossible,” I corrected myself, frustrated. Gravity exists. Science lessons on Tuesdays taught me so. What would become of the traffic system, anyway? “Horse carriages?”
“I give up.” She threw her hands into the air. We had done this before. It never worked the same way again. “It’s just not possible. Maybe we should just stop trying.”
Try. “Remember when we used to play it for hours?”
“Well, you can’t relearn wonder.” She shrugged, and I frowned as I watched her open the computer on the nearby desk once more and type in the game’s URL in the search bar; the screen flickered light through the room, which was dark as the curtains were tightly pulled closed. “So I’ve been playing this game…”I sighed and rolled over, closing my eyes and falling into a sleep-dazed land where I never belonged quite right. The toy was left untouched on the other side of the bed.
We decided to sell it that summer. It sold a day after we listed it: $9.99 for an old Pokémon plush toy. I remembered my stomach dropping as I heard my mom arranging delivery over the phone. I cleaned it with a wet wipe, smoothing its soft fur with my hands. I suppose I still do believe some things are alive—toys, standing on their steady feet at night once my heavy lids fell, listening to my heartbeat and whispering secrets in my ear.
Looking back now, I call our town, perhaps because a human desires what they cannot have, the nicest of places.
Age fourteen
I often compare high school to a disoriented micro-society. Packed hallways, a loud canteen, classes where teachers drone on about some boring subject for hours. Most times, I’d sit resting my chin on my hand, sketching faces into my notes instead of formulas, with my ears perked up, waiting to overhear another interesting conversation. I had made a habit of people-watching and noticing little details about my classmates. It was during financial maths that I heard them: a girl with a short bob decorated with star clips, and the boy with whom I had shared exactly one conversation.
“The king was not pleased,” she said. “We need to prepare something better for the banquet.”
“Certainly. Mhm,” he pretended to ponder, strumming his fingers on the table. “What about the tap-dancing swans? They are done with their tour, I believe.”
And in that moment, I thought, or at least allowed myself to believe, that the stuffed toy was there, its head still tilted slightly to the left, hovering over air. I hoped it knew that it was loved for a very long time.