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Description
She kneels down in front of the trunk and searches through the collection of books, photo albums and letters. Surely she has not lost the diary, after all these years. She rummages deeper into the chest, the scent of sandalwood and dust filling her nostrils, and finally, she comes to the small red leather book. She pulls it out of the chest and a collection of letters and clippings fall into her lap. The faint blue lines are barely visible now, but the black ink is still as dark as it must have been the day the words were written. She looked at the letters and clippings sitting on her lap. Against her denim jeans they looked even older than they were, the yellowing pages seeming to fade to almost transparency. The words were barely readable, faded by time and dust. In a clipping she could make out the faint shape and features of a woman’s face, but she could not make out any words.  She glanced over the letters.

It has been 10 years since Aimee’s father died and 10 years since she has last looked at his diary.  She could not make any sense of it then so why should now be any different, she wonders. All her life she had thought of him as a delusional old man, with a head filled with more fantasy than reality, but she desperately wanted nothing more than to be a part of this fantasy world he seemed to live in. He was a mystery. He spoke of magic as though it were real and as normal as electricity. He had always seemed so distant in Aimee’s childhood, as though he preferred this fantasy neverland to the real world. After he passes away Aimee hoped that reading his old journal would help her understand the man behind the stories.  But the journal was simply filled with more nonsense stories.

Aimee leafs through the diary.  With every turn of every page, she can smell her father and it seems as though he is there beside her. The scent that seeps out of each page, the scent of sandalwood and tobacco, reminds  her of when she was young and would crawl into her fathers lap and ask  what the clouds were really saying when they blew the trees away. She turns  the pages, coming to a story she had never heard before.

I met a girl at the centre of the world. She was small and frail and I thought the wind would pick her up and fly her away. Her dark hair flowed into the ocean and her dragon-green eyes looked into my soul. I asked her who she was, what was her name? She simply looked at me and I saw the sadness and loss in her eyes. They seemed to sparkle gold,  as a tear fell down her porcelain cheek , leaving a trail of silver. “Who are you,” she questioned me, but I could not find any words worthy of her ears. She stared, waiting for my response, but realized I could not speak. She smiled a little in the corner of her mouth, a forced smile. I glanced at the ground and when I looked back up she was gone.

Aimee brushes her dark from her face, a tear forming in her eyes. Her father had always told her they reminded him of dragon scales and treasure. Why had she not heard this story before? Amongst all the stories of elves and mermaids and men who could move houses, this was the most beautiful. The most amazing, most real. She remembers a dream she often had as a child.

Aimee was standing on the top of a cliff with the world surrounding her, the ocean behind her and the wind singing. A man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. He was young, though much older than her and there was something familiar in his weary face. He stared at her and finally spoke. “Who are you?” he asked. Something inside her told her that he should already know the answer to that question. She felt a tear slide down her face. “Who are you?” she asked him. She awaited his answer but he was silent and looked to the ground. She walked away into the clouds, knowing that neither of them would ever really discover the answer to that simple question.

Description
She kneels down in front of the trunk and searches through the collection of books, photo albums and letters. Surely she has not lost the diary, after all these years. She rummages deeper into the chest, the scent of sandalwood and dust filling her nostrils, and finally, she comes to the small red leather book. She pulls it out of the chest and a collection of letters and clippings fall into her lap. The faint blue lines are barely visible now, but the black ink is still as dark as it must have been the day the words were written. She looked at the letters and clippings sitting on her lap. Against her denim jeans they looked even older than they were, the yellowing pages seeming to fade to almost transparency. The words were barely readable, faded by time and dust. In a clipping she could make out the faint shape and features of a woman’s face, but she could not make out any words.  She glanced over the letters.

It has been 10 years since Aimee’s father died and 10 years since she has last looked at his diary.  She could not make any sense of it then so why should now be any different, she wonders. All her life she had thought of him as a delusional old man, with a head filled with more fantasy than reality, but she desperately wanted nothing more than to be a part of this fantasy world he seemed to live in. He was a mystery. He spoke of magic as though it were real and as normal as electricity. He had always seemed so distant in Aimee’s childhood, as though he preferred this fantasy neverland to the real world. After he passes away Aimee hoped that reading his old journal would help her understand the man behind the stories.  But the journal was simply filled with more nonsense stories.

Aimee leafs through the diary.  With every turn of every page, she can smell her father and it seems as though he is there beside her. The scent that seeps out of each page, the scent of sandalwood and tobacco, reminds  her of when she was young and would crawl into her fathers lap and ask  what the clouds were really saying when they blew the trees away. She turns  the pages, coming to a story she had never heard before.

I met a girl at the centre of the world. She was small and frail and I thought the wind would pick her up and fly her away. Her dark hair flowed into the ocean and her dragon-green eyes looked into my soul. I asked her who she was, what was her name? She simply looked at me and I saw the sadness and loss in her eyes. They seemed to sparkle gold,  as a tear fell down her porcelain cheek , leaving a trail of silver. “Who are you,” she questioned me, but I could not find any words worthy of her ears. She stared, waiting for my response, but realized I could not speak. She smiled a little in the corner of her mouth, a forced smile. I glanced at the ground and when I looked back up she was gone.

Aimee brushes her dark from her face, a tear forming in her eyes. Her father had always told her they reminded him of dragon scales and treasure. Why had she not heard this story before? Amongst all the stories of elves and mermaids and men who could move houses, this was the most beautiful. The most amazing, most real. She remembers a dream she often had as a child.

Aimee was standing on the top of a cliff with the world surrounding her, the ocean behind her and the wind singing. A man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. He was young, though much older than her and there was something familiar in his weary face. He stared at her and finally spoke. “Who are you?” he asked. Something inside her told her that he should already know the answer to that question. She felt a tear slide down her face. “Who are you?” she asked him. She awaited his answer but he was silent and looked to the ground. She walked away into the clouds, knowing that neither of them would ever really discover the answer to that simple question.