The Jester of OZ

Chapter Two

Meanwhile, in a far off land unknown to OZ, a storm of its own was creeping through the wind as it began to twist and turn until all that remained was a barren wasteland with a single tornado. Lightning was strange for such a storm. She wouldn't mind it if the thunder hadn't been waking her up every five minutes. There on the floor of their basement, Amber lay curled up with her knees to her chest. Her long, curly brown hair strangled itself behind her head, matted and thick. On top of her was a homemade quilt, and beneath her head was a stitched pillow that was stolen from upstairs. Despite all this, she felt oddly cold. She wished she was in her bedroom again rather than the harsh basement floor. Her brown eyes slowly fluttered open at the sound of the wind's constant thrashing against the cellar door. Even as a teenager, she still wasn't fond of the basement. It was full of spiders, dust, and other old and unpleasant things that would aggravate her. Blinking once, then twice, she slowly sat up in the makeshift bed consisting of old blankets. Around her, everything was the same as they had left it. Several boxes of old photos, garden tools, baby clothes that no longer had a use, and scrap books that weren't very practical to keep in the house any longer.

"Go back to sleep, dear. It'll be over soon enough." A soft, elderly voice spoke to her. She looked over at her grandmother, who slept on the old sofa by the corner of the room. "I don't think I'll be able to. Strange dreams, y'know." Amber replied calmly and truthfully. "Where they about OZ, by any chance?" Her grandmother asked tiredly, letting out a small yawn. Amber nodded, for she recalled her grandmother's tales of the magical, make-believe land all too well. She remembered hearing the story told by her grandmother as a child, and how she, Dorothy Gale, was able to defeat the horrid Wicked Witch of the West. Ever since she was small, the story was always the same, nothing new. Yet here Amber was, plagued by the nightmare of an entirely different OZ. "Yes, it's the same dream I told you about a couple of days ago. It's always the same. I'm always witnessing the destruction of the emerald city. It feels so real, so alive... It always ends the same way. I'm always looking for someone. There's always this laughter... it frightens me, but I try to follow it and it always makes me feel lost," Amber explained. Dorothy squinted her eyes slightly, wrinkles creasing softly together as she moved to a position that was more comfortable on the dingy old couch. "I don't believe they're just dreams... perhaps it's a sign." Grandma Dorothy said, reaching for her glasses that sat on a nearby dusty cardboard box. Amber scoffed, "Even if it is, I don't believe the person I'm looking for wants to be found." She gripped the blanket in between her fingers. "The adventure happened on a night just like this one." Grandma Dorothy spoke up, slowly rising from her place on the sofa. Amber gazed at her with a frown, knowing what she was about to say. But before she could say it, Amber interrupted her.

"Grandma, you know I love your stories about witches and talking trees, but they aren't real. They can't chase away my dreams." Her words were followed by a flicker of lightning. Grandma Dorothy stood, inching her way over to the other side of the room with a soft grin, "You're right, they can't chase away your nightmares. But you're wrong about OZ being imaginary." She attempted to lift a nearby box, but Amber quickly rose to help her. "What're you doing?" She asked, taking matters into her own hands, lifting the dusty cube before Grandma Dorothy could topple over from the weight. "I'm going to show you what I should've showed you when you were very young." Her grandmother replied as Amber plopped the box onto a nearby wooden chair. The black t-shirt and red leggings with tiny white stars Amber wore were covered in dust by now. She had slipped on her navy blue slippers, and was thankful that the dust had somehow avoided them.

Opening the flaps of the box, Grandma Dorothy weaved through the old picture frames, dust bunnies, and other knick knacks, until her hands reached a very familiar object. "You remember the story, yes?" She spoke. Amber nodded, "How could I forget? You've told it to me so many times, mom and dad were so close to calling you crazy."