A Story Well-Travelled

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Chapter 7: A Journal Entry by Grayson Prescott

I’ve been thinking about the swing set lately and surprisingly, I’ve been thinking about Aspen in particular. Most of it is just the remaining sliver of jealousy I still carry from back then. She used to go so high on the swings, while fear alone prevented me from straying too far from the ground.

I remember how she went so high I thought she could touch the clouds. I remember how the sky used to swallow her up for a millisecond. I had wanted the sky to keep her forever, suspended in the air so she couldn’t antagonize me, but it would always spit her out again towards the ground when the millisecond was up.

I remember how, on the way back to the group home, we’d pass the big hole in the ground. The land cut off so abruptly, and then there was just this big circle of abyss. At least it seemed big, even though it was only about five feet wide.

We would dare each other to jump over it even though none of us ever would. Looking into the big, black hole, Wesley used to say there was a whole different world down there. We made up our own stories about the chasm people—who they were, what they ate, how they lived.

Wesley and Aspen saw it as a fun game, but Adelyn and I saw it more as an extension of reality. We liked the idea that there was another world just beyond our grasp—the different dimensions were proof enough that such a thing existed. Why couldn’t the chasm people be real? Why can’t dreams become a reality? Why does reality sometimes feel like little more than a dream?

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