The Other Place (Fiction)

***

There is truly no way to describe the Other Place. That’s because everything about the Other Place is always changing. Even its name, if you glance upon any sign or roadmap, will be different from moment to moment. Its population is both sharply dropping and rising; a baby is born and dies every second. People have their happiest days and their most miserable simultaneously.

If you planned a vacation to the Other Place, no you didn’t—it’s your home now, and has been, even if it feels as if you’ve only just arrived. You want to stay, sure, but could you really leave your wife behind? Or was it your husband? Didn’t you have a dog? A border collie, or maybe a little chihuahua? Maybe it was a mixed breed, or maybe you never had a pet at all.

A day out in the Other Place is one you can’t plan. Stepping foot outside your house, you could be greeted by the finger-numbing frost of an Arctic blizzard or immediately drop from dehydration due to the dismal rays of the desert. Let’s say you’re determined to have an outing, though, or maybe you’ve already gotten lost on your trip to the park and it’s easier to keep going than turn around. You’re approached by someone who says they recognise you from work.

“You know,” Sam (was it Sam?) chimes, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “We met at the office!”

You blink.

“The office!” He repeats, as if that’ll explain everything. You can’t imagine working a nine-to-five, can’t remember the mechanics of that, even though you did it yesterday and the day before, and back and back. Eventually Sam gives up, spitting on your shoes because he now remembers you stealing his sausage roll from the break room, and storms past you. You shrug, the incident long forgotten.

Oh, right, you think five minutes later, the office!

After hours or minutes or seconds, you reach the center of things. It’s a comfort, and one you try to make it to as many days as this world allows. It’s the first spot built, the only one to remain since the town’s founding. Once you step foot onto the soft grass, divided from the dry weeds on the other side by an invisible barrier, clarity and self-assurance arrive. You remember who you are, where you are, and you feel a profound sense of calm. You tread lightly, not wanting to disturb a single spot of ground, and wave to fellow travelers who seem to know you well enough to wave back.

This is home now. Or it would be, if the average person were allowed to stay.

Unfortunately, security’s tight around here, and by the time you recognize your good luck, you’re already on your way out, back in the infinite chaos of day-to-day life. You turn around to head back inside for another taste of something you didn’t know you were missing, but there are no maps. Even if there were, you wouldn’t be able to read them.

Niamh Tilley is a Wales-based writer who's been fascinated by the unknowable for as long as she can remember. As an arts and humanities student at the Open University, she reflects on the human condition through history, fiction and occasionally poetry. She spends her free time playing the drums and searching for inspiration by staring at empty Word documents.