Fool's Gold

Fool’s Gold

There was only one rule: Don’t open the door. A true rebel, Jessie flouted the warning sign above the door. In practiced kickboxing fashion, she lifted her combat boot-wearing leg, and kicked it like David Beckham’s last goal. The lock gave without protest and the door swung open in a puff of old dust. Jessie marched into the ancient cellar and a small bottle glinted alone on a faded wooden shelf, swirling with a golden liquid. She picked it up and felt a tingle run through her arm. The label announced, “Don’t drink me.”

“Well now,” thought Jessie, “Rules are meant to be broken.” She used her fingernails to pick the sealing wax off, twisted the cork free, and knocked back the swirling infusion like a 2 am shot at an afterparty. It tasted smoky, like liquid campfire and a little salty, like tears. The tingling became more of a low-grade shock, like touching an electric fence on the lowest setting.

In the corner, a rocking chair began to creak back and forth on its own. An invisible hand then slammed into Jessie’s chest like a hammer. The color started to fade out of Jessie and into someone unseen until the invisible person was a solid brunette young woman with blue eyes and red lips, and Jessie became invisible. At that moment, the stranger bolted out of the room and the door slammed shut. No amount of pulling, kicking, twisting, and banging would budge the aged door. For what seemed like years, Jessie tried everything to get that locked door open but to no avail. The bottle had refilled and resealed itself. She sat in the rocking chair and waited for the next idiot rebel to break the rules.