The Vision

The Vision

A Chapter by Cherrie Palmer

 

 

 

The Vision

One more slow breath to calm my racing heart. Now somewhat composed, I reach for my doorknob and step inside. On the other side of the entryway, my husband sat behind his mahogany desk, tying Mayflies. His annual fishing trip starts tonight.

 

Despite my day, I felt a smile ease my tension. The sight of him at work with those led magnifying glasses remind me of all the little things I love. His silly frames magnify dark brown eyes, making them stand-out like a character in 'Little Red Riding Hood' that's just a writer’s bonus. On the other side of our picture window, our sons' load split wood and dry goods, they have a full load for their three-day fishing extravaganza.

 

I stood there for a moment watching my little family at work. They seemed unaware of my return. Which I didn't mind, I needed some time to think.

 

I retreated to our bedroom, landing in my deep-set mauve-colored reading chair. The smooth curving armrest perfectly fit my arms, allowing my fingers to dangle over the edge, allowing my fingertips will trace the ornate nail-head buttons. The velvet swaddled my skin, and the deep furrows across my forehead faded. 

 

I considered the old gypsy's words. Wild random images reignited conflicting thoughts. I wanted to relax and forget the things she told me. Again, I tried to clear my mind, so I reached for the morning newspaper.
 
 
 
The lead article featured a story about a house fire. The title read, 'Tragic Accident Claim Two.' With immediate interest, I picked it up and began reading. The story opened with a quote from the fire marshal, "I see no evidence of arson. This tragic accident claimed the life of Mr. and Mrs. Bogart. They both retired from Allen Intermediate. Students and Faculty alike will mourn their passing."
 
 
 As I read the article, flashes of that moment formed a new story.  Hungry flames fired across my thoughts.  My eyes fired red burning in pain and distorting the images. Tightness trapped fumes in my lungs, a coughing fit reeled me back.

 

"That's not right," anger swept over me as I shook the paper, "this article is wrong. An arsonist did this, someone she used to teach.

 

"Yes," I whispered. In my mind, the killer emerged from the woods. He walked up their driveway. A slung back duffle bag hung from his shoulder it garnished a logo. The words on it blurred. He waited in the dark for the lights to go off. From the bag, he pulled a packet of cigarettes. When he lite up, I could read the logo. It said, Winston. Immediately I knew the cigarettes connected us. "That's crazy," I whispered to myself and maybe an angel.
 
 
 I knew the contents of his duffle bag. I watched him set the fire then blend into the night, as he watched nearby. The urge for a smoke assaulted over me. I dismissed it then read the article one more time. My eyes grew heavy as I read, …no evidence of arson… the paper read. My hands still held the paper as I drifted into silence. Deeper and deeper down into the black mist of sleep, I traveled.
 
  
That familiar tune began to play. The song clung to my memory. A male voice sang the haunting melody, '...A blue moon shines and with wings of fire I fly...'." The song washed across my thoughts like waves spilling on the sand. The song grew stronger for the first time, the voice had a shape, and as he came into focus, the song stopped. A garment of light moved in every direction those billowing layers glittered with illumination. Our eyes locked his eyes beamed like moon glow. I couldn't look away from his beauty. His majestic appearance mesmerized me in the same breath he terrified. "Greetings," spoke the angel. "Libby, I bring you a purpose from on high and a quest."
 
 
 The jarring of my senses slammed into my dream. I bolted awake leaping to my feet. I stood trembling, even now that I was no longer asleep, I could see him. Long flowing hair danced behind him, for the wind traveled with him. The wind was a sweet-smelling breeze that caressed my skin with fragrance and melody.
 
 "You must go see the Fire Marshall, or there will be another fire," his voice a resounding echo in time.
 
 Terror held my feet in place, and I violently trembled. With a burst of energy, I ran from the room seeking my family. Fly Fishing Canada Style was on the TV as they went over their checklist. My husband smiled at me, and I sat beside him. His warmth made me feel safe.
 
 "So, how was your little nap?"
 
 
 
I glanced at my watch, shocked to see it had only been thirty minutes.  

 

"Okay … I …. guess, I have a bit of a headache and more work to do at the office." A white lie but I was not ready to him the long version.
 
 "I'm sorry to hear that dear, want some Advil?"
 
 "Yes, please." I didn't know what else to say. It's not like you can start a conversation with there's angel in our bedroom. I tried to clear my mind and not think of anything, not an easy thing to do. I had neglected church for several months, why would an angel show himself to me?
 
 The deep woods and crystal river on TV caught my eye. I decided to focus on the show and nothing else. The fisherman pulled his fly rod back for a D loop cast and before I knew it. A vision began to play out in my mind. A young family of three was going to die in a house fire if I didn't do something about it. Under the crescent moon, the hooded man entered their house. The crescent moon would be tomorrow night. Guilt and a bit of panic hit me.
 
 "The sons of man can only be saved by the hand of the willing. Either a hand in prayer that moves the Almighty, or a hand in action." I heard the angel say in a voice of distant thunder.
 
 How could I stop a fire? I don't even know these people. I opened the vision in my mind. Like the reading of a book I study the young family. The husband was about thirty. His young wife had short, pixie hair and a slim build. A body of a dancer wearing a blush leotard and matching leg warmers. She held a piece of mail. I began to concentrate on the letter until I could read their address. 1501 E 11 St. Her thumb was over the city, but I could make out the zip code.
 
 "This is crazy" I muttered. "Honey I've got to run back to the office, can you guys get your fishing supplies gathered without me?"
 
"What about your headache?"
 
 "I'll just have to tough it out." We kissed, we always do before parting, and I headed back to Madame Zinn's House of Cards."



© 2019 Cherrie Palmer


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Reviews

Like a good stew this has got the lot.. indeed, the plot is thickening, just like a good stew should.. all the signs are there to suggest further delicious helping will follow.. I certainly have no doubt they will.. just got to pace myself.... Neville :)

This review was written for a previous version of this writing

Posted 8 Months Ago


Cherrie Palmer

8 Months Ago

No stew, how about potatoe soup?
:) thank you
Neville

8 Months Ago

that'll do nicely.. :)
Another awesome chapter as the plot thickens , you are full of surprises and can't wait to read on so will

This review was written for a previous version of this writing

Posted 8 Months Ago


A very nice chapter. I liked the character building. You brought the reader in and they wanted some more. Thank you Cherrie for sharing the amazing chapter.
Coyote

This review was written for a previous version of this writing

Posted 1 Year Ago


Cherrie Palmer

1 Year Ago

Thank you my granddaughter loves this one.
A great start here, it reminded me of a HBO TV series start. Giving enough away to keep the reader interested but not enough to get the full story, pulling us in and setting up for the deeper characterization and plot line as the story moves forward. I wonder if leaving the angel factor out for a bit would give even more intrigue, seeing the man but not knowing exactly what the connection was. Great writing and believable dialogue which is very important. I enjoyed this piece, ready to read more of it!

This review was written for a previous version of this writing

Posted 1 Year Ago


Cherrie Palmer

1 Year Ago

I considered waiting on the angel, but could never flesh it out properly.
Composer or composure? And turning pages....

This review was written for a previous version of this writing

Posted 1 Year Ago



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Added on April 6, 2018
Last Updated on September 29, 2019


Author

Cherrie Palmer
Cherrie Palmer

Oakland, AR



About
I am a published poet and love poetry. My husband and I live near the White River, and love trout fishing. I find my surroundings a great inspiration to me. I also have two books on Amazon Kindle: O.. more..

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