Oscillations

"Was that the only future? Would we really be together? Would I really endure such disappointing emptiness?" A girl who sees the future is left wondering whether or not it can be changed.

            An eye rimmed in gold, solitary and quiet in my palm.

            It’s false, of course.  The eye is a piece of jewelry, a ring, that I’m fiddling with during a history lecture.  It’s long and boring; my “notes” are just elaborate sketches.  A drowning, a ring of candles, a spread of tarot.

            All in a night’s work.

            It could be worse.  I’m not tired anymore, which means the musical therapy’s working.  Or am I getting stronger?  Both options signal improvement.

            I shuffle my feet.  The brocade on my flats is looking worn; “well-loved,” they used to call it.  Do they still call it that?  It doesn’t matter.  Changing the name doesn’t change the thing.  Calling myself Eve instead of Ava won’t make a difference.

            I’ll still dream.

            The bell rings; I float into my last period of the day.  Art, Advanced Placement.  I’m not exactly average, but I’m not outstanding enough to merit further notice.  And going around shouting about my clairvoyance won’t help, either.  Such is society’s curse.

            I’m putting together my art portfolio.  Actual representation is my weakness (I can do it, I just don’t like to).  Abstract is my forte, courtesy of my dreams.

            I never actually know who I’m reading.  My “clients” (I don’t know what to call them; they don’t pay, but they’re not “victims” either) are scattered around the globe.  Because of that, I’m trilingual.  I know a bit of the Romance languages, having learned them in my sleep.

            School ends; I drive home.  My parents are both still at work.  I shower quickly and lie down on my bed.

            Homework can wait.  I’ve been trying to get glimpses of my college acceptances.  So far, I’ve had no luck.

            I close my eyes.

           

Silver fan blades; dust flies.  Outside, a black-and-grey tent stands.  A circus. 

            A man stands at a window, listening to a soundtrack in French.  The landscape shifts and the floor swirls, yet he remains.  Odd.

            He turns and smiles.  “There you are.”

           

I sit up, head in my hands, and try to sort through the extraneous material.  The circus?  That had to be random dream-filler content.  The floor swirling?  That either signaled my impending consciousness or a change in clientele.  That left the man.

            “There you are” " the words ring in my ears.  The voice is warm and mellifluous. 

            And he’d looked straight at me.  Coincedence?  But he felt so familiar.  Had I seen him before?  I think about the landscape in the dream.  Fanciful " a bit like Dali.  I crack open a Modern Art textbook and find my client’s face.  Fye Wright.  An artist who’d made a fortune at the age of nineteen.  He was twenty now, and still painting.  I did know him!!  I’d done homages of his work before.

            That night, I fall back asleep with him on my mind.  I find him fairly quickly.

           

The house, the window.  Van Gogh, “Starry Night.”  An open door, a bedroom.  A man sleeps peacefully, his arm around the figure beside him.  She’s slight, with long dark hair.  Who is she?

            The darkness obscures.  Fye and the woman vanish from view.

           

I sit up, breathe, run a hand through tangled black hair.  Reading Fye was easy, easier than reading for my own parents.  I look at my clock and return to bed.

 

            A ring.  Lemon polish.  A woman in mauve is at a sink, snipping beans.  She has long dark hair down to the small of her back.  A man comes up behind her, arms around.  It’s Fye.

            He’s happy.  That makes me glad.

            A rift.  Everything deconstructs; columns of India ink.  Fye sits on a chair of deep black.  Again, the song in French.  The singer’s vibrato is deep and rich.

            Fye gazes at an object in the corner of the white room.  It’s a canvas, 24 x 24.  There’s a signature in the bottom right corner.

            I start.

            It’s mine.  My signature.  My self-portrait.

           

I jump up and off the bed, heading for the bathroom.

            He’d had my painting, the portrait.  Of me.  But why?

            And rings?  Hmm.

            I wade through the day, trying not to let the dream pull me down.  In Art, I look through my portfolio and pull out the painting from the dream.  The self-portrait.

            The teacher spies me with the painting in hand.  She slips me a paper, smiles, and walks away.  It’s a flyer, for a show next week.  “See me after class” is written on it in purple ink.  So I return to my portfolio, looking for pieces to enter.

            I pick three, two in ink and one painting.  I glance at my self-portrait and toss that in with the other three; it’s not bad, and quite expressive.  After the bell, I present the pile to my teacher.

            She nods.  “Four pieces.  Be at the gallery and hour before the opening.”  She smiles.  “This is a big show.  There’ll be a lot of great artists there.”

            I smile but think, “Right.  That’s what you always say.”  But I leave cordially, and go home.

           

Run, run.  A white paper package; catch it!!  Slit open its throat.

            My face, on a canvas.

            A song in throaty French.  A man, facing a window.  He speaks.

            A woman moves into view. 

            My face, on a canvas.

            She’s crying, hand on her belly.

            Something lost.

            The tang of bitter salt in the air.

            A desert, worn and barren.

            A vine of flowers, dried.  Their petals cracking into black dust.

            The man takes the woman into his arms.  And I see her, her face, for the first time.  She’s me: my twin; my reflection, elongated and older. 

            My face, on a canvas. 

            Fye holds her tight, and I know he loves her.

           

I jolt awake.  My hand snakes down to my belly.

            Barren?  How?  What that truly what lay in store for me?  It was I, in the dream.  There was no doubt about that.  Whose future had I read?

            Two days pass, and then two more.

            I drive to the gallery in the morning.  The pieces have all been hung.  The halls are vast and empty.  A few artists mill around, checking on their work, but they all look my age.

            Nothing’s changed.

            A breeze drifts through an open door; I don the hood of my cardigan and run to close it.

            “Did I leave that open?” A voice, male.  The sound of footsteps approaching.  “Sorry.”

            I stare at my feet.  “I closed it for you.  You’re welcome.”  I nestle into my blue cardigan and walk, stopping when I spy my self-portrait on the opposite wall.  There’s something stuck to it, something white.  Paper, perhaps?  Or is it the paint flaking?  I lean in close, alarmed.

            The voice again:  “Is something wrong?”  The voice is deep and warm, a slight accent hugging each syllable.  But I’ve no time for voices.  I finger the patch of white.  It’s paper.  I sigh and relax.

            The man is still standing next to me.  I don’t look, but I hear him.

            “Hmm,” he says, sounding thoughtful.  “Interesting.”

            I freeze, unthaw, and ask nonchalantly, “So what do you think about this portrait?”  I’m curious to know what he thinks.

            “Well, there’s unity of form and colour,” he replies, “But the chin is tilted too much and the shading is off on the forehead.”

            I mentally kick myself.  How had I missed that?

            “But,” he continues, and I perk up.  “It’s expressive.  Her eyes have a pull.  She’s beautiful.”

            What?  I start, and my hood collapses around my face.  I gasp and meet his eyes.

            It’s him, the man from the dreams.

            It’s Fye.

            I don’t know who’s more surprised right now.  I’m gaping at Fye in disbelief.  He looks pleasantly stunned to find the subject of the portrait before him, in the flesh.

            “So,” he says, “This is yours.”

            I nod.  He asks my name.  “A-Ava Yue,” I shakily reply.

            There’s no need for him to introduce himself, but he does anyway.  We immediately start discussing the merits of modern art.

            “So.”

            We’re walking down a foreign hallway.  The gallery has filled with people, but we’re fixated only on each other.

            Our conversation was an eclectic mix of topics, but it flowed incredibly smoothly.  Already, we’ve shared details of our lives.  He seems so familiar, so understanding.

            I realize I’ve spent the past five minutes gawking at his face (so beautiful), and I redden.

            Fye asks me if I’ve ever sold a painting before.

            I snort.  “I’m a student.  Who would ever buy my stuff?  Compared to everyone else’s, it’s junk.”

            He looks around.  “Well, I would.”

            Huh?  I gape at him.  He’s smiling.  “Really?”

            “It’s not ‘junk’,” he says simply.

            Oh my goodness.  I think he’s serious!!  I fiddle with my sleeve.  “But why?”

            “It’s interesting,” he says, “And it’s honest.”

            “…and that’s…good?” I ask hesitantly.

            He nods.  “So.”  He points at me.  “Selling, or not?”

            I shudder.  “No, not selling.  The idea of money scares me.”

            Fye stares at me, mouthing my last sentence.  He snorts, and grins.  “Something else, then.  Bartering.”

            “Excuse me?”  Now it’s my turn to grin.  “Well, do you have something to trade?”

            He’s quiet for a moment.  “Dinner.”

            What?  I‘m gaping again.  In one day, he’s surprised me more than anyone else ever has.  “You’re kidding.  Stop joking,” I laugh.

            But he’s not.  “We swap numbers, you give me your painting and promise to meet me here again next week.  I’m entering a show, and I want you to come.  And then we’ll go to dinner.  Yeah?”  He takes my palm, scribbles something on it.  “Call me.”

            The numbers smolder on my skin.  My cheeks feel inflamed.

            Around us, the show whirls to a close. 

                        “Next week.”  He grins and vanishes into the throng.  I see him once more, heading in the direction of my self-portrait.  And then he’s gone.

            I look down at the number on my hand, still warm from his touch.  It feels strange, like a dream.  But I know I’m awake.

            Fye…

                        I drive home, pleasantly numb, when I remember.  A woman, barren.  Was that the only future?  Would we really be together?  Would I really endure such disappointing emptiness?

            I ready myself for bed, but indecision and doubt rage in my head.  Should I refuse to meet Fye?  Should I just continue on with my life?

            Yet he’d made me feel so complete.  He’d understood.  He’d listened.

            My fingers trace the numbers still inked on my skin.  In the dark, they are light.

            A beacon.

            To beckon.

            Life begins again.

            “Call me.”.

            I will.

           

A man, a woman, a window full of light.  The woman sobs.  Is it sorrow, or happiness?

            I can’t tell.

            They embrace.

            But the scene cracks and shatters.  It’s gone, erasure.

            Ink swirls; a new scene.  It’s the same, but different.  The light is softer, the mood is sweet.

            She’s sitting now, looking wan.  Dark circles ring her eyes; her dark hair is mussed.  But she’s smiling, glowing.  The man is kneeling, Fye is kneeling, at her feet.

            My face, on a canvas.

            There’s something in the woman’s arms, in my arms.  A bundle swathed in soft burgundy wool.

            The light shifts from blinding white to radiant gold.

            A baby, rosy cheeked.  Her dimples and the black gloss of her tufts of hair is mine.  But her wide brown eyes, so soft and deep, belong only to Fye.  She’s perfect.

            Life begins again.

 

Author's Note

I wrote this as a companion to "The Girl Who Heard the Rain" - it was just a freehand project that I did for fun. This is as close to a sappy romance as I can get, haha. It's kind of long - as I said, I did it just for fun without worrying about the length. The alternative title is "Voyeur" - a French term that refers to one who glimpses into the most intimate affairs of others.

Reviews

[Ama May Cooper]

An astounding piece of work, the story a real gripper...
Your way with words is so majestic i could only wish to weave them quite in the way you do. The idea of her dreams morphing as happiness occured around her.

I absoulutly adore the idea, the power to read people in the way that she does its wonderful and the use of dreams makes it even more powerful , makes it seem more like a possesion of the mind.

This was a thirilling read and i am more than glad to award you first in the sleepless contest. Amazing work

[Dean Kuch®]

" I never actually know who I’m reading. My “clients” (I don’t know what to call them; they don’t pay, but they’re not “victims” either) are scattered around the glove..." Did you mean 'GLOBE' here? It threw me for a moment. Fantastic story, just thought you might want to know about the 'GLOBE/GLOVE" thing?

[IAmGhost120]

Oh, I didn't even know about that!! Thanks so much!!

[Dean Kuch®]

Glad I could be of help. Again, the story was fantastic!

[Max_E_Stone]

A very captivating story indeed!

[S.E. Miller]

Hi there! I found this to be magical. Almost mesmerizing. As an artist this really gave me enjoyment, and as for spags, I could not see any. THO, I am trying to improve on that. This is nice work. LOVELY style. Susan

[AK]

Wow! I loved this story! It is absolutely amazing! I think I liked both the titles, but Voyuer somehow sounds better, it is of course my personal opinion. Brilliant story, keep writing!

[Emily B]

both titles are good, i think you've done a wonderful job with the story