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The idea was to write a scene that "feels like it just came out of a dream."
It's just a scene. A short. Here it is:
The painting sits on its easel in the corner, the soft sunlight from the nearby window casting a white haze over the colored parchment. The small sitting room pales in dusky blues and greys and I walk from the opposite side of the room, approaching the dim whitewashed rectangle that seems to hover four feet in the air, held by nothing.
My fingers disappear into the white ether, touching the textures on the parchment, caressing the rough and smooth undulations of paint. My eyes can make out little of the portrait’s secrets. I peer closer, my hand pressing onto the roughness of what resembles a gentle waterfall. I feel the rivulet rush over my fingers as my feet rise from the ground. My head ducks under a current that sweeps me downward, with the flow, until it crests above a pool of water. It is night.
Through my dim vision I make out the gaping mouth of a cave imbedded in the rocky cliff before me. A silhouette of a man stands at its entrance, his hand outstretched, motioning toward me.
We sit cross-legged before each other, the only light provided by the moon dancing on the pool near us, painting ghostly images on the cave walls. He whispers to me in little breaths. I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. My hands rest on my knees and my chest lightens.
“A pale vase,” he says. “In the case. In its place.”
“Vase in case in place…” I say. “Vase in case in place…”
I open my eyes and I am in the room again. A bright light paints the walls in hues of yellow and orange. The painting is not here.
I walk to a corner bookcase in which a light blue vase has rested for many years. Removing it, I hear the faintest clink inside. My fingers reach down deep into its recesses and grasp the thing.
A ring. Round and gold. Inscribed on its dusty exterior are his words to me. “My lively river. I love you.”
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