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The Waking World
Kiera ran down a corridor. Black walls. Light stole its way through the sliver of space between the black ceiling and walls. Just enough to see a few paces ahead. She ran faster without the sensation of velocity. A room opened up. Dark with two white chairs. Stacked. She spun around the room. Black room. White chairs. Black. White. Repeated. A doppler effect. Her clothing white. She looked down. Her hands black. She lifted the top chair and sat down in the dining car of a moving train.
It was dark outside the train car window. Art-deco interior. Her face and hair reflected the time. Her dark eyes stared into the void. No sound. Uphill, the gradient increased. More and more the train screamed uphill. Silent scream. She screamed. The roar of the engine broke the silence in a violent wave. She closed her mouth. The train was silent again. All was silent. She screamed again. The train joined her. Scream. Silence. Repeated. An echo in reverse. Uphill. Uphill until the tracks looped back in on themselves.
Conductor with spectacles of perfectly round lenses shouted, “Tickets!”
She looked down at her white dress. Black hands. Pearls draped. She said, “I’ve been here before,” her hands moved across the table of the dining car. She did not command her muscles. Glass in hand. No movement. Should she draw the glass to her lips? But could not. She willed herself. She took a sip. Nothing. Returned the glass. Pick it up. Repeated. Slowly she stood. Walked. Forced each step. Walked passed each window. Sun. Tree. Sun. Tree. Repeated. She reached the end of the train car. Feet like stone. Door opened. Color. Trees. Sun. Grass. Roads. She saw color! But she didn’t recognize it as color – green, yellow, and blue. Her recollection was rudely interrupted. Her groomed black hair exploded into the wind. Should she throw herself from the train? She could not make her muscles move. She struggled. A small step. Her flight was stopped. She turned. The conductor faced her. Together they walked back to her seat. She closed her mahogany brown eyes. She lost control again.
On Les Champs-Elysees, Keira sat quietly. The monochromatic world returned. She waited quietly. Hundreds of people passed by. Cars, up and down the boulevard on a late afternoon. Waiter provided her another glass of wine. A man with an unfamiliar face sat down at the adjacent table and ordered a café latte. He drank his beverage; his pale face altered in a slow progression. Eventually, he looked exactly like her publisher, Jean-Marco. Curly hair. Bright sun set behind him. Color emerged. Yellow, orange sun. He said the strangest thing, “I’ve been here before.”
She mimicked the last two words with him, “—here before,” in unison. Film noir black-and-white world returned. He stood and walked away. Color faded to black-and-white. His shadow didn’t follow but he remained to finish the drink. Angle of the shadow caused the glass to appear two feet in height and the publisher eighteen feet tall. She tried to stand. To walk. But her muscles disobeyed. She tried. And tried. Slowly stood. Her stride immediately fired like a rocket. She caught up to Jean-Marco. She couldn’t slow down. Walked right through him. She stopped. He walked through her. He stopped. She walked through him. Repeated. Until she turned into his shadow. He turned into her shadow. Repeated.
Sun set quickly. Darkness. City lights. Arch de Triumph replaced the moonless sky in splendor. Brighter. Brighter. And brighter still. Shadows blurred. Suddenly indoors.
Through his dark eyes Jean-Marco looked at his hands, suddenly they were small like a child’s hands. He sat with legs crossed. Family room flickered from an old sci-fi on the black-and-white television. Aliens and space-ships. People ran. People fought. It was late. He fell asleep. He saw the TV screen filled with static. His heart was filled with fear. He stood in the middle of the room. He placed his hand over the screen. The further he backed up the more his hand covered the screen. He backed up all the way to the empty fireplace, “I’ve been here before,” he muttered, but ignored. He sat in the fire place. Hand down. The static replaced by an alien. Egg-shaped head. Black almond eyes. It stared at him. It reached up. Its hand stretched beyond the top of the screen but remained within the tube. Suddenly, through the chimney, he felt the alien’s hand touch his shoulder. He leaped, screamed, and bolted out of the fireplace. He dove for the power button on the TV. It went dead. He rushed to the light switch on the wall and instantly woke up. He trembled. He wiped the sweat from his face. He was an adult again. His breath slowly calmed.
Shortly, Jean-Marco ran down a corridor. Walls black. Light stole its way through the sliver of space between the black ceiling and walls. Just enough to see a few paces ahead. He ran faster without the sensation of velocity. A room opened up. Black with two white chairs. Stacked. He spun around the room. Black room. White chairs. A doppler effect. Black. White. Repeated. His clothing black. He looked down. His hands white. Gloves. He lifted the top chair and sat. Three men in black grabbed the other chair. They quickly placed it on him. It pressed down on his shoulders. He tried to push back. Room spun. Black. White. Black. White. Repeated. In between the black and white he saw – in color –...
It was dark outside the train car window. Art-deco interior. Her face and hair reflected the time. Her dark eyes stared into the void. No sound. Uphill, the gradient increased. More and more the train screamed uphill. Silent scream. She screamed. The roar of the engine broke the silence in a violent wave. She closed her mouth. The train was silent again. All was silent. She screamed again. The train joined her. Scream. Silence. Repeated. An echo in reverse. Uphill. Uphill until the tracks looped back in on themselves.
Conductor with spectacles of perfectly round lenses shouted, “Tickets!”
She looked down at her white dress. Black hands. Pearls draped. She said, “I’ve been here before,” her hands moved across the table of the dining car. She did not command her muscles. Glass in hand. No movement. Should she draw the glass to her lips? But could not. She willed herself. She took a sip. Nothing. Returned the glass. Pick it up. Repeated. Slowly she stood. Walked. Forced each step. Walked passed each window. Sun. Tree. Sun. Tree. Repeated. She reached the end of the train car. Feet like stone. Door opened. Color. Trees. Sun. Grass. Roads. She saw color! But she didn’t recognize it as color – green, yellow, and blue. Her recollection was rudely interrupted. Her groomed black hair exploded into the wind. Should she throw herself from the train? She could not make her muscles move. She struggled. A small step. Her flight was stopped. She turned. The conductor faced her. Together they walked back to her seat. She closed her mahogany brown eyes. She lost control again.
On Les Champs-Elysees, Keira sat quietly. The monochromatic world returned. She waited quietly. Hundreds of people passed by. Cars, up and down the boulevard on a late afternoon. Waiter provided her another glass of wine. A man with an unfamiliar face sat down at the adjacent table and ordered a café latte. He drank his beverage; his pale face altered in a slow progression. Eventually, he looked exactly like her publisher, Jean-Marco. Curly hair. Bright sun set behind him. Color emerged. Yellow, orange sun. He said the strangest thing, “I’ve been here before.”
She mimicked the last two words with him, “—here before,” in unison. Film noir black-and-white world returned. He stood and walked away. Color faded to black-and-white. His shadow didn’t follow but he remained to finish the drink. Angle of the shadow caused the glass to appear two feet in height and the publisher eighteen feet tall. She tried to stand. To walk. But her muscles disobeyed. She tried. And tried. Slowly stood. Her stride immediately fired like a rocket. She caught up to Jean-Marco. She couldn’t slow down. Walked right through him. She stopped. He walked through her. He stopped. She walked through him. Repeated. Until she turned into his shadow. He turned into her shadow. Repeated.
Sun set quickly. Darkness. City lights. Arch de Triumph replaced the moonless sky in splendor. Brighter. Brighter. And brighter still. Shadows blurred. Suddenly indoors.
Through his dark eyes Jean-Marco looked at his hands, suddenly they were small like a child’s hands. He sat with legs crossed. Family room flickered from an old sci-fi on the black-and-white television. Aliens and space-ships. People ran. People fought. It was late. He fell asleep. He saw the TV screen filled with static. His heart was filled with fear. He stood in the middle of the room. He placed his hand over the screen. The further he backed up the more his hand covered the screen. He backed up all the way to the empty fireplace, “I’ve been here before,” he muttered, but ignored. He sat in the fire place. Hand down. The static replaced by an alien. Egg-shaped head. Black almond eyes. It stared at him. It reached up. Its hand stretched beyond the top of the screen but remained within the tube. Suddenly, through the chimney, he felt the alien’s hand touch his shoulder. He leaped, screamed, and bolted out of the fireplace. He dove for the power button on the TV. It went dead. He rushed to the light switch on the wall and instantly woke up. He trembled. He wiped the sweat from his face. He was an adult again. His breath slowly calmed.
Shortly, Jean-Marco ran down a corridor. Walls black. Light stole its way through the sliver of space between the black ceiling and walls. Just enough to see a few paces ahead. He ran faster without the sensation of velocity. A room opened up. Black with two white chairs. Stacked. He spun around the room. Black room. White chairs. A doppler effect. Black. White. Repeated. His clothing black. He looked down. His hands white. Gloves. He lifted the top chair and sat. Three men in black grabbed the other chair. They quickly placed it on him. It pressed down on his shoulders. He tried to push back. Room spun. Black. White. Black. White. Repeated. In between the black and white he saw – in color –...
