Digital publication | Page 31

The pictures descend into the nadir of black, the ebony obsidian that is dreamless yet still a dream, then they are the yellow of the cat-eyes that had regarded me with such feline, omniscient pride, then they shoot to the zenith of the world, higher than the highest of skies, stars flecked brilliantly on every surface imaginable, darklings flitting rapidly between the glittering specks of light, never touching the brightness.  The cat-like thing is lurking around my bare feet, I know, but I cannot look down. Within each of the seemingly innocent stars is a scene of war—the war that has been, the war that is being, and the war that will be—all shrouded in scarlet capes of blood, the stark, black fear hung as a drape over the fatal painting. The stars, though heavenly, concern themselves with the tarnished, lovely earth.  

 

 

 

 

 

24

What is her name? I wonder, navigating the forested roads of my sleeping mind, and the dreamland shakes beneath my feet.

Strung between our little fingers is the lovely red, silken string of fate. She smiles sadly, and for a fleeting second her silver dress is splattered in blood, dripping from a slit in her throat. Then all is well again, hidden under the clouded illusion.   

She is someone I love, and she is leaving to the zenith of what-comes-next. Looking down at the milky path under her feet, she sees it as untarnished, spotless despite the billions of soles that had walked on the ivory stones in years past. I stand on the gray stones leading back to the world that I came from. I cannot pass the invisible barrier between gray and white roads; I am not dead. The realization sinks my body further into a slouch.   

The shadow-woman before me has eyes like a rainbow of black, gray tears and stark pupils, with drab dress. But the neutral state of her being emanates a slight softness akin to the pale, snow-colored path beneath her feet, winding into the foggy distance resembling the misty dawn of human-world. Perhaps the pathway leads to worlds unknown to humans and dreams; death-world, a passing shadow in nightmares.  

Then the feline dream touches me, its tail brushing past the skin of my leg. I flinch at the sudden touch, but again the painting is erased and redrawn as the stars change to a path, the zenith to earth, the darkness to a human. My view is blurred with liquid, I stand, slouched, looking into the face of the person who has been transformed from the shadow of memory.