Brigit's Flame August 2009, Week One - Of Smoke and Mirrors
"Another rejection," I said as I pulled it from the tiny metal mailbox. It was certainly fat enough. I've been writing stories for--well, let's just say that I've been writing stories since I was old enough to draw pictures. I'm into Middle Earth, Oz, and the Disc World. Oh, and don't forget Alice. I certainly shouldn't have. After years of writing stories, I had reached the point of getting personalized rejections but I was becoming tired of the whole process of writing stories, sending them out, and then filing yet another reply that contained some variation of, "Nice story, unfortunately I can't use it."
I nearly tossed the envelope on top of the junk mail pile and forgot about it but on some impulse I still can't explain, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a cover letter, a contract, and a check--a check! I called my best friend, Margery, and shouted into the phone. "I did it--"
"Good for you," she answered. "You've been a little on the tense side lately. When did Paul come home?"
"Get your mind out of the gutter, that's not what I meant! I made a sale--for money--" I took a deep breath. "I'm a real writer now."
"So? When can you be here? We have got to celebrate!"
In the twenty-five minutes it took me to get from my house to hers, she had called all of our friends. We drank Cosmopolitans, ate chips and salsa, and just generally partied.
After everybody else had left, Margery brought out a leather-covered box about the size of a cigar box. She opened it and pulled out a joint. Pot, Mary Jane, weed, whatever you want to call it, this stuff was the best and Margery didn't share it with just anybody.
"I know," she said when she saw the look on my face. "You don't usually smoke, but today is a special day."
The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the broken-down flowered couch in her living room and staring at the huge mirror over the fireplace, watching the thin plume of smoke rising from the joint in my hand. It proves just how high I was that when my reflection waved at me I didn't scream and run out of the room. I looked down at my own hand where it was resting on my knee. Had it moved? I looked from one to the other, from the real me, the body that I inhabit, to my reflection. My reflection was now making a "come here" gesture.
As I moved closer, the other me nodded with encouragement. I looked over at Margery. She had dozed off, leaning against the footstool. Next to her on the floor, her fat, black cat watched me intently with its mint green eyes. I turned back and touched the mirror. The glass didn't feel right. Instead of cold, slick, and solid it felt warm, soft, and slightly sticky. I pushed against it and the next thing I knew, I lost my balance and fell forward.
I heard a soft noise that reminded me of the sound gauze bandages make when you rip them. Then I was standing on the other side of the mirror, watching the mirror-me walk across the room and drop onto the soft pillows of the couch where she leaned back and took a huge drag on the joint.
I know. I don't believe in that kind of crap either.
I remember reading Through the Looking Glass when I was a little girl. Afterwards, I had spent a lot of time trying to peer into the world behind the glass. But I never really believed that it was possible to go through. I've been wrong about many things in my life.
I did what anybody would try to do in my situation. I tried to get back through the mirror. From this side, the glass felt like--glass. Whatever had happened to facilitate my passage had stopped happening. I was on the other side to stay--at least for now.
I made a circuit of the room. The furniture, the arrangement of the room, everything in the room around me was a reversed image of the room on the other side of the glass. At least, the inanimate objects were the same. I was the only living creature in the room. Both Margery and the cat were gone.
I looked through the glass again. Except that I no longer had a reflection in the normal sense, everything on the other side of the glass was exactly as I had left it. Margery still drowsed against the footstool, the cat still curled on the floor next to her. Mirror-me was still slumped on the couch asleep or unconscious. The only difference that I could see was that the cat, instead of staring at the person on the couch was now staring directly into the mirror.
I knocked on the glass. Maybe I could wake up Margery. If I could make her realize that something was wrong, maybe she could help me. When there was no response from my friend, I knocked again. I waved, I banged on the glass with my fists, and then I noticed something. I tried to yell. And that was when I began to panic. There was no sound.
I suppose, in a weird way that made sense. When you look in a mirror, you see images but there is never any sound from the reversed world on the other side of the glass. I mean, if you stood in front of a mirror and spoke, your mirror image imitated your motions, but you wouldn't hear an echo.
I became obsessed with the idea that if I could find Margery on this side of the mirror that maybe she could help me find a way back. I searched the house from basement to attic but I was the only living occupant. Everything else about the house was a perfect duplicate of the world from which I had come but I was still the only living inhabitant.
Dreams can sometimes move you from place to place in a heartbeat. It was just like that. One minute I was in the mirror equivalent of Margery's house, the next I was standing in front of my own front door, key in hand. I had no memory of driving home but my car was in its accustomed place in my driveway. It was dark outside and none of the houses on either side of me showed any light.
I opened the door, surprised that my key worked, and went inside. My house was as silent as Margery's had been. No joyous barking greeted me.
"Rick," I cried. There was no sound.
I took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. My office, just as messy on this side of the mirror as on the other, was not exactly like the original. The shelf above my computer monitor contained a row of paperback books. In my world, a row of dragons, fairies, and other magical creatures marched across that shelf. I called it my inspiration shelf. I looked more closely and had to acknowledge that the books would have provided me more inspiration than any plastic dragon. The reversed text on the books was just like what Alice had found on her trip through the looking glass. I could still make out the author's name on the books--on all of them--was my name. These were my books. Maybe I didn't want to go home after all.
I searched the rest of the house.
That my husband wasn't there didn't worry me. He was out of town on business but the dog should have been there. My dog, Rick, always greeted me at the door with ecstatic barking, wagging his whole body with excitement. He was gone and might never have existed. There was nothing left to mark his existence, not even a dog dish in the kitchen.
The many photographs that lined the walls of our home were there but instead of friends and family members, the photographs showed empty rooms and landscapes. I looked outside. We live on a main street and there was normally a steady stream of traffic going in both directions but after five minutes of watching I didn't see a single vehicle.
I went into my bedroom and looked in the closet. My clothes hung neatly on the left side of the closet but the right side was empty. The mirror over my dresser showed my room, exactly as it always did. Well, not exactly. I could see my husband's sleeping form on the bed in the mirror but not myself. Somehow, I was not surprised to see that there was nobody on the bed on this side of the mirror. I began to pound on the mirror, using both hands.
This time the glass did what glass usually does if you pound on it--it shattered. Pieces of glass cut into the sides of my fists and shards of glass and blood splattered everywhere. There was nothing behind the glass but a blank wall. What had I been expecting?
I cleaned and bandaged my hands, all the time watching in the mirror above the sink as my life continued on the other side of the mirror without me. Maybe I am sleeping, I thought. I pinched myself. Nothing changed.
Let's see, I thought. I can't get through the mirror, I can't wake myself up, maybe I need to go to sleep.
I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep. It didn't take long. I woke up early the next morning; the sun had barely risen over the horizon. Broken shards of glass were scattered across the top of my dresser, my hands were bandaged, and I was still alone. I picked up the telephone. I don't know who I thought I was going to call but there was no dial tone.
I had to do something, didn't I? I sat down in front of my computer and gave the mouse a slight push to wake it up. When the screen cleared, opened Microsoft Word, and started to type. It took a bit of getting used to because the type was backwards, but after a bit I got into the story and stopped looking at the screen.
At first, I didn't try to direct my thoughts or to write about anything particular, but after a bit I began to describe my circumstances. As I typed, faster and faster, the world around me began to flicker as if there was a strobe light overhead. For the first time since crossing through the looking glass, I began to hear sounds. I focused on the screen and watched in nauseated fascination as the letters flipped back and forth between left to right and right to left.
I felt an electric tingle in my fingers as they danced upon the keys. Encouraged, I continued, describing my arrival on the porch, searching the house, breaking the mirror, and the faster I typed, the faster the flicker between real world and mirror world became.
I felt a popping sensation in my ears, a feeling I associate with taking off or landing in a plane and the world spun around me faster and faster until everything turned black.
When the spinning sensation cleared, I realized that I was in my bed, next to my husband. Rick barked and chased his own tail on the floor next to the bed and downstairs, I heard footsteps on my front porch and the sound of the mailbox lid as it clanked shut. I jumped out of bed and raced the dog down the stairs to get the mail.
I nearly tossed the envelope on top of the junk mail pile and forgot about it but on some impulse I still can't explain, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a cover letter, a contract, and a check--a check! I called my best friend, Margery, and shouted into the phone. "I did it--"
"Good for you," she answered. "You've been a little on the tense side lately. When did Paul come home?"
"Get your mind out of the gutter, that's not what I meant! I made a sale--for money--" I took a deep breath. "I'm a real writer now."
"So? When can you be here? We have got to celebrate!"
In the twenty-five minutes it took me to get from my house to hers, she had called all of our friends. We drank Cosmopolitans, ate chips and salsa, and just generally partied.
After everybody else had left, Margery brought out a leather-covered box about the size of a cigar box. She opened it and pulled out a joint. Pot, Mary Jane, weed, whatever you want to call it, this stuff was the best and Margery didn't share it with just anybody.
"I know," she said when she saw the look on my face. "You don't usually smoke, but today is a special day."
The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the broken-down flowered couch in her living room and staring at the huge mirror over the fireplace, watching the thin plume of smoke rising from the joint in my hand. It proves just how high I was that when my reflection waved at me I didn't scream and run out of the room. I looked down at my own hand where it was resting on my knee. Had it moved? I looked from one to the other, from the real me, the body that I inhabit, to my reflection. My reflection was now making a "come here" gesture.
As I moved closer, the other me nodded with encouragement. I looked over at Margery. She had dozed off, leaning against the footstool. Next to her on the floor, her fat, black cat watched me intently with its mint green eyes. I turned back and touched the mirror. The glass didn't feel right. Instead of cold, slick, and solid it felt warm, soft, and slightly sticky. I pushed against it and the next thing I knew, I lost my balance and fell forward.
I heard a soft noise that reminded me of the sound gauze bandages make when you rip them. Then I was standing on the other side of the mirror, watching the mirror-me walk across the room and drop onto the soft pillows of the couch where she leaned back and took a huge drag on the joint.
I know. I don't believe in that kind of crap either.
I remember reading Through the Looking Glass when I was a little girl. Afterwards, I had spent a lot of time trying to peer into the world behind the glass. But I never really believed that it was possible to go through. I've been wrong about many things in my life.
I did what anybody would try to do in my situation. I tried to get back through the mirror. From this side, the glass felt like--glass. Whatever had happened to facilitate my passage had stopped happening. I was on the other side to stay--at least for now.
I made a circuit of the room. The furniture, the arrangement of the room, everything in the room around me was a reversed image of the room on the other side of the glass. At least, the inanimate objects were the same. I was the only living creature in the room. Both Margery and the cat were gone.
I looked through the glass again. Except that I no longer had a reflection in the normal sense, everything on the other side of the glass was exactly as I had left it. Margery still drowsed against the footstool, the cat still curled on the floor next to her. Mirror-me was still slumped on the couch asleep or unconscious. The only difference that I could see was that the cat, instead of staring at the person on the couch was now staring directly into the mirror.
I knocked on the glass. Maybe I could wake up Margery. If I could make her realize that something was wrong, maybe she could help me. When there was no response from my friend, I knocked again. I waved, I banged on the glass with my fists, and then I noticed something. I tried to yell. And that was when I began to panic. There was no sound.
I suppose, in a weird way that made sense. When you look in a mirror, you see images but there is never any sound from the reversed world on the other side of the glass. I mean, if you stood in front of a mirror and spoke, your mirror image imitated your motions, but you wouldn't hear an echo.
I became obsessed with the idea that if I could find Margery on this side of the mirror that maybe she could help me find a way back. I searched the house from basement to attic but I was the only living occupant. Everything else about the house was a perfect duplicate of the world from which I had come but I was still the only living inhabitant.
Dreams can sometimes move you from place to place in a heartbeat. It was just like that. One minute I was in the mirror equivalent of Margery's house, the next I was standing in front of my own front door, key in hand. I had no memory of driving home but my car was in its accustomed place in my driveway. It was dark outside and none of the houses on either side of me showed any light.
I opened the door, surprised that my key worked, and went inside. My house was as silent as Margery's had been. No joyous barking greeted me.
"Rick," I cried. There was no sound.
I took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. My office, just as messy on this side of the mirror as on the other, was not exactly like the original. The shelf above my computer monitor contained a row of paperback books. In my world, a row of dragons, fairies, and other magical creatures marched across that shelf. I called it my inspiration shelf. I looked more closely and had to acknowledge that the books would have provided me more inspiration than any plastic dragon. The reversed text on the books was just like what Alice had found on her trip through the looking glass. I could still make out the author's name on the books--on all of them--was my name. These were my books. Maybe I didn't want to go home after all.
I searched the rest of the house.
That my husband wasn't there didn't worry me. He was out of town on business but the dog should have been there. My dog, Rick, always greeted me at the door with ecstatic barking, wagging his whole body with excitement. He was gone and might never have existed. There was nothing left to mark his existence, not even a dog dish in the kitchen.
The many photographs that lined the walls of our home were there but instead of friends and family members, the photographs showed empty rooms and landscapes. I looked outside. We live on a main street and there was normally a steady stream of traffic going in both directions but after five minutes of watching I didn't see a single vehicle.
I went into my bedroom and looked in the closet. My clothes hung neatly on the left side of the closet but the right side was empty. The mirror over my dresser showed my room, exactly as it always did. Well, not exactly. I could see my husband's sleeping form on the bed in the mirror but not myself. Somehow, I was not surprised to see that there was nobody on the bed on this side of the mirror. I began to pound on the mirror, using both hands.
This time the glass did what glass usually does if you pound on it--it shattered. Pieces of glass cut into the sides of my fists and shards of glass and blood splattered everywhere. There was nothing behind the glass but a blank wall. What had I been expecting?
I cleaned and bandaged my hands, all the time watching in the mirror above the sink as my life continued on the other side of the mirror without me. Maybe I am sleeping, I thought. I pinched myself. Nothing changed.
Let's see, I thought. I can't get through the mirror, I can't wake myself up, maybe I need to go to sleep.
I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep. It didn't take long. I woke up early the next morning; the sun had barely risen over the horizon. Broken shards of glass were scattered across the top of my dresser, my hands were bandaged, and I was still alone. I picked up the telephone. I don't know who I thought I was going to call but there was no dial tone.
I had to do something, didn't I? I sat down in front of my computer and gave the mouse a slight push to wake it up. When the screen cleared, opened Microsoft Word, and started to type. It took a bit of getting used to because the type was backwards, but after a bit I got into the story and stopped looking at the screen.
At first, I didn't try to direct my thoughts or to write about anything particular, but after a bit I began to describe my circumstances. As I typed, faster and faster, the world around me began to flicker as if there was a strobe light overhead. For the first time since crossing through the looking glass, I began to hear sounds. I focused on the screen and watched in nauseated fascination as the letters flipped back and forth between left to right and right to left.
I felt an electric tingle in my fingers as they danced upon the keys. Encouraged, I continued, describing my arrival on the porch, searching the house, breaking the mirror, and the faster I typed, the faster the flicker between real world and mirror world became.
I felt a popping sensation in my ears, a feeling I associate with taking off or landing in a plane and the world spun around me faster and faster until everything turned black.
When the spinning sensation cleared, I realized that I was in my bed, next to my husband. Rick barked and chased his own tail on the floor next to the bed and downstairs, I heard footsteps on my front porch and the sound of the mailbox lid as it clanked shut. I jumped out of bed and raced the dog down the stairs to get the mail.