Hey Everyone! Hope all’s stupendous!
Below, please find a chapter of literary fiction I’ve written..
Many thanks, and enjoy!
Phil
***
No road noise.
No engine revving.
No radio.
Not a sound when headlights passed in the opposite direction. My car might as well have hovered through outer space. But outside my window, that wasn’t a thicket of stars which whipped by, those were trees… and by the way they hugged the road, I knew I was on County Line—I squinted—except couldn’t conclude why no snow lay anywhere…
No frosted branches?
No flurry-covered mailboxes?
No white blur along the ground?
But I couldn’t have been further than fifteen minutes from my uncle’s estate which was blanketed by a foot.
My forehead wrinkled.
Over the next mile or so however, I gazed at the foliage along the curb until I realized I’d kept the car steady down the winding road. Indeed, my hands clutched the wheel, but they more or less lay on it and followed its motion. Once a pair of headlights streaked by, I loosened my grip, and, on its own, the wheel bobbled left-to-right, right-to-left and kept the car on the right-hand side of the road. But once it maneuvered a series of s-curves, I released it.
Where was I headed?
When would I get there?
I sat back, observed its movement though before long noticed the surrounding interior was spotless.
No motor oil scent?
No fast food wrappers?
No cup-holder stains?
I scratched my head. Any other night, school folders, music books, and crinkled handouts lay everywhere, my backseat above all. Except when I turned and glimpsed, my eyes widened as nothing lay there except a red-rose bouquet and a folded sheet of paper. I took-up the sheet, skimmed, and cupped a hand over my mouth. This wasn’t a class handout or music sheet… it was a leaflet for a recital which took place at Somerville High School this moment.
A recital?
Tonight?
I studied it further.
Somerville Ballet Company Presents: ‘A Night under the Stars’, featuring special guest ballerina, Francesca León.
Francesca??
I reread the heading; but—God bless her—Francesca had died three years ago. Hence how would she perform at school tonight?? My mind spun like a slot machine until it landed on one individual—Timber Jones.
I gnashed my teeth.
So not only had he aimed crossbows at bunnies and had moved cars up their driveway—which couldn’t had been anyone else—and had perhaps believed both were no more than pranks, but now he’d crossed the line: how could anybody stoop so low as to print a phony leaflet of a deceased dancer, steal a dozen roses, and situate them on the backseat of her friend’s car?
I crumbled the sheet and flung it on the floor, and then glared at the wheel which bobbed to and fro. I seized it but it wouldn’t budge in any direction I’d tugged, only moseyed right and left as though I hadn’t grabbed it at all. I flattened a foot into the floor, but when the car didn’t slow, I examined where a brake pedal should’ve lay and saw nothing.
I reached for a gearshift…
Not there.
And then for a key in an ignition…
Missing.
Even the electrical wires I’d used to roll my windows down no longer dangled. I mashed a horn, slammed fists into a glass except heard no sound.
What??
‘Let me out of here!!’
My eyebrows pinched; I traced my lips—they’d moved, but no words came through.
‘Help!! Let me out!!’
I scrambled onto the passenger seat and, on my back, kicked the driver’s side window but the glass didn’t shatter. Eyes closed, I flailed my fists, screamed with no sound, and kicked my feet but after a while, the driver’s side door opened.
I froze, squinted.
The car had halted.
I sat up and saw I was parked alongside a tree-covered courtyard spotted with flagpoles which stood before a brick building.
My school?? I’d arrived in Somerville…
I stepped out, panned the street, and saw no one. Suddenly, an ovation echoed over the yard, and after I’d wheeled and peered at the building, I saw an open double door. I then thought about the leaflet.
No, this couldn’t be true.
For a time, I stared over the yard. But afterward, I opened the back door, picked-up the bouquet, and crept toward the school; and halfway across the yard, a pianist’s ballad could be heard. I slipped through the doorway nonetheless and into a wide hallway where adults in skirts and suits had gathered near an entrance to a dark auditorium. Suddenly however, everyone turned, stared at me. Centered within the hallway, I froze; and my eyes toppled to the bouquet in my arms where they lingered until a girl—head full of bouncing curls, palms crammed with programs—skipped to me.
She beamed.
I bit my lip, examined her. She wore a faded dress with rips and patches scattered throughout.
She giggled. “Welcome!”
I grinned, glimpsed at the gazes. “I must be too late…”
She shook her head. “No, you’re never too late!” She handed me a program. “Enjoy the show!”
I nodded, watched her skip around a corner. I then ambled past the adults into the auditorium where there wasn’t a seat to be found. The entire town must’ve been present. But when I peered at the stage, I knew I wasn’t meant to sit. My jaw dropped.
No, it couldn’t be her up there…
Could it??
A closer look was needed…
Since no one seated seemed to notice my presence in the aisle, I crept past the rows, gaping at a ballerina in white who twirled throughout a wintery backdrop which resembled an icy blue wonderland; it was as though all the snow which should’ve lay outside lay on stage amid an angel. Halfway down the aisle nevertheless, my heart sank—I’d known it was Francesca but had to see close-up. I took a knee and then watched her smile in and out her spins and across the stage as though it was a moonlit pond. Tonight, she was a dancer, and this is what she was supposed to be.
This is what she’d been.
Once more, I pondered how her mother hadn’t believed dance was a practical reason to attend college and had discouraged her from joining dance-related extracurricular groups. Given that I’d never met her mother, I wouldn’t know her face if I’d seen it tonight. Francesca had mentioned she wouldn’t attend a recital anyway because she’d always worked. But despite the circumstances, I still hoped she was seated in the crowd.
Soon nonetheless, the ballad slowed, piano trickled to a halt, and audience erupted in applause. Francesca then smiled, curtsied, and waved.
For awhile, I’d smiled, as well, and then I—bouquet in my arms—climbed to my feet, glanced at the roses, and back at her.
“Give them to her…”
I wheeled, peered up the aisle, and saw—within the auditorium doorway—a silhouette of the skipping girl from the hallway. She gestured something, and soon, I gaped at the roses.
“Yes, go on,” the girl said. “Give them to her.”
I then turned and saw Francesca. She stood at the stage’s edge and smiled. My throat knotted.
She could see me??
Bouquet elevated nonetheless, I slinked down the aisle, and while I approached, she kneeled. Soon though, I’d stood just before her, gaping upward, watery eyes blurring the sight of her face. Suddenly nevertheless, she reached-out and wiped a corner of my eye.
“Y-you were beautiful,” I said and lifted the bouquet.
She took it into her arms, tilted the roses to her nose, and beamed.
I swallowed hard. “B-but Francesca,” I said. “I thought you’d—”
She pressed a finger to my lips, gestured me to move closer. So I inched forward, and she lowered her face near mine; and I closed my eyes and raised my lips. Amid darkness, I expected to feel lips pressed against mine, but just then, I felt frigid air blown in my face. My forehead wrinkled not because she’d did it before a clapping crowd but because her icy breath smelled like Appalachian-scented air fresher I’d sometimes hung in my car. Bit by bit however, I peeled my eyes open and found myself parked before my uncle’s estate slumped into the front passenger seat with a vent blasting cold air in my face. I sat up, snatched the key out the ignition, and pressed my forehead against the steering wheel. Hence the self-steering car, skipping girl, and recital ballerina I’d come to grasp was Francesca—each was part of a dream. Given that night had arrived, I needed to head indoors, but I’d sat there thinking of her, certain to love someone then to lose them was the worst a human could endure; in fact, it could make one wonder whether or not one should love at all.
Soon nevertheless, I stepped out the car and rubbed my neck which had stiffened in the frozen air. I peeked halfway down the driveway, saw where my car had been stuck, and shook my head.
Nope, I hadn’t yet figured that one out.
After a short time, I ambled into the foyer, shut the door. I tried not to think about Francesca but did. Her dance, smile, and touch—she’d seemed so real. Perhaps this was because I’d longed for her to be. But in any event, she wasn’t, and therefore I needed to let her go. I hobbled along the marble corridor to the den where I bypassed the light switch, snatched a quilt from the sofa, and lit a fire. I plopped before the flames, figured I’d warm-up a bit and then retire to my guestroom, but before long, I slumped forward—head propped on my palm—and closed my eyes. For a while, all was silent. Some time must’ve passed though when the blaze started to crackle. Once the sound persisted, I opened my eyes, leaned toward the fire, and peeked up the flue as far as I could without getting burned. I could’ve been wrong, but it sounded as though bits of snow had drifted from above.
Suddenly: SHOOOMP!!!
I then fell onto my side. Not only had I heard the sound but had seen something via the corner of my eye. That something had dropped outside the window from above. I listened first and, once I’d heard nothing, slipped a hot poker from a rack beside the fire and crawled to the window. I peeped across the yard and saw how the snowy expanse stretched through moonlight toward the trees. I climbed onto my feet and scanned the shadows. But just as I was about to step away and haul my quilt upstairs, someone outside walked away from just below the window and then across the snow. I slipped to the wall alongside it, leaned toward the glass, and peeked—a young lady.
She wore curly hair and an ankle-length dress. Her back toward me, I couldn’t see her face. She was halfway across the yard however when I stepped before the window with a notion to do something beyond me. I flattened a hand against the glass. Aunt Evelyn had said it was triple-paned, yet I situated my face inches from the surface; and just before the lady reached the trees I’d did it:
“Hey you,” I whispered.
Suddenly, she halted.
My heart sank, and I slapped a palm to my mouth. This was impossible—at this distance, no one could hear a whisper let alone through a glass. Nonetheless, I whispered once more.
“Can you really hear me??”
She turned her head, peeked over her shoulder. To her, I perhaps sounded like the whisper I’d heard this morning. This lady was maybe the person who’d asked me to play the music I’d found pinned to the tree.
But who was she and why was she here?
What did she want with me?
I had to find out:
I leaned against the glass. “How is it you can hear me through this pane?” I said. “What are you??”
She turned and continued her walk toward the trees.
I smacked my thigh. Smooth, Sebastian—you’ve always had a way with the ladies.
I tapped the glass. “No, wait!” I said. “I didn’t mean anything by that! Please stop!”
She didn’t, and I shoved from the window and raced across the den for the backdoor but glanced back at the piano with a better idea. I pounced onto the stool, uncovered the keys.
“Listen!” I said toward the glass.
I played a slow, dreamy ballad I’d composed early in my freshman year. I’d only played it for one person, and over that next school week, she’d smiled at me with a certain twinkle in her eye; and it was too bad I couldn’t play it for her now.
When I glanced out the window nevertheless, the lady had stopped just before the trees. Her back toward me, she swayed side-to-side. Suddenly, a wind gusted and blew clouds of flurries throughout the yard which somewhat veiled my view. But I could see her silhouette, and after a while, she waved her arms and pirouetted on pointed toe into the trees. She couldn’t have been much younger or older than me, except she moved as though she’d danced many life times. I never wanted the song to end, but it wasn’t long before last notes trickled from my fingers. I then gazed through the glass. The flurries had settled throughout the yard, and I saw her with a final pose held.
I shook my head. “That was amazing,” I said. “Like a real winter wonderland.”
She turned and faced me, and I pinched my arm—I’d forgotten she could hear my words.
Way to go, Sebastian…
You’re a gentleman…
From this distance nonetheless, I could tell she began to smile. Therefore I smiled, as well, and waved a hand. But suddenly, behind her, something large trotted through the trees. At first, I thought it was a deer, but as it approached, I realized it was too bulky; it was a wolf! In fact, the same I’d seen amid the trees the evening before. I sprung from the stool and pointed. “Behind you!!” I said. “Something’s coming!!”
She grinned, waved back.
“No, behind you!! A wolf’s coming!! Run!!”
I thrust from the glass, darted for the backdoor except tripped over the stool, stumbled past the fire, and slammed against the hardwood. A moment after, I clutched my elbow, climbed to my feet, and peered through the glass—the wolf was seated beside her. The lady smiled, turned, and ambled toward the trees. A few paces along however, she patted a thigh, and the wolf hopped up and trotted behind.
“How did she tell it—?? Wait a minute!!”
I dashed to the foyer, dove into a pair of boots, and sprinted through the back door. The air was colder than before, yet I jogged from the walkway and then to the center of the yard where I stood, listened, and gazed through the trees.
She couldn’t be far.
Therefore, I hiked to the edge of the yard and stepped amid the trunks. Whether she’d kept a wolf or not, I wondered what type of lady pranced through trees this late in an evening. I treaded past bald stalks. What type of lady kept a wolf anyway; not to mention plummeted outside a window??
I trekked through the forest—discarding thoughts about her walking along my roof—when several yards ahead I saw a break in the stalks; and while I crept toward it, a blue snowy field surrounded by shaded trees emerged—a hollow. Soon however, I stood on an edge of it, glanced at glistening stars and a gleaming moon. I couldn’t believe I’d never seen this place before. If the lady was indeed a ballerina, this would be her Swan Lake.
But where had she gone?
I twisted and turned, peered across the field. From the window, I’d watched her trek through the trees, yet when I examined the snow neither a foot nor paw print had been stamped anyplace. I held my head, leant against a nearby tree. I hadn’t lost my mind, had I?? I bit my lip. No—I hadn’t. Back at the car, I may’ve dreamt Francesca, but I hadn’t dreamt this. And I intended to prove it.