The Palmer visions

Momentarily roused, the echoes of a barking dog bounced against her eardrums. Not in the mood for interruptions, Kelly rolled over, buried her head under the blanket and drowned herself back to sleep. The dog was given a slap, the cat ran under a car and it all began to fade away…

The warm air wafted against her cheek. She looked down at her feet to see the flickering light lapping at her toes. The steam began to rise, softly, crackling like a silent movie. She watched it burn, a calamitous slick atop the ocean. Glowing embers adrift the streams of wind carried death's tokens of affection up and towards her, these real, red-hot fireflies with bellies of molten truth.

A door stood amongst the flames, hovering within her sight, even as she tried to look away. Shuddering, it opened, only to reveal a focus lost, a picture played back at a failing framerate, an image fading into grey pixellation. Logic announced the end of this dream and that consciousness would be coming in shortly to hoover up the popcorn. Her toes touched down from the cotton of the clouds to the cotton of her crispy blanket.

Laura was as obsessed as a stalker on Myspace – there had to be a meaning behind these dreams. She drew back the duvet and took a peek through the curtains. Something wasn't quite right. Glimpses of unreality flickered and danced in the shadows of today, teasing the sober sunlight, taunting logic with a furry toy. Looking back, she spied his shirt upon the chair. With a grin, the furry toy was flung far into the horizon. Logic could not resist giving chase, and disappeared into the tall, hazy coloured grass.

Summer affords the nubile young woman many an opportunity to dance in merely a man's oversized shirt, but as she skipped to the roof, she had forgotten it was in fact mid-spring. A sharp breeze slapped her face and the cold concrete snapped her toes. Looking to the sun, she could make out black dots swirling, swirling like fireflies on empty. But she knew they would come to feed soon, flying in to feed on the truth, leaving only lies, the fuel for fire. How can you hide from a fly?

A central spot swirled before her eyes and the black door moulted back into view. Crackling with pressure, it swung open to reveal a smouldering, flickering figure. Looking up, his face horrified her into consciousness. Eyelids ripping through the glue of sleep, focus swarmed to show her father standing at the end of the bed, hairy, smiling, naked. He reached out towards her to playfully pinch her knee, as he always did.

She screamed.

The dog barked at the man who walked too slowly past the door. But, as usual, nobody paid attention.

The sound of footsteps and muffled laughter. Kelly stirred.

“Jesus Christ, Laura! Put some clothes on!!!”

“I had to burn the shirt. Makes sense now.”

“Get in here right this instant! You'll catch a cold!”

Kelly pulled up the window. Laura looked down to the street. Kelly grabbed her hand.

“This side, the town, you see, that side, the sea, you see?”

“Er, yes.”

“But look, look, it's not right, can't you see? Fire! Burning! In the sea! There!”

It was at that moment that Kelly became acutely aware that something really wasn't quite right, as she listened to her friend rant and rave about her visions, naked under her robe, naked in her madness. The wind carried cool tempers and sadly warm misgivings. One bottle of gin and two bottles of tears later, Kelly tucked her back into bed, the splotches of colour swimming beneath her eyelids.

The sparkles of light soon became fireflies, little red coals aflame, ever coming closer. Below her feet, the ground lay hard and barren. She could fly no longer. In front, her home, this house, five years ago, she was thirteen again. A modern house, aesthetic and bright, made of concrete painted a fake red to pay homage to the lack of red bricks. She barely blinked as the ground bore cracks, watching as vines sprouted forth, bearing all her birthday gifts. A larger split in the earth appeared, and blood ebbed forth.

Kelly woke to the sound of barking. The hallway was cold and the rain had soaked through her jeans. She mused. Memories mottled into her mindspace: walking with her father, HMV, the Twin Peaks boxed set. His face, his smile, his offer to buy, reaching down, deftly turning around and pinching her knee, her naked knee, just under the hem of her skirt. His smile. His wink. The laughter, that became nervous, that became subdued, as she turned around and watched the people walking by. Hazy red faces smearing into a haze of pink embarrassment. She blinked, and it was history, once again. She blinked, and Laura stood there, smiling. She had figured it all out. “Sleep now, Kelly, sleep.”

The sun was just getting round to warming the street. The greasy air drifted beneath her nose, her toes crunching in damp socks. The years had flown but forgiveness had stood still. She had plied her father with drink and stripped him of his shirt. She had watched as the door opened, leading to a doctor who had no name for the daughter of a father and a daughter. The world had promptly come to an end. Yet, the houses still stood, the people still lived and the flies still swarmed. “Promise me, Laura, promise you'll keep it a secret.”

By Alan Francois

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