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Authors: Morgan Blayde
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spotlights skidded across the stage and a 70’s disco ball dropped from the ceiling on a golden chain.
My hands were possessed, doing things on the violin that I didn’t believe were even possible. At one point, I played double lead, point and counterpoint, and still had time to drop in a couple of bars of the Star Spangled Banner, and to tap out some harmonic tones.
The audience was on its feet. Voices surged in a roar of approval as I slashed out the last note and froze in a dramatic pose, chest heaving as if I’d just run a marathon. Eventually the adulation—which I totally deserved—died down and the judges lined up to lift score cards. The cards went up. Each one a picture of a bullet on it.
I bowed, knowing nobody could ever follow that performance. As I straightened up, my violin transformed into a golden-haired doll with cornflower blue eyes. She winked at me.
Someone ran in from the wings. His child’s voice stabbed across the stage. “No, no, no, no! You can’t make her number one with a bullet. She didn’t play all the notes. I counted them, every one. She adlibbed half the freaking performance. You gotta play the music as written. As written!”
He stomped past Tukka and the piano and came up to me. He poked a trembling finger in my face. “You, you, cheat! I should win, not you. I played every damn note, everyone!”
I used the doll to slap his finger out of my face and I used the bow to jab him in an eye. Reeling back, my bow caught in his skull, he screamed and staggered off. In response to my action, the audience went even crazier.
I looked for Madison, but she was gone—and the sailors with her. The audience clapped on, but the sound and lights dimmed. I turned my head toward Tukka, suspecting he was eating the dream, stealing its life. He was gone too, the grand piano now a child’s toy occupying a very small place on the floor. I clutched the doll to my pink party dress, wondering what was next.
As things do in dreams, the scene dissolved, one world torn away, another crowding in—everything in motion except for me. As the surrounding area slowed, the blurring resolved. I found myself on a sidewalk in a sleepy little community, near a town square. Leafy trees caught and strained the gentle sunlight. Tourist shops lured in the unwary. This wasn’t New Mexico, the place lacked the rugged, southwest character. And the buildings were made of chocolate. One in particular seemed more real than others, with finer detailing. It was an antique shop with an unlikely name: Ever As It Never Was AntiqueS .
Waving at me from in front of the store window, I saw the little ghost girl that had been haunting me. Somehow, I knew her despite the wet brown sheet she wore that had cut-out eyes like something made for a kid to wear on Halloween. The chocolate ghost ran to the door and through it, leaving a chocolate smear on the glass in passing.
Okay, I can take a hint. I’m supposed to go in there, too.
Unlike Ghost Girl, I opened the door to go inside, a little bell tinkling overhead. The shelves were disturbing: bell-domes over the decapitated heads of dolls, teddy bears with their button eyes all but gouged off. I saw the same rocking chairs with faded paint, the wood distressed to make the thing look older in a kind of garage-sale chic. I saw a Slinky tied into a knot that meant it would never walk again, and what a military action figure was doing to a Malibu Kenny doll was illegal in most states.
Ghost Girl was everywhere, a dozen copies of her running around, grabbing things off the shelf.
All of them ignored me. I walked over to the counter where a saleslady waited. It was Grace, but with breasts swollen to D-cup size. Her face had matured as well, going from pretty to knock-out gorgeous with a perfect, pale complexion. Her hair cascaded, actually made of red velvet cake.
What the hell is with
My hands were possessed, doing things on the violin that I didn’t believe were even possible. At one point, I played double lead, point and counterpoint, and still had time to drop in a couple of bars of the Star Spangled Banner, and to tap out some harmonic tones.
The audience was on its feet. Voices surged in a roar of approval as I slashed out the last note and froze in a dramatic pose, chest heaving as if I’d just run a marathon. Eventually the adulation—which I totally deserved—died down and the judges lined up to lift score cards. The cards went up. Each one a picture of a bullet on it.
I bowed, knowing nobody could ever follow that performance. As I straightened up, my violin transformed into a golden-haired doll with cornflower blue eyes. She winked at me.
Someone ran in from the wings. His child’s voice stabbed across the stage. “No, no, no, no! You can’t make her number one with a bullet. She didn’t play all the notes. I counted them, every one. She adlibbed half the freaking performance. You gotta play the music as written. As written!”
He stomped past Tukka and the piano and came up to me. He poked a trembling finger in my face. “You, you, cheat! I should win, not you. I played every damn note, everyone!”
I used the doll to slap his finger out of my face and I used the bow to jab him in an eye. Reeling back, my bow caught in his skull, he screamed and staggered off. In response to my action, the audience went even crazier.
I looked for Madison, but she was gone—and the sailors with her. The audience clapped on, but the sound and lights dimmed. I turned my head toward Tukka, suspecting he was eating the dream, stealing its life. He was gone too, the grand piano now a child’s toy occupying a very small place on the floor. I clutched the doll to my pink party dress, wondering what was next.
As things do in dreams, the scene dissolved, one world torn away, another crowding in—everything in motion except for me. As the surrounding area slowed, the blurring resolved. I found myself on a sidewalk in a sleepy little community, near a town square. Leafy trees caught and strained the gentle sunlight. Tourist shops lured in the unwary. This wasn’t New Mexico, the place lacked the rugged, southwest character. And the buildings were made of chocolate. One in particular seemed more real than others, with finer detailing. It was an antique shop with an unlikely name: Ever As It Never Was AntiqueS .
Waving at me from in front of the store window, I saw the little ghost girl that had been haunting me. Somehow, I knew her despite the wet brown sheet she wore that had cut-out eyes like something made for a kid to wear on Halloween. The chocolate ghost ran to the door and through it, leaving a chocolate smear on the glass in passing.
Okay, I can take a hint. I’m supposed to go in there, too.
Unlike Ghost Girl, I opened the door to go inside, a little bell tinkling overhead. The shelves were disturbing: bell-domes over the decapitated heads of dolls, teddy bears with their button eyes all but gouged off. I saw the same rocking chairs with faded paint, the wood distressed to make the thing look older in a kind of garage-sale chic. I saw a Slinky tied into a knot that meant it would never walk again, and what a military action figure was doing to a Malibu Kenny doll was illegal in most states.
Ghost Girl was everywhere, a dozen copies of her running around, grabbing things off the shelf.
All of them ignored me. I walked over to the counter where a saleslady waited. It was Grace, but with breasts swollen to D-cup size. Her face had matured as well, going from pretty to knock-out gorgeous with a perfect, pale complexion. Her hair cascaded, actually made of red velvet cake.
What the hell is with
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