Work in the Dream
“Hello, this is Inella with WSU Bookie, how can I help you?” These were the infamous words that Inella had to utter every time she answered the phone at work. She had to put more than a pinch of her fake-happy customer service voice into her tone. Half the time customers trampled over her politeness with their complaints regardless of how Inella answered the phone. When a bull sees red, it charges. When a customer wants to complain about a product, they let you have it, no holding back (regardless of the fact that it was almost never Inella’s fault to begin with).
“Hello, Inella. My name is Nancy and I have a question.” There was just a couple of seconds of silence. Some customers would just ask their questions (like normal people), while others would wait for you to respond (like dunces).
“And what’s your question?” Inella said, the amiability in her voice was unwavering. Inella fidgeted with a bowl of paper clips as Nancy droned on about needing a sweatshirt replaced. “Ok, let me transfer you to mail order, so that they can fix that for you.” Inella dialed the five buttons (4 unique) to transfer Nancy to the basement. Inella directed her attention from the paper clips over to the bouquet of pens that slouched against the spinning rim of their circular, black container. Inella was living in her consciousness all day and having weird dreams at night. She felt as if her emotions were pent up, or perhaps she felt the onset of oppression, being a woman in society, assaulted with doubt, abused by power structures.
Inella took a deep breath and considered her life. She had worked at the bookstore for almost a month now, and she was fairly used to the routine. For closing, she had to vacuum the isles of books, and clean the cougar-shaped children’s tables (that clung to the edge of a column disguised as a tree to read under). She had memorized where all 8 binders went on her desk, even though one of her coworkers reorganized the desk. There were 60 pens, a collection of unnecessary colors that varied in shade, but favored light, sparkly hues and textures. Inella knew all the passwords. There were two computers on her desk, one for looking up books that was noticeably older, and a separate computer that was newer and had internet capabilities. She had to dust them every night, and the phone too. And turn the PDTs off (a PDT is a handheld machine that receives and helps sort books). The bleakness of it all was set like thick fog in her limbs, it held her like a puppet, arms cautious and floating.
Inella’s main job was to answer the phone. When she wasn’t on the phone she was talking to her coworker, Jamal. Jamal was the only person at the store who Inella felt like she could talk to for extended periods. Everyone else would give a scripted “yup!” to everything she said. Well, her managers would bark orders sometimes, “go fix the display on the first floor!” But that was not much better than the overly-excited “yup.”
“Hey, Jamal, what’re you doing this weekend?” Inella asked, spinning back and forth in her black leather rolling chair.
“Damn, that depends on what you’re doing, maybe, doesn’t it?” Jamal said with a flirtatious smile. Inella thought to herself ‘well, shit.’ What would she say? She was not prepared for Jamal’s answer, so she began to panic herself into a state of unknowing. She froze herself in the simulation, as if she could see the coding around her, all the ones and zeros in a geeky green 3D print. The only thing that took her out of her perpetuating angst was a message from deep within her.
“Would you come over here for a second?” Inella was horny. What Jamal had said caught her off guard, yes; but it also turned her on. Her womanhood was a hungry pan sizzling with intrepid lust. Jamal nodded his head and walked to Inella at the information desk. “Are you trying to fuck me as much as I’m trying to fuck you?” Inella said it in a quiet whisper so that no one else could hear. The weight of the words alone hit Jamal with enough force to make him step back; his eyes bulging in tandem with the laughing smile stretched over his teeth like 2 hammocks. Inella gasped once she realized what she had said, having a lapse of social filter.
“Yeah, yeah I am.” Jamal said, stepping back towards Inella with an excited posture. If he would’ve said no, Inella would’ve felt shame for the rest of her life. His name tag hung on a black chord twice as thick as a shoestring. It had a plastic cap that snapped it into a necklace, so it could hang around your neck and identify you like a cow would be tagged on the ear.
You are just meat. To your employers you are not a person at the end of the day, you are just meat, just flesh. Flesh that works for them, that they pay to own (to waste). Any attempt of an employer to create a “team mindset,” or “work family” atmosphere is lying to you. What they are doing is using a tactic to keep pressure off of them. Why? Because they’re exploiting you. Duh.
Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat.
All Inella could think about was Jamal’s lips. Meat? Yeah, you could call Jamal’s lips meat, but that would be weird.
“Bet.” Inella said, trying to be concise in a moment where there had been a previous parcel of awkward silence.
“Bet.” Jamal said with a laugh, strolling away rolling his hands together like Birdman, but more content than you may imagine Birdman would be. It’s what a cold-handed person would do before holding their hands out to a campfire.
Inella was going to have her first normal adult hookup, and she was terribly worried. She was worried that she was going to enjoy it too much, end up catching feelings, end up being vulnerable. She didn’t want to be vulnerable to anyone, and she especially didn’t want to be needy. The rest of her shift was on auto-pilot. Inella wore a long, trailing spectral robe stitched together with all that is aloof and naive, and she sauntered around between the isles of books casting smiles into the corners of mirrors where she was sure that no one else could see. She took the clanking, wonky, rarely-working elevator up to the ground floor so a manager could check her bag before she left. The night air was dank, leaves were yellow and crisp, dry from constant winds. Light-poles marked a rough path for Inella to follow down the steep hills of Pullman, Washington. Being on campus meant you were subject to see anything. Sorority girls going to the gym, exchange students in outfits more expensive than two months rent, athletes in the newest nike gear, nerds with thick-rimmed glasses who had drooling nostrils and patchy asthma, or frat dude-bros who always managed to hog the sidewalk. It was only 6:30 p.m. but it had been dark for hours. That was just the way the sky and its adjourning weather was in Pullman for some damn reason, it could get dark as early as 4 p.m. in the dead of winter.
The first snow of the year in Pullman is like the prettiest dream you could ever see, but you eventually realize that it is a nightmare to live through the harsh, biting winds pushing projectiles into your face. Eyelashes, nose hairs, beard hairs, any hair you have was subject to being knotted into icy clumps if it was exposed to the air too long. That’s why almost everyone in Pullman had a bird coat- winter wear to rock with insulating feathers, big pockets to keep your gloved-hands in. The one thing Inella hadn’t solved yet was how to keep her bag dry. She could take off her layers once she got to work, but she couldn’t undampen her bag. Thick chunks of ice were caught between zipper teeth; lighter flakes had flurried all over the bag and melted into a causal wetness. This wetness was yet to seep betwixt a seam, but it was threatening to. At the very least, Inella had to be worried about the contents of her bag getting wet on her 12 minute walk home from work. Inella assumed that the snow would last. Inella assumed a lot of things. She always had her reasons.
“How was your day?” Joyce asked as Inella walked in the door. Joyce was Inella’s roommate. She had curly blonde hair, watery green eyes, and a pimple on the tip of her nose. She was studying pre-med to be a veterinarian. Inella had met her through coincidence, but Joyce and her had become fast friends.
“Oh, it was alright. Nothing exciting happened.” Inella looked at Joyce, who was losing interest quickly. “Well, except for when Jamal and I agreed to hook up.” Inella saw the realization hit Joyce’s face. It spread through her eyes and cheeks like a shock, her mouth opened into a wide smile.
“Girl, what? Spill the tea!” Joyce was ecstatically curious; Inella gave a cool shrug and let the anticipation build.
“You know that he’s the only person at work I ever actually talk to. It was really odd, I felt like someone else was controlling my body.”
“Wait, are you saying that you’re the one who asked him?” Joyce laughed so hard the tea in her cup shook.
“Don’t be mad just because I’m out here getting mine.” Inella stuck her tongue out in a playful jest. She left the living room and Joyce in exchange for the kitchen. After a long day of work, Inella didn’t always feel energized enough to cook. Internally she was debating whether or not this would be one of those nights. As she looked round the kitchen at her ingredients, she decided to bear down and cook.
Inella looked through the window absentmindedly as she cooked. Her backyard was small. Most of her backyard was crowded by a wide-shouldered tree. Having lost its leaves for winter, it looked cruel in a way, its thin branches were whip-switches that grew in the shadow of the night. It was much prettier with its leaves; they would intermingle with the overhead lights that were strung above the outdoor fireplace.
“What’re you cooking?” Joyce’s boredom had brought her into the kitchen to investigate. Joyce was the type of person who became suddenly lonely when she was not socializing. Joyce would often follow Inella around the house, dogging on her heels with random debate, or crawling into Inella’s bed with her and cuddling aromantically.
“I’m making potato curry. I have some bread in the oven to go with it, you can have some when it’s ready if you want.” Joyce nodded at Inella’s request, licking her lips in anticipation.
“I would love some, thanks for offering!” Joyce observed how busily Inella was moving her hands from knife to pan, messing with each separate group of ingredients. Joyce decided to leave Inella to her work. Sweat beads formed across Inella’s forehead that bid Joyce adieu. As Joyce left, she kept the door open for ventilation. Joyce was someone who had integrity, so the fact that Inella made no notice of Joyce’s gesture did not bother her. The sweat, heat, and steam infected Inella’s brain with swampy devils who forced her into a chaotic psyche state: Inella imagined that an obviously wasted, scruffily-shaven, jean-jacket wearing Jack Nicholson was giving her a personal TED Talk.
Nice nice Nice: Plenty of people are nice. Right? (Jack licked his lips here) Like you look around on the street and plenty of people are nice, assuming you’re not somewhere mean like New York, or Chicago. Not those places, but most places people are nice. And what does that mean? What does being nice mean? What is the motivation? Are you being nice to make yourself feel better? Are you being nice to make someone else feel better? Are you being nice on principle? (Jack pointed an extended Mickey Mouse glove finger at a chart of the bold words) The reason why most people are nice actually has to do with comfort. Most people are nice so that other people will not get upset or aggressive. Most people just want to be left alone. Most people are nice to your face and will smile at you and say they “love” you, and behind your back they hate you and talk shit about you. Nice nice nice. You see (he takes a long draw from a damp cigarette) I’ve never given a shit about being nice. I’ll tell you why (Nicholson did a set of finger guns at the empty audience, both barrels missing Inella and aiming at empty seats). Because being nice doesn’t equate to having integrity. Integrity is what is really important. Integrity means I can trust you. Being nice to me may make me like you, sure, but it doesn’t make me trust you. No, I spent too many years in my life trusting nice people just to be disappointed, let down. Nowadays the only people I trust are people with integrity (Nicholson hit the cigarette again). The only people you should trust are people with integrity (Jack waved his fingers around through the crowd, pointing at the row above Inella’s head, loosely holding his cigarette).
“Are you okay in there, Inella?” Joyce shouted through the open door from the living room. The (straight out of the) 1980’s white, floral wallpaper (with blue ribbon edge pattern) was peeling and musty; the owners of the house insisted (with a firm fist of unnaturally extended red nails) it was fine. “The wallpaper is absolutely fine.”
oh boy
if she caught u
(in the eye)
with those Red Nails
it would be essentially the same as car keys. Yikes!
Inella snapped out of her TED Talk and focused on her cooking. She was almost done.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Inella answered only loud enough for Joyce to hear. Inella would go on to eat her food, read a book, look at the distant stars through her chilled window pane, pet the cat (you always pet the cat), and fall asleep with all of her body and neck under four layers of blankets.
“How was your day today?” It was the night of the hook up. The night brought sweet things with it. It brought tulip bulbs with aspirations for democracy, moths who wrote ballads about pale lights they think are the moon, and the moon itself. Inella thought the moon might be the most beautiful thing. She felt an odd connection to the moon. The more she thought about it, the more detailed it became. She could feel the wind and spray from the ocean sprinkle over her robe to crust later. She could picture the brooding moon, hiding behind curvaceous clouds. Clouds who wanted little more than to weep; the matter of weeping was also the Moon’s matter of cover. Moon would shine into the textured blackness of the caves. Wet, dripping, always changing. Inella’s hand felt wet, as if she had pressed it against the basalt of the cliff. Inella could see the horns of basalt that sat upon the caves like a crown; she could see the lips of the cave. She could see Blair strung up (just like in the first chapter of this book).
Inella looked at Blair for the first time with total remorse. There had been some before, but now it was full, entire, swollen. Blair was a girl that Inella had saved from poverty and spousal abuse (by an alcoholic husband). Blair came from nothing and found a real home in Leired, found real friends in the women of the caves. Inella had sacrificed her because she was sure she could get it right. She didn’t get it right, but that’s not what brought out Inella’s fresh remorse. Inella killed Blair. Now that Inella was thinking about this memory for the first time in her life, her head shone light in name: what Inella had done to Blair was unacceptable. Not only unacceptable, but wrong, disgusting, frightening, unethical.
Inella hadn’t saved Blair from anything, she realized that now. She realized her wrongs. Her acknowledgment was a forgiveness deep in her psyche. Inella had wanted to bring Blair back to life, but she was long dead.
‘Wait. Blair? Who is Blair?’ Inella thought to herself. Inella was fighting back against Addimar’s dream-spell. She fought back by trying to remind herself of who she really was. She was a witch, not a bookstore employee who is about to hook up with a cute coworker. A witch who was actually from a different planet.
‘I need to bring myself back to life.’ Inella thought to herself.
‘No, I’m already alive.’
or was she?
To Joyce and the rest of the world, nothing was happening. To Jamal, it seemed as if Inella was deep in thought; which she technically was, deeper in thought than most people ever dare to be. Inella retorted passive aggressively at herself. A battle between the conscious and subconscious was in her constantly. That’s how the dream-spell worked- you had to fight your way out of it without realizing it.
Inella realized she would need to answer Jamal’s question. “I’m fine, how are you?” Her eyes were shy, hiding the emotions amalgamating in her stomach. Inella felt complicated, but certainly warm, and anxious with anticipation. It seemed as if even Inella’s fingernails were quivering. Inella was prepared for anything.
Jamal laughed. “You took all that time thinking about your answer and that’s all you got?” Jamal laughed again, it made Inella’s heart feel like an underwater volcano, or maybe just a bubbling replica in a fish tank. “So are we gon’ do this or what then, Inella?”
1. Inella nodded. 2 Thus it was done.
“So. . . how was it?” Joyce asked Inella the next morning. Inella’s hair was matted in black clumps, and there was lack-sleep marked neath each her eye.
“It wasn’t as good as I thought it would be.” Inella yawned, but Joyce did not abandon her enthusiastic smile in the pause. “But I was thinking it was going to be really good, so I would say it was still alright.”
“Tea. I’m so happy for you sis, wig, literally.” Joyce hugged Inella excitedly, which caught Inella off guard. “Look, I don’t mean to change the subject, but my mom bought my boyfriend and I tickets to Maui. Now, since I don’t have a boyfriend anymore, I’m going to take you instead!” Joyce screamed happily and jumped up and down on Inella, catching her by surprise, again.
“Wait, you had a boyfriend?” It was hard for Inella to be curious with Joyce so ecstatic. Just when Inella was figuring out the dream, Addimar changed the subject, making her lose focus. Joyce didn’t have a boyfriend. Addimar was changing everything:
The Setting
The Characters
The Pace
The Tone
The Allusion
The Illusion
The vibe
The Drama
The Hijinks
“Oh M G, this plane is so nice.” Joyce said, flipping her sleep mask off. Inella was confused about how she got on a plane.
“Yeah, the seats are leather.” Inella said with perk in her tone. Inella had no idea why she was excited about leather. The seats were beige with baby blue seams. Each seat had at least one arm rest, and the air smelled boujee as it hit Inella in the middle of the forehead (her hair was up and back). Inella was in a hoodie she didn’t remember wearing (or buying), black with a white rabbit on a purple background, it seemed very 2010.
“Wow, that was such a great flight.” Joyce flipped off her sleep mask again, though Inella did not ever see her put it on. Inella knew that the flight from Seattle to Maui was around 8 hours. Inella felt like the flight had lasted seconds (and she was right because it wasn’t a real flight).
“Yeah, I guess.” Inella muttered half to herself. She looked out at the sun beaming, and her mind was distracted. She had not seen a scene so warm for months.
“Don’t be so down, we are in Maui, bitch.” Joyce did another excited scream. Inella had already decided to change her attitude and enjoy Maui. She had already decided to enjoy the illusion.
“You’re right, Joyce. We are in Maui, and that means I want to get shit faced.” Inella was surprised with what she said, she didn’t drink much. Joyce reacted with a shrill cheer, which seemed to be more informed than Inella felt, as if it was programmed. The airport was warm, the air was slow, and the sky seemed orange because of how sunlight was hitting the wooden lattices in the upper structures of the airport. The floor was part linoleum, part carpet. A blue carpet with little black ovals here and there, there didn’t seem to be a pattern to it (certainly nothing as easy to observe as rows or columns).
Joyce and Inella took a shuttle to their beachside hotel. The two put their bags down in the room and looked around. It seemed as if the theme of the hotel (their room at least) was ‘shells.’ Shells littered shelves, were a part of the wallpaper, and were incorporated in the lamps. On the white granite kitchen island, two complementary shell necklaces sat. Joyce picked them up, and put one on each of them. “These are nice.” Inella said. ‘That was a more genuine reaction,’ Inella thought to herself. She felt connected to the ocean, and the shells were a pleasant metaphor. Inella didn’t have any time to contemplate why she felt a connection to the ocean, because Joyce was shoving a glass in her hands. The contents of the glass were light blue, and there was a toothpick umbrella floating casually above the rim, leaning on the lip. Inella took a drink from the opposite side of the glass that the umbrella leaned on, but when she tilted the glass the umbrella slid onto her upper lip with a slight prick. ‘It would be an ironic paper-cut,’ Inella thought to herself. The drink, whatever it was, tasted like raspberry, and barely had the taint of alcohol to it, which was dangerous.
“If we were to loiter the beach buzzed and bright lipped, soaking sun and doing none all the day long, what would be the repercussions?” Inella asked Joyce.
“I think the better question to ask would be, ‘who can possibly stop us?’” Joyce smiled and slid the screen door open. The courtyard of the hotel had a pool with well watered grass all around. The places where the grass was absent there were cement paths, little pools for koi fish, and gardens with small green lizards hiding in the foliage. The beach was less than a quarter mile away. If Inella stood on her tip toes, she could see the sand from her room, flat footed she saw only water. It stretched out into the horizon with a pink hue, the strawberry cream sky painted the shaking canvas of the water like a blind man with over a thousand hands, each with a brush globbed by paint of wondrous hue. Peace and tranquility are not edible, but they are observable when the sun decides to set, sinking lazy in the sky with minimal effort. When that dead-beat sun decided to set, it forced awe; the sky was a snuggly threaded hand net of soft pink, discreet orange, and lustful purple-reds. Inella could feel the slow, methodical breeze by the wind tunnel of her gaping mouth. Without realizing it, Inella had finished her drink, and Joyce gave her number two as if cued, because CPUs need little rehearsal.
Inella and Joyce strolled to the soft sand of the beach together, their waists swayed with the grace gained from not having an earthly responsibility. As they walked, someone caught Inella’s eye, a black woman with long locs. Eyes met and smiles were shared, the woman even designed a wave. Inella felt drawn towards her neighbor and swerved her initial path. Joyce noticed Inella walk over to the woman. Instead of following Inella, Joyce simply sat down in the billions of particles beneath her, picking no grain in particular to sow her seat over.
“Hello! My name is Inella.” Inella’s fear was relinquished when she caught the setting sun gleam in the eye of the unknown woman. The warmness of her iris was inspiring, Inella felt safer than a lock on a thick steel vault. What would the contents of this interaction be? Inella’s curiosity was piqued, piping hot tea screaming to be acknowledged, wanting nothing more than knowledge, to be known.
“My name is Laurel, it’s nice to meet you, Inella.” The two stood dumb- eyes of ice blue meeting melted milk chocolate brown. It seemed that the universe stopped (as if it depended on this moment), as if the purpose of the universe was for these two women to look into each other. Inella’s heart pumped with formerly unknown vigor, she was enamored in a way that was regretfully painful; a pain that was agonizingly pleasant. Inella thought her heart might be growing akin to the Grinch’s, it was overwhelming. Her cheeks were flushed burgundy, Laurel’s standing reciprocation was the only signal Inella needed to continue her siege of the sand she stood still on. The moment was interrupted by a friend’s unpleasant call.
“What are you doing Inella?” Joyce called from her seat in the wheatless grains of ease. Joyce had on pure black sunglasses, but her left hand was cupped over her brow (for viewing) anyways.
“Please, Laurel come sit with us if you care to.” Inella was not shy, but she was not forthcoming. In her speech alone the universe was aligned.
“If you insist, Inella.” Laurel’s voice was sweet as bells in winter, a sweetness unknown to confectionaries and granaries, a sweetness unexplored by taffy parlors, oceans, the MIDWEST, bridges and general infrastructure, or mother’s cookies. Just having heard Laurel say Inella’s name, knees were weakened, quivering.
“Damn, sis, you look good today!” Joyce introduced herself to Laurel as flawlessly as the 2 NPC replicas could. Addimar’s dream spell fed itself flawlessly, unlike the belt of my 2005 Kia Spectra (silver in color, rusted in nature, dented in the caboose (trunk)). Inella hardly noticed the shrillness in Joyce’s voice decrease. -No, it would be a while until Inella caught on.- “I’m Joyce.”
“I’m Laurel, I do thank you for your compliment; but I’ll have you know that I can not be basted with base flattery.” Laurel’s voice was like a chocolate waterfall flowing inside a television commercial, it was graceful and wonderfully reserved. Her words congealed perfectly into edible globs, Inella was enamored with Laurel’s voice.
“The way you said that, that implies that you can be basted with other things?” Inella crept her question cautiously over the hot sand and into Laurel’s waiting arms. The thing about Inella’s situation was that the more she believed it the less it mattered what she did. Inella was so fascinated with Laurel. Inella’s fascination with Laurel led to Inella’s numbness/dumbness in the mouth. She was shy, interested, awkward, pouting, fumbling her words, incorrecting her posture, sweating from her brow, brown sand nudged under her fingernails, hope and lust were seeding in her mind, photosynthesizing with wickedly pumping hormones. Hormones invoking lust, security, friendship. Inella was tricked into feeling and doing and being by the cruelty of Addimar’s dream-spell concoction. A self feeding imagination monster, cyclical, circular, certainly sinister. Inella’s tongue felt hot cold in much the same way a tongue feels when a drop of pure mint is drop-pe-red by an un-stop-pered stopper.
“I might be.” Laurel said frankly, causally, playfully. Why is shortness always named after men? Curtly? Frankly? Anyways, Inella’s whole body shuddered in intense emotion when Laurel gave her playful response. The kind of rush some people mistake for a ghost passing through you. Joyce started laughing in a modified way; less annoying, more authentic.
“Oh my, Laurel. You just crack me up. Would you like something to drink?” Joyce turned around to grab at the cooler (a blue box with a white lid and handle, all plastic).
“Yes, please, Laurel, won’t you have a drink with us? I would consider it a tremendous favor if you drink with me right now; it would intensify the beauty, the splendor, and the pleasure of this beach, would it not?”
“Of course I will drink with the two of you. What are the drinks you’re serving?” Laurel turned her coyness up. Joyce grabbed one limearita, a vibrant green left hand, and her right hand held a blood red punch cooler. There was little discrepancy in the alcohol percentages or the flavor. Each eye of Laurel lit saucily, each flavor was enjoyable.
“Would either of these suit you?” Joyce asked politely, extending each drip drip dripping, perspiring beverage forward generously.
“I’ll take the lime, so that the sun may hit the glass and mirror the emerald of the ocean; so that Inella may enjoy the redness of the punch and have it mirror the blush of her smiling cheeks.” Laurel spoke so eloquently it hurt Inella. “You are quite beautiful when you smile.” This last part she appeared to say to herself, but it was precisely loud enough for Inella to hear.
The women lounged on the beach with the enjoyment of their liquor induced stupors, giggling about random occurrences and public blunders in their lines of sight. The sun swung high into the sky and berated untanned pigments with suggestions of darkness. The sun reached the zeitgeist of coronation in the too-blue sky. Inella felt as if she needed sunglasses to look at any part of the sky, not just the sun. The brilliance was a stun that was a beauty far away, but close enough to observe. As the lonely sun began to sag in the cloud barren sky, Laurel got up, wiping sand off of her long laying thighs. “The next round of drinks is on me, let’s find a bar to enjoy.” Laurel knew that the cooler was empty without even looking.
The dream changed into a bar at the blink of Inella’s eye. Inella was too drunk to question it. Her black hair sweated into irregular clumps that clutched her expressive (wrinkled) forehead. Inella’s vision was fuzzy, and the bartender handed her a fuzzy navel. The bartender wore a thin faux-gold plate by the back-panel enamel pinning. His name was a long-winded thing to say, so the name on his tag said “Joe” in a faux-obsidian border and letter. He was a mountain-man, the volcano was spitting kindness- the heat of distant relatives, the kind who sent you money on your birthday and Christmas.
Joe’s mustache-platitudes gave him the look of an old-timey sailor. Instead of a white cotton jump-suit with blue insignia rings he wore a black t-shirt with red cuffs at the bicep. Joe had hairy, black boxer arms.
“Can I have another?” Laurel asked the bartender for a second pina colada. His bear-fur arms reached out and set the glass on a Hawaii 5-0 coaster.
The beach was beautiful in the pink glow of unknown lateness, specificity was tossed to the side with other worries, the warm wind could do little but sweep worries away into hypothetical dust pans. The bar was called “Simosa Joe’s” after the founder, owner, and most-employed member. It was on the beach, far away from the tide lines. Thick curls of bamboo sheaf, banana leaf, and gumwood plank constructed the large tent. It was circular, and the yellow leaves of the roof moved gently with the wind, swaying like drunken children. The bar had one square, open air window located by the alcohol decorated shelves that the employees hustled around. The door was an impermanent wall of brown beads cut into the shape of waves, crabs, shells, dolphins, and starfish. A white piece of printer paper with, “no admittance unless 21 or older” in blocky black letters was laminated and stapled to one of the gumwood panels immediately in sight of the lone entrance/exit.
“Tell me something about yourself?” Laurel grabbed Inella’s attention by stroking her exposed bicep drunkenly. The movement of her pointer finger was sluggish, but it left no trail of the unpleasant. No, Laurel’s caress was working wonders on Inella’s hammering heart.
“What do you want to know?” Inella stumbled around with her words, her question sounded more like a statement by the way she said it.
“We can start from the beginning.” Laurel smiled and her next sentence was a whisper. “Beginnings can be a lot of fun. What’s the first thing you remember?”
“I remember walking in a desert, dirty and lost. I found a gas station and I went in. I met Joyce shortly after that and we became roommates.”
“That’s so interesting, I can remember things from when I was a little kid, stuff from highschool, but you can only remember until just recently. That makes you very special. To know the Hawaiian sun with such a generous ratio in your memory, it would be such a delight.” Laurel shifted meaningfully, her resting forearms on the table commanded attention with their straightening. “I grew up in Tennessee, and it was not at all pleasant. The family and the friends that I had there got me through, but everyday I was haunted with the reality of the south. I fought hard against acknowledging the truth, but every day I was dosed with a reminder of the atrocities that had happened just years ago. The blood of slaves stained the ground I stood on, its stench was pugnant in my nose.”
“That must have been awful, I’m truly sorry.” Inella said with her eyes large and watering. Laurel could tell that she was affecting Inella’s emotions. She continued on, somber.
“I’ll have to take you there someday and show you what I mean. Once we are there, it will all be clear.” Laurel discarded her forlorn demeanor, adopting a wreath of happiness to cloak her above the neck.
“I’d love to go sometime. I don’t know if I would be able to get the time off of work, but I can always quit.” Inella said jokingly.
The beach was hushing and shushing in the distance, putting birds to sleep. Green plants bowed their bulbous heads in silence; every time a leaf holds a hand it is a prayer. The sand was still; a clear border of color divided those which were wet grains, and those which were dry. A shirtless man (buff and charming) walked next to a woman in a broad white sun hat, a woman with long legs.
“Bartender, can I have two short and easy-s, quick and fast?” Laurel folded 15 dollars on the gleaming black bar, a 10 and a 5.
“-Course-Miss.” The bar-tender whip-threw the two drinks across the table. Two frothy, perspiring glasses of stocky-aluminum (a short and easy is half a beer with a shot of cherry vodka and 2 sugar packets).
Laurel gathered up the two drinks, one in each hand. “Inella?” Laurel’s voice was commanding, growing in sound by the syllable. Inella’s eyes had followed Laurel as she walked around her. All Laurel had to do was nod her head towards the door for the two of them to step into the still, still warm sand.
“Have you ever been to Hawai’i before? It’s such a lovely place.” Laurel used her free hand to wrap Inella’s neck in a self-balancing procedure. Laurel took a small slurp of her drink, not really needing it at this point; drinking for the sake of availability, for the sake of drinking itself. She was the type that always wanted her mouth to be doing something, even if it wasn’t beneficial.
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“I have never been, no. It is quite lovely though, I will admit. I mean, I’ve hardly been here a day and I feel so refreshed by the beauty and the ease of things.” Inella took a sip to mirror Laurel, her lips puckering at the sour taste.
“All that I might ever say about Hawai’i must certainly be cast in adoration. There isn’t a thing here I could critique, especially not you.” Inella froze up at Laurel’s words. Laurel looked at her with warm brown eyes and laughed. “Especially not of the sand, not of the grass, not of anything in the sky and heavens, nothing to criticize in or of the ocean.” Laurel took Inella’s cue of uncomfortability to change the subject seamlessly. “Certainly not the blowhole, oh, how I adore the blowhole. I must admit to you that of all the times I’ve been to this island I have always seen the blowhole, and it has always been my favorite part of each and every trip.” Laurel smiled kindly, her posture frozen in reservation. The bubblegum pink of the setting sun was long gone, the New York style pizza slice beams of the moon shone beautifully on Laurel’s black skin; silver trigrams, painted bracelets, and Laurel’s skin was already beautiful without the moon adding holographic highlights. Prophecies in an unreadable language. It was all coding from the evil dream spell, and it had Inella’s heart racing. Just looking at Laurel made Inella’s lips tingle, her thighs twitch.
“I would love to see the blowhole. If I’m being honest I haven’t the slightest idea what it could be, but I’d like to see it nonetheless. You give it such a strong recommendation, how could I possibly ignore your joy?”
“It joys me greatly you would want to see it. The blowhole is a piece of rock out over the waves with a round hole worn in the middle. When waves come up under the hole the water is slapped through from underneath the same way a whale might empty its blowhole. A whole blow of water right up into the air. It’s even a good excuse to look at the sky, and looking at the sky in Hawai’i is so lovely.” Laurel laughed at Inella’s dumb fascination. “I promise it is better in person. It truly is a sight to see.”
The night was a long, walking leisure. The women talked romantically, waxing poetic for unkept hours, shivering things that passed unnoticed. The bough of mutual attention was thick, impenetrable. The sand was silent and cool, the stars were staring at each other, equally in awe as we are by their faraway plentitudes.
In the morning, golden-brown bread popped fresh and hot out of the toaster with a light ding. The toast was placed on supple white plates, buttered, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. The sun was a gentle champion rising, blaring in a silent whistle. It was an unfathomable amount of miles away, but staring at it could still make you blind. To be hassled like that from such a distance… but you may need to argue irony, the sun is fundamental to all aspects of life on Earth. A planet with so many sights of beauty, such plenty paradises. Kauai was just one place on a vast world who could drown civilization in her tears if she emptied only an ocean or two. ‘Earth is much more beautiful than Panatea.’ Inella thought to herself as she laid a slice of avocado onto a sunny-side-up egg. ‘Panatea is much bloodier, more primitive. The blood that soaks the land is long dry, but the horror is still fresh. I can claim that most of that blood can be traced to my slaying hands; what horror I have wrent in my own lands, what terror I have swept Eastward as I marched to battle all the kings in their kingdoms.’ Inella had not quite realized that her subconscious was breaking through the layers of the dream spell. Laurel detected it before her, so she spoke with great haste.
“Inella, once we are done with breakfast we have to go see the blowhole, we simply must. It is so beautiful.” Inella was transfixed by Laurel as soon as she spoke.
“I do love beautiful things.” Inella nodded and gave a shy blush to accompany her word. The butterflies were flying as if in violent turbulence.
“As do I, my gentle flower, that is why I spend so much time with you after all. We compliment each other, complete one another’s beauty.”
“Oh, how you speak… it melts me. I feel like a damned cheese slice on a grilled hamburger. Nervous, over-yellow, stringy and sickly. Your words are always so wise and ripe to me, so alluring, so sensual.” Inella was largely talking to herself out loud.
“You are the moon and I am the sky, and when you wane and retire, you must hide your face in my bosom.” Inella was completely unaware of what her subconscious was trying to fight against, any inkling of an idea she had before this point was completely gone, forgotten in the presence of Laurel. “Let’s rent some scooters, come on.” The two women walked out of their room in chic sun dresses, flops, wide hats, and glasses. They walked through the courtyard with all of its bushes, cement postings, boulders, and koi ponds- out past the yellow leaf trees and on to the road where a small tent was pitched up next to a wooden trailer. The man who was renting the scooters had most of them outside in the rising sunshine. The equipment was in the trailer, some of the more high end scooters were under the black tent, as well as a cash box on a cheap wooden desk and a cardboard sign that displayed rental prices.
The women were on their way in no time. The mopeds could go about 20 mph, 30 if you were going down a hill. Wind pushed Inella’s hair up underneath her hat, making it look flat and gravity defying. For a while they rode on the side of the road. Cars passed them going roughly double their speed. A couple of times Inella swallowed extra hard because she thought a car was going to swerve into her, but the two of them were fine. Eventually they turned on to a less busy road, enjoying the view of the coconut trees and other various foliage. As they headed north on the island it began to rain. The rain was warm, so it was somewhere between being welcoming and a nuisance. The wide leaves of the forest caught the water, letting it roll between lines and dimples.
The rain was sly, sliding down sleeves, bare arms. The two reached a steep hill by way of the road, and the incline made the engines of the mopeds whine extra hard. The rain hit them at an angle, dampening new splotches; after all, the rain was light, thin, and gentle. Birds scattered and held gawking caucasus of cacophonic crowing; they were plenty. Feathers of smooth tropical colors, green, yellow, blue, and red. The two women turned a corner, went down the road a bit, then pulled over into a parking area. The gravel was incarcerated in clay and melting dirt. They parked the mopeds standing and walked out towards the brushes where they could see the water of the coast. There was no blowhole.
“It must be further down the road, we’ll have to keep going.” Laurel spoke and Inella was stirred. It was as if she had forgotten the sound of her voice during the road. ‘Why?’ Inella thought to herself. ‘Why would I forget her voice so fast?’ It didn’t really matter. The two women smiled at each other, and Laurel led Inella to buzz down the wet pavement of the yellow striped road.
The sun was fair in the sky and the rain was absent on this slice of the island, as they had driven far enough north to escape it; it had been there earlier, but the clouds were passing south, working opposite the direction the way the ladies had traveled. Inella and Laurel reparked their mopeds, standing like patient dogs waiting for a command. The brown-red clay dirt of the ground was moist and shining. Your shoe would leave a legible footprint, one that would last no more than a day by rite of circumstance. Heavy boulders parked in wind-swayed grasses dotted the path down to the water like a sparse Easter Egg Hunt, one of sizable prizes. “How do you suppose these got here? It looks as if an architect had planned it, the way the rocks are so evenly spaced out.” Inella asked Laurel, and not the well bellied man in the red hat and sunglasses with a metal walking stick who was walking up towards them at the head of the trail. This man looked as content as most were when they saw what Inella would soon see.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Perhaps a posse of giants were playing bocce ball with them so many years ago.” Laurel winked at Inella to conclude her playful answer.
“I quite like that idea, but were they natives to this island?” Inella decided to play along with the ruse.
“No, I don’t believe so. Giants who know how to swim can get here easily, the way that they can paddle through the waves is faster than a speedboat, I’m sure.” Laurel did a petite quarter turn and soaked in the distant clouds with an intermediate glance. “Won’t you accompany me down to the blowhole?” Laurel held out her hand for a holding reciprocation in obvious decorum. Inella took a gentle grasp of Laurel’s hand and the two crossed the vestibule (marked by a wooden sign) together.
From the first few steps, all that could be seen down below was the beginnings of the rocky outcrop. The sharp and jagged daggers of slick gray rock were whet black by the ocean. The sun and the clouds, the sky, ocean, and trail with its grasses, boulders, and mud were a pleasant bundle to behold. Their tandems were beautiful relationships, dazzling synergy.
Inella and Laurel watched together at the bottom of the trail. Out a few yards further was the blowhole. It sprayed rhythmically with the heavy waves. Inella wondered how many years it took for the water to wear a round hole in the rock like that. ‘It would be a lot faster with magic.’ Inella thought to herself, admitting a former truth and missing it by accident.
“It really is something to see.” Inella stated while the stark beauty caused her voice to waver. Inella looked over at Laurel during a pause between waves, averting her eyes from the emptiness between the moving bridges of water. Inella looked at Laurel’s predetermined settings, the perfectly content smile on the doves of her lips- it was the unrealized trickery of the dream spell. Inella felt intense emotions. Laurel seemed to detect the sudden sodden tensing of Inella in her rain-wet clothes (because she did, she was a malicious observer, a succubus tasked with wasting Inella’s time for an eternity of distraction).
“What is it?” Laurel reached out and hugged Inella, some of the rain drops transferred between them, loans of clear pennies trawling.
“I don’t know, I feel like I shouldn’t be here for some un-apparent reason.” This is the moment that would cause Laurel to hastily plan, for this was a moment of misunderstanding. Inella felt the best she ever had in the dream spell, meaning that she was fully inoculated by the long needle the dream spell had in her neck. Inella was in a beautiful place and having a wonderful time. Her voice did not reflect her happiness properly and Laurel heard “feel like I shouldn’t be here” like a cannon of war. Laurel interpreted those words as knowledge. Laurel thought that Inella knew she was in the dream spell. Laurel immediately made a plan to erase Inella’s memory.
“Come with me, you haven’t done the best part of all this yet.” Laurel walked out onto the rocks. Slick, slippery silver rows, unsmelted ingots of milky white deposits, and wave-worn creases in the black rock were the beauty that Laurel stood on, the opaque black rocks that Inella ran towards; and ran too fast. When Inella got her first foot on the rock Laurel reached out to help stabilize Inella. Instead of goodwill there was malice in this practice, Laurel pulled Inella close, and both of them slipped. The two women fell, limbs tangled together, but Laurel managed to slam her elbow on Inella’s head so that it hit the rock first with the full impact of their combined weight and momentum. When Inella awoke, she was in a hospital in Tennessee, a wad of gauze around her head in several places, her black hair tinted by blots of dried blood. Laurel was by her side, seeming to be completely uninjured except from the shallow rows of scratches on her shins.
Somewhere in a far away hotel room on the island, Joyce and the burly-armed bar-man were standing a few feet apart. They had flirted at the bar while Inella was there as a cover-up for Joyce passing off Inella to Laurel. They were fully-clothed, but they made sex-noises in case Inella heard. Inella clearly had no chance of hearing, as she was in Tennessee now, but the program of the dream spell ran the scam all the same.
Inella and Laurel were in a hospital in Whitesville, Tennessee. Laurel went on an expansive monologue about Whitesville, and the city next to it, Brownsville.
WHITESVILLE VS BROWNSVILLE
“WHITESVILLE is a place where W
H
I
T
E
People live. These are two sister-cities in Tennessee, WHITESVILLE and BROWNSVILLE are conjoined by a segregated cemetery. I’ll spare you the name, easier for you to forget all else I’m bound to say in this perfect box. For what is to come is hard to digest, steak in the guts, packed meatballs. I fear there is no evacuation, no gag; it is my despair that I must announce the lack of remedy for my story. It will leave a foul taste in your mouth, poison, durian, or duck (choose one of the three). The place is a mistake, a regret; a place that I have been more times than I care to admit. For what is a place in 2019 USA other than a box? A box with lines and limits. Such vane frippery, these constructs! For the land of 2019 USA has its divisions. There are great canyons (grand ones even), swamps, rivers (and their rivulets), there are vast plains (crawling with mice), forests like rain, and forests like proud pine, there are horrible deserts (which are beautiful hikes), there are places that never see snow, and there are places that keep snow the entire year round. Yes BROWNSVILLE is a place that B
R
O
W
N people lived. The racial history of the south is not something to be ignored in the context of Tennessee. The thing is, when you consider the south, the racism is obvious. This is not to say that racism wasn’t obvious in the north, and the west within various systems and at different capacities. The same golden trophies of modern oppression hang on the mantles of each state. Consider Washington and Tennessee; the places we come from. Each state has a school to prison pipeline that is judged by the wholly racist judicial system, each state has millions of microtransactions of race each day. Microtransactions that are mono-racial, bi-racial, tri-racial, you name it. White people saying “Those are some nice shoes, did you steal them?” To a black person. Someone they may know, someone that mayhaps is a stranger. It doesn’t matter. It’s all too intense, inconsistent, too variable to be calculated. At the end of the day what does the south mean? I can tell you what it means. For a long time (and only up until recently did this stop) if a white person said to a black person something racist in BROWNSVILLE it would undoubtedly be packed with the gun-powder of ‘The “N” Word,’ and this is not to discount the rest of the USA. No, slurs are cast in all 50 states every day, that’s not what’s important. What is important is the freshness of the wounds. Look at the south in the time that it was a place of hurting, it was hundreds of years (Slavery, Civil War, Jim Crow, New Jim Crow). It has only been healed for what? How many years do you dare to say? Because MLK marched in Selma, and that is the south. One can only imagine how all this pain might seep into the wounded land and rot, or wriggle amongst the cracks of the sidewalks, or crystallize into resentment. Resentment is felt, and for some, there is a daily sadness when dreams are broken. For this sadness translates to a pressure like a backpack of bricks once Kalia Brown steps outside. Kalia Brown wears glasses and has short, natural Afro-Caribbean hair, she is proud of her skin. Kalia’s grandma knew Rosa Parks. Kalia’s grandmother, Doris Green lived through the Civil Rights era. Doris Green also got called ‘The “N” Word’ when she was on the train… yesterday! So, when do we say “racism” died? Like it was some beast we could defeat? We don’t treat “racism” like the incalculable amount of interactions that it is. So, how many years do we dare say the south has been healed? That’s not what’s important, there’s no trophy with an engraving that reads “nasty racism defeated,” there’s no cure with a pill bottle prescription reading “take two a day with food and you shouldn’t be racist for the full time you’re awake or whatever, but if you’re asleep, you'll probably have racist dreams.” There are monuments of KKK members everywhere in the south, and Confederate generals (I wonder how many of those overlap). But that’s not what’s important.
What’s important is that the beautiful flowers are for white people as far back as 1890 (that I saw), and the black people have their graves in the line of forest, their monuments to history of existence are unkempt. There’s no salaried person to cut lawn, water, weed, trim, or prune. No one to do a Goddamn thing about the graves of more than several black US citizens from (presumably) BROWNSVILLE, Tennessee. Not one single thing at all whatsoever, say no more about it. But the white people from WHITESVILLE (presumably) have their pretty garden. Yes, the white people have their expensive gravestones on their kempt lawns, layered with wreaths of chrysanthemum, forget-me-not, rhododendron, rose, daisy, name it and it is there, pretty and perky and bound to die as all flowers are when they are born, when they are cut. Born to die like all things, and be near the dead in their graves; death near death.”
This is only one example. This is one history of racism and ignorance in a particular place that has endured for years. The sheets of the hospital bed that Inella lay in were sweaty. A white bracelet with numbers and letters was comfortably loose on Inella’s left wrist. Laurel was sitting down as she had started, but she took turns standing and pacing importantly. The hurried tempo, the vigor of Laurel’s storytelling? It caught Inella like a chant. She took it all in and had to consider it. There was a long pause, and Laurel sulked in the corner. She took out a cell phone and texted someone. Inella saw, but wasn’t curious enough to ask about it.
“Why don’t they rename the cities?” Inella finally asked.
“I think that, if the cities were to be renamed, people would have an excuse to forget about the atrocities that took place. There are a lot of people who want to forget.” An older woman with a striking resemblance to Laurel walked in. Her wrinkly black hand clutched either side of the door, swinging it open gently and waiting in the vestibule. The woman made a considering gaze, looking at Inella. As her vision swept away, she shone a familiar smile upon Laurel.
“Hey, pokey. How you doin?” The woman asked gently. Her voice was soft and long, her syllables drawn out like model legs.
“I’m doing okay momma, ain’t got much besides scratches. It’s Inella here who is really hurtin’.”
“I can see that.” The woman looked directly at Inella and asked her, “what happened, child?”
“Honestly, I can’t really remember. We were looking at the blowhole and I think we both slipped on the rocks. I must have been out for a long time since I woke up here, in Tennessee.”
“Poor soul, you must be hurtin’ so bad. My name is Clara, and if you be needin’ anythin’ all you gotta do is let me know, now.” Clara gave a bright smile that made the gently buzzing overhead lights seem dim by comparison.
“Thank you, I appreciate that. I’m not sure what exactly you can do for me though.”
“Well, do you have a place to stay once you get outta this joint?”
“I suppose I don’t, at that.”
“Well, you can stay with Laurel and I long as you need, long as you like.” Clara went over to Laurel and gave her a hug. “I gotta be goin’ now, I have a nursery to attend to.” Clara waved goodbye and shut the door as gently as she had opened it.
“I didn’t expect to meet your parents so soon, well, ‘parent’ I should say.” Inella said in a joking tone.
“Well, it is just my momma, my daddy joined the military and died overseas; all they sent us home was a flag folded into a triangle. What’d you think of her?” Laurel fixed her skirt with a crinkle smoothing motion.
“She seems incredibly nice, especially if she runs a nursery. And the likeness between you two is uncanny, certainly.” Inella smiled, although it hurt her jaw and cheek and lips to smile.
Laurel played idly with a box of tissues that had been beside the bed, flipping it over continuously in her hands. “Yeah, she has a lot on her hands running that nursery all by herself. Most days she is taking care of at least six little babies. What with diapers, feeding, and hushing them when they cry, I’m surprised she ever gets out the house.” It seemed like the southern twang of Tennessee had crept back into Laurel’s voice. To Inella, Laurel even sounded like her mother.
“You got a job down here?” Inella asked, her hands folded on her laying lap, patiently awaiting an answer.
“I am a travel agent.” Laurel smiled, “it makes it easy to travel to all the places I like, so I fancy the position I currently hold. It’s taken me all over the world. You know, if you wanted to, we could go on another trip. Just you and I, Aquemini.”
“That would be lovely, but I’m not sure what ‘Aquemini’ means?” Inella shook out a crick in her neck, her hair played a low note on the pillow like a quiet violin.
“Oh, it’s not important. What’s important is where you want to go.” Laurel handed Inella her phone, “why don’t you search up some places you might want to go.” Inella took the phone and scrolled through some options: Texas, Mexico, Italy, and Egypt. “I’m going to go into work for a while, but I’ll come visit you when I get back. In the meantime you should get some rest.”
Inella sat in the hospital room by herself with nothing but wandering thoughts for close to an hour drifting in and out of a light, dreamless sleep. She thought about all the places she could remember: Arizona, Washington, Hawaii, and now Tennessee. The list was short, and something about that felt off to Inella. As if queued by Inella’s negative thoughts her doctor came through the door with a quick tapping, a preliminary knock on the blue steel of the door.
“How are you feeling? You look to have recovered markedly in the time since you’ve been here.” The doctor’s name was Malcolm Smith and he had a well-trimmed beard, glasses, and horrible handwriting. In his cryptic scrawl, he recorded Inella’s response to his question.
“I still have a dull and constant headache, but most other parts of my body feel fine. I would very much like to get out of this bed soon and move around. I grow so restless sitting here with nothing beside the pittance of my scattered thoughts.” Inella gave a half-smile that resembled a waning moon.
“I’m glad to hear that you’re feeling better. I came in to let you know that the last dose of the medication you’ve been taking will come with your supper tonight, the nurse should bring it here soon.” The doctor smiled awkwardly and left the room. Unknown to Inella, the medication that she would be offered was not to help her, but to keep her permanently in the hospital. It was a cruel tactic, but it was effective. The purpose of the dream spell was to keep Inella out of the real world for as long as possible. In having this intention, the dream spell justified all of its own means. Whether Inella was happy and traveling, sad and working, or any other combination of things, it didn't matter. At the moment, the plan of the dream spell was to inundate Inella with the perceived reality of sickness. It was a malicious plan, the medicine she thought was making her better was the thing that was actually making her worse. It was a proud mistake that would lead to the collapse of the dream spell and the loss of a piece of Inella’s sanity.
“Hey there, sweetheart. How’re you doing?” Jan, Inella’s long-time nurse, popped in the door.
Such a heavy door, cold to
the touch and thick as two
bottle caps held ridge to
ridge in carefully balancing
fingers. Outside the door
was the open blackness of
space, the freezing,
unforgiving emptiness,
an impenetrable blankness,
a dark fabric never to be
sewn by a needle or teased
by the pulling of a finger,
no hammer could hit it,
no saw could cut it.
Yet inside the door there
was also nothing, because
the dream spell traps its
prisoners in an internal
torture of delay and idling.
“I’m doing okay, the doctor told me you have medicine for me?” Inella laid up, adjusting her stiff neck and crunching her shoulders up and down in a failed attempt to become comfortable.
“I sure do, suga.” The nurse set the tray she was carrying down on the table that was connected to the hospital bed, so that it was in easy reach of Inella. The tray had five compartments which were separated by red, plastic ridges. The middle compartment was the largest and held the main course of Inella’s dinner: two chicken breasts covered in gravy and peas. The compartment on the upper left corner had a dixie cup with Inella’s medication in it, two oval-shaped pills. The other compartments had un-canned peaches, broccoli and cauliflower, and a whole grain roll. The meal looked exactly as you would picture a hospital meal, but Inella was happy to have it. Lately, when she had been eating, her jaw gave off a sharp pain with each chewing bite, but the curing of her hunger was well worth the biting pain.
“Anything else I can get ya?” The nurse stood meekly with her empty hands folded across her chest.
“I’m fine, thank you.” Inella said as she picked up a metal fork and began to cut into the chicken. The gravy covered the peas at their perimeters, but did not top most like wet hats; it made them harder to roll about like peas are so often inclined to do. After a few bites of various foods, Inella took the medication and immediately became drowsy. In her dreams Inella was flying in a cloudless sky the gross green of algae. She did not have wings, but rather levitated by uncertain devices; it made perfect sense to her as she dreamt it. This is the way dreams are, soliciting the greatest measures of our human ignorance. There was no objective that Inella sped towards, there was no enemy Inella ran from. Inella seemed to be flying for the sake of possibility, or maybe because of the ease at which she could achieve this possibility; being in a dream, her muscles extolled no effort in soaring.
Inella looked down and saw a black ocean. Without a sun in the sky, the water beneath her was ominous and undefined. The waves chopped against each other in various dysrhythmic beatings, there was no life that she could see towards the top of the waves. Not a single fish swimming, nor bird hunting. She alone was the life that she could see. The blackness of the water was too dense for her vision to penetrate, but it felt as if there weren’t any fish at all, even deep beneath the waves.
The green sky may have lacked clouds, but all of a sudden there was an emptiness in the shape of 6 letters written into the canvas of the heavens. Inella had to fly at a lower altitude to read the word, feeling suddenly farsighted. As she brought herself closer to the cacophony of waves beneath she felt a hungry humming. Fear beat like drums in all the fleshy parts of her body and in each folding crevice of her mind. Something was not right. Something was very wrong. She looked up into the sky to read the word, “escape” which struck with horror the mortal chords of her being. As she read, the waves parted in a frothy circle beneath her. A leviathan with ten-thousand eyes, and twenty four thousand teeth opened its despicable maw to swallow Inella whole. Vast purple scales stacked together the giant body in sets of plate armor. Tendrils and alien appendages were scored in countless numerals across the long, sleek body of the monster. Each tentacle was longer than a whip and poised to grip or strike. Inella tried to fly higher but the thing beneath her had breached the surface of the water with swift and horrible speed. Inella screamed as she flew, speeding towards the word “escape,” and as it got closer, she could see less of it. Just as the beast was sure to swallow her whole, Inella woke with a sweat on her brow.
“Are you alright? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost?” Laurel sat by Inella’s side with her hand placed gently on Inella’s, her thumb slowly stroking back and forth. Inella had no idea how long she had been asleep. It had felt to her like a brief dream, but those are sometimes the longest.
“Oh, I dreamt of horrible things, I can hardly remember them now, they are quickly fading horrors.” Inella was aghast, pale as the sheets she was bedridden upon.
“Well, I’m here now, so you don’t have anything to worry about. I had such a busy day, it made me unfortunately late to the hospital to see you, but now all can be tame and calm.
“If you say that all is well, then surely all must be well. I can rely on you as steadily as the sun keeps rising and its sisterly moon continues to wax and wane.” Inella crossed her fingers over her laying bodice.
“I appreciate your flattery to no end. Every time I hear a compliment from you I am so surprised, you are ever the beauty, and it is delightful to hear any sweet word drip from your lip.”
“I am hectic as a bee colony if my words do be honey to your ears. I lay here all the day by, and I think only of my eventual escape. If I have to stay here another week I will not know what to do with myself.”
“I wish you would feel better, so that we might away. I will take you somewhere extravagant and beautiful once you are able.”
“Ah, I wish I would feel better too, but it might be too much to ask so fast. How long have I been here, anyways? I feel so suddenly unsure of time.”
“You’ve been in this hospital for three days, love, don’t worry about it. Most people spend much longer than that if they aren’t here and gone within the first day.”
“That’s a silly thing to do, take the first day away. If all you are saying is that day 2 and 3 are less common departures than 4+, of course it would be so. Such a thing is so painfully obvious you had no reason, and therefore I have no idea of why you spake it.” Inella’s rudeness was unfounded, and shocked Inella because she didn’t think it was her who said it; but it was her, it was her subconscious fighting back against the dream spell and its illusions. Laurel was taken aback by the stark comment.
“Surely you can speak sweet again to me, my love. I will not want to stay if you are going to hold ill-feelings towards me.” Laurel looked particularly wounded as she gave her single, tear causing rebuttal.
“Then leave.” Inella said it with cold certainty, once again to her own surprise. She tried to apologize but she could not get the word sorry to form. “I’ll not have you sore my eyes with your presence.” Inella was worse off than when she’d started. Laurel was acting hurt and could not see the panicked look in Inella’s eyes. If Laurel would have only seen how scared Inella looked then perhaps things would not have gone the way that they did.
“How dare you. Surely you are consumed with some evil spirit, or diseased with some reckless destroyer. Surely you would not speak to me as such if you were of sound body and mind. Therefore I will leave you immediately, so that I can heal the wounds you have caused me.” Laurel made a sharp turn and headed out of the room.
Inella’s immediate reaction was to get up and follow Laurel, but her feet were tangled in the sheets as she tried to escape the bed. Working her hands against the twisted linens, rolling them down like socks, Inella put her feet on the cold linoleum floor. Her stride was not stable, her unpracticed legs shook terribly as she walked, but she made it to the door in a falling motion. Inella grabbed onto the handle of the door and pulled herself up steadily. Once she was fully erect she opened the heavy door and took a step outside.
There was nothing.
Inella was expecting to see the rest of the hospital, but instead she saw an endless expanse of formless white color that congealed on all sides of the door and flowed infinitely into empty space. Inella was blinded by the absence of color. She took a sightless step forward, slow and cautious.
“You’re not supposed to be out here.” The doctor from earlier said. “Go back in your room.”
“No.” Inella stood still as the doctor walked towards her. The doctor put a firm grip on Inella’s arm, but when Inella pushed the doctor away with her free hand he dissipated into quietly falling specks of ash. This vanishing act only added to Inella’s confusion. Next came the nurse from earlier who hustled towards Inella with angry clacks of her shoes on what should have been a floor. Inella braced herself for the impact of the nurse like a football player would, but as soon as Inella touched the nurse she vaporized the same way the doctor had.
“What’re you doing out here?” Laurel appeared out of thin air and confronted Inella with a peeved tone. Inella meant to say that she was worried and looking for Laurel, she meant to say that she was confused, but relieved to see Laurel.
Instead of saying this, Inella said: “I’m here to end this.” Her voice rang out as cold and true as a steel bell. Laurel did not hesitate to blast Inella with a fireball. At this moment Inella was no longer worried about Laurel, or apologetic; at this moment, Inella let her subconscious take over completely. Magic that had long been idle in the dream spell ran through Inella, giving her the familiar feeling of electricity in her veins. Inella countered the fireball easily with a conjured sheet of glass that slipped up between Inella’s face and the fireball. The heat made Inella blush.
To her, it was a familiar high. It wasn’t until Inella struck back with a bolt of lightning that she began to put the pieces together above her subconscious. She wasn’t supposed to be here- none of this was real. She was a witch from Leired, and she would defeat all who opposed her. Right now it was Laurel, whoever or whatever she was.
Laurel dodged the lightning with a lithe side step and retaliated with a fissure that she intended to make Inella fall through. Inella was too quick, and summoned a bank of air to float upon safely above the fissure, the nothingness inside a greater nothing. More than making the wind to keep her afloat, Inella also manifested a javelin out of the great beyond and hurled it towards Laurel. Laurel did not dodge this time, but instead made a stone wall in front of her that the javelin clattered off of with a metallic thud. Laurel punched pieces of the wall out at Inella, sending fist sized projectiles of tightly packed sediment. Inella made great waves of rushing water to swallow the rocks, and to swallow Laurel too. Laurel had no ready defense for the massive amount of water, so she became trapped up to the neck in the unsettled motion of the newborn waves.
“Who are you, really? I will kill you if you lie to me, keep that in mind as you answer.” Inella was her old self, her voice chilled and steady.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, suga.” Laurel combust into thin smoke and heavily raining ash the same as the doctor and nurse had. Inella was left in the vast, empty white space alone with the swirling water she had created. She let her hand trail down to her side and the water disappeared too. Tired, she sat down. She contemplated how she was going to escape this unknown space. She did not click her heels together, but she thought of home and there she went.