Short story - Outcastings I


dedicated to Shelley


I don't know how she dreams but the faces seem clear.


Her room is inhabited by 19th century white cloth, brown furniture arriving decades later and sundial mossed over with the patina of cognition. There's a small ceramic based bonsai pot plant. She stays and dreams here when the night finally gets home.

The face for the last stints of sleep was handsome, brown, young, black hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard. This face can't hear her as yet.

Night has left for the day and the dreams collapse at a busstop, slumped on a steel seat with headphones buzzing bass.

She is shocked and is moved to speak. "Hello I just want to say something" she speaks moving her head to get his attention.

He removes his headphones. "I have seen you in my dreams and have drawn your face a few times. I want to just look at your face for a while." she trusted in the accepting and happy nature of the young.

"Yes sure" he said.

In the five minutes before the bus came the two were enveloped in hermetic dream. The symmetry of cheekbones, the round flash of eyes, the localised whorls of hair. Perception played sleight of hand when the two hopped on the bus whose windows were sore with sweat and faces finding themselves.

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