Flood

Father sky sends drips and drops and deluge but the bridge remains steadfast. Angry currents rush beneath the cement foundation, hissing against the grassy bank, thwarted in an escape from the predestined path.
She stands in the middle of the treacherous swell, my sister, the icy froth to her thighs and slowly climbing. Furniture floats in her grasp, all colors, mint bookcase, cerulean armoir, red-rose chair. I wonder that she doesn't grip the edges of the rainbow suite, and I scream that time is of the essence. She can't hear me.
Or she doesn't want to.
The splash of tears swirls with cold rain on my cheek, my admonition carried away by the sprites on the wind and all is silent, silent, silent.

I open my eyes to the interior of a leasing cottage, flooded, the water deep enough to cover the tips of my shoes.
"Ready?" A voice behind me.
It is Alesha, and this is to be our new home, creeping brown stains now our nearest and dearest companion.
"You're sure about this?" Already the sour pungence of drowned carpet is threatening.
"We get to stay one night, just to try it out," Alesha prods.
I concede without protest, in a daze, only aware that one night is too long in a place like this while the winter air burns my rain-soaked skin.

The dark comes but my eyes open wider, straining for a way out. I try the door only to realize there is no escape, a lock on every outlet, no window or door left unchecked.
I glance at Alesha.
She sleeps, haphazardly lying on the dining room table, and I vaguely wonder why she didn't take the bed. Something urges me to let her rest, that she will be of more use to me if I do. But the blackness is becoming palpable, the steely fingers of panic pulling at the edge of the dark room.
"Daylight, daylight, I beseech thee, come quickly." The words fall from silent lips, vanishing snowflakes in the November chill of midnight.

And finally, sun bursts through the faded frilly curtains and Alesha bounds awake, energy popping from her like electricity.
"Let's go! I'm sold!"
Taking my hand she leads me to the next room, bare but for the plain desk and pre-PC era computer taking up most of the metal surface. Behind it stands the agent, gangly and pale with a shock of orange hair like the fires of ancient Rome.
No words, but she motions to the chairs in front of her without ceremony and I slowly sink to the cold pine seat. I hear my father's voice as he warns against this place. I wish I could see him so I would feel safe.

And then I woke up.

Blue Desert

Another dream...

Two weeks from now I am moving, but where I’m going I know not. Neither do I know who will help me move all of my belongings, for my current roommate and best friend has already packed all of her things and gone away from me. I head back to the bed where my current boy toy resides, all dark skin and hair and eyes. I lament my lack of help, mourning the loss of strong men in the world and then I hurry to answer my cell phone in the other room. I get a strict verbal lashing from my parents, a scolding for not being able to find any good friends in the world, ones who will stick by and help me when the world calls for true friends. Suddenly Boy Toy and one of his chocolate friends appear beside me and offer the service of their incredibly thick arms. I accept with nary a token refusal. One can never have too many men with guns.

Soon I leave the yellow-wallpapered flat behind and take up residence in a nearby mall, one that provides room, board, work, and a meal ticket to the expansive food court. Everywhere I go I notice Amazonian women, tall, with shoulders like men and boxy clothes that don’t flatter in color or style. I wonder if a drag show takes place after hours in one of the many theatres, and I begin to wonder if perhaps I might get a job in one of the dramatic theatres myself. Indeed there is a musical theatre a few steps from my hotel room door and I prepare for my audition with much vigor.
And then there he is as I stand by the staircase to run lines with the wall. Eyes like a violet sunset, skin like the Sahara, a deliciously full mouth and I ache to trail my finger down the marble edge of his jaw. I am instantly in love and I wonder at the fact that I can see his entire face. My dreams usually hide the visage of the men I fall for. He just stares, and my knees buckle as I sink to the floor, the taffeta of my ridiculous Victorian-era costume in a tangle around my feet and I feel the heat of embarrassment on the tips of my ears. He walks closer, offers to teach me how to dance, says he knows my part in the play calls for it. I accept but don’t ask his name. That would spoil the mystery and I like the tickle of forbidden love in my blood.
I see him throughout the next few days, but never do we speak. Never do I ask him to dance. His skin touches mine, once, as I sit on a bench to watch people and contemplate my uncharacteristic loneliness. I see him approach and he reaches out to me, silently, and I take his hand and almost flinch at the fire in his fingertips. His eyes burn sapphire into mine and I hold his hand until he walks away, the edges of our fingers gripping frantically to prolong the hot contact. My mouth aches as if he has kissed me, bruised me with his teeth.
Then one day he asks me to dance with him, and tells me the time to meet him at his room, as he lives in the mall, too. I have no idea he was so close and thrill to the knowledge of what might happen when his body presses against mine as twilight dawns. I ask my only friend, Ebony, the head maid, for the master key in case I lose mine in the throes of impending passion.

Only once do I fly, and as I work the flight I receive a vicious ferret bite and a passenger with no seat, only to be discovered during takeoff. I thank God that I can walk out that day and leave such drama behind. After all, I have the dance lessons to look forward to.
And then I woke up. Sadly.