Category: surrealism

Home To 2020

~ bookstrong ~ 4 Comments

Stella is silent. I struggle to stay awake. Oh, so tired. The cool breeze has stopped. I feel the humidity. My skin is slick, and the sheet under me is damp. I’m tempted to turn on the fans, there are three in the room, but then i won’t be able to hear Stella’s story.

I wonder why she’s quiet. It’s seven after midnight. She whispered my name twice. Camille.. Camille. I made the mistake of asking questions out loud. I should have kept quiet.

I roll over on to my left side. I can see the full moon through the east window. It’s gorgeous, and it makes me happy despite the heat.

Then i hear, Camille, are you ready?

I answer yes, and leave it at that.

Stella Sunflower says, good. Tonight we’re going to try something different. You’ll be the first guest at Madeleine’s Inn to hear the story this way.

I think, this isn’t how i heard it would be. When my grandmother came here in 1946, the sunflowers narrated the stories. But Stella did day this is the first time. And this is 2058, not 1946. Things change.

Yes. I’m listening.

Good, come to the east window, and look at the moon. Don’t look down into the sunflower garden. You’ll awaken the other flowers. I’m the only one up.

I get up and put on my robe. I’d rather not because i could slice the humidity like french bread, but i won’t stand nude in front of a window.

Stella says, now, Camille, close your eyes.

I look up, then close my eyes. I hear more sunflower whispers. I thought they were asleep.

Camille? Are you listening? You need to focus. The other flowers dream out loud. I don’t want you to get the tales confused. That’s dangerous.

The sunflowers’ dreams are a low hum, like bees talking in a hive. I try to block it out. It’s a sleepy sound. I want to rock slowly back and forth. If i’m not careful, i’ll go into a trance.

Open your eyes, Camille, but take care not to look into the garden.

I open my eyes to see that the moon has turned chartreuse, and it’s smiling at me. It’s a loving smile. The sunflowers below hum louder, their dreams more vivid.

Wait! I know that smile. It’s my grandmother’s!

I think this, but don’t say it out loud. Stella knows, and says,

You recognize her, don’t you, Camille. When she passed away, she left your world and came to ours. She has lived happily here for forty two years.

I say, but that’s longer than i’ve been alive.

Then i remember i’m supposed to listen, not talk, then it dawns again that this is 2058 not 2020. Gran died in 2016. Time travel is fun, but tricky.

It’s hard not to ask to talk to her, but i don’t dare. I have to follow the rules.

Stella says,

Your grandmother has a gift for you, Camille. It’s only for you.

The sunflowers continue to hum their dreams. I feel a cool, silky breeze. A raven soars upside down past my grandmother moon. I begin to sway to the hum. I close my eyes again and feel a drop of rain fall on my cheek.

I sit in the rocker by the window. I let the drowsiness take over. As i drift away, my grandmother moon says goodnight. Stella Sunflower says, sleep well, Camille. You need your rest. Your journey will be long. You can dream your story.

Even as i drift, i think, wait, this isn’t what i wanted. It’s not what i came thirty eight years into the future for. And my grandmother is here, and i need to sleep. Maybe in the morning…

*****

I awaken in the rocking chair by the window in my room. Not my room at Madeleine’s in Six Rubies, but in my own bedroom in Portland, Oregon. How did i get here? I know i didn’t dream the sunflowers. I was there. I saw my Gran in the sky. She was the chartreuse moon. She never told me the sunflowers dream out loud, but they do. It’s the most beautiful sound. It put me to sleep, and i missed the story i went to the inn to hear.

I look around. This room looks the same as it did when i left 2020 day before yesterday. There are three dresses laid across the bed that i was going to pack before i decided against taking them. My bed is perfectly made. The book on my nightstand, Hocus Pocus, by Kurt Vonnegut, is still turned over, i check, yes, open to page fifty three.

I open my bedroom door and walk down the hall to my living room. The TV is on. I thought i turned it off before i left, but it’s still playing Russian Doll. I put a hand to my forehead. Nope. No fever. My curtains are wide open. I always close them before i leave if i’ll be gone more than a day.

I notice the cat first. She’s sitting on the coffee table looking at me like i’m the world’s biggest fool. But then don’t cats always look at us humans like that? Funny thing is, i don’t have a cat. She’s gorgeous. A calico with striking green eyes.

I say, where did you come from, little kitty? Again, that look. You’re kidding me, right? Then i swear she rolls her eyes at me.

Then i notice a pile of mail sitting on the center couch cushion.

I freeze, and my heart pounds. Is this really my apartment?

Yes, i decide. Yes it is. But another human has definitely been in here and left me a cat and my mail. A lot more mail than two days’ worth.

Kitty jumps on to the couch, sits next to the mail pile, and places her right front paw on the top piece. Then she looks at me like, come on.. you know what to do.

I walk over to the couch and take the top envelope. It’s old fashioned light blue stationery with pink tulips painted on the closed flap. And on the back, an address label with a sunflower on it.

I gulp, and my heart pounds faster. It’s postmarked from Six Rubies, with a date.. August 20, 2025…

Mary Raynes

Sunflower Stories

~ bookstrong ~ 9 Comments

I lie in bed, and i listen and wait. I turned off the fans, and i have all three windows open wide. The moon is full, and it’s hot. The crickets must be too tired and hot to sing. There’s only the fitted sheet on the bed, and i lie on top. No sheet or blanket over me. I don’t want to melt into a sweat puddle. No distractions unless i count the humidity, which i will myself to ignore. I want to hear the story when it begins.

The Innkeeper says it happens at midnight Friday morning. That doesn’t seem like the appropriate time for an event like this, but i have no say in it. It seems like it should be a weekend thing. You know, a Saturday thing.

There are three hundred sunflowers in the Inn’s garden. They bloom in July and August, again in November and December, and again in March and April. During the months in between, they sleep. They need the rest after so many late nights telling tales tall and not. Innkeeper says they’re immortal. Slumber for them, but no death. Time and Fate made sure of that centuries ago. The golden and brown beauties have been here longer than the Inn. They drink in rain when it comes. Their nourishment is stories, mostly those they tell, but they also listen carefully to the guests and goddesses

I’m here to listen and learn. My grandmother told me about the sunflowers when i was seven. From then on, i couldn’t get enough. Every time i visited, i wanted more about them, and more and more. I think Gran worried about me for awhile. She worried i was obsessed. But she enjoyed talking about them as much as i loved hearing their stories. She said each flower has a name and her own personality. Even Eris, the Goddess of Discord, loves them, and would never cause trouble for one.

I asked Gran if they’re always as nice as they are beautiful, and she said they are, but sometimes they tell sad or scary stories.

I’m here at Madeleine Six Rubies Inn to see and hear for myself. It’s quarter to midnight Thursday night, August 15th 2058. I came through time, and checked in here yesterday. I’m in Room 42. It’s the same room my Gran stayed in when she was here in August of 1946. I tried to make it here in 2016, but i didn’t make it. My flight was cancelled. You only get one shot every five years, and that’s if you have the right connections, both in flights, and people you know. I have no say in that either. It’s Fate. I’ll get to that later.

It’s midnight, and i hear a raven’s call. No sunflower whispers yet. I close my eyes to concentrate better. Still so hot. I sit up to down a glass of cool water. I have a full glass pitcher on my nightstand. I could get up and sit in the rocker right next to the east window, but i’m so tired. My trip from Portland was long. Two plane rides, four hours on a train, then a boat trip up the Sebasticook River. So no, i’ll stay on the bed, and listen from here. I must stay awake.

Now, something. I feel a lovely breeze through the east window. What a relief. A whisper rides the coolness. I hear, Camille.. Camille..

It’s addressing me, personally? I wasn’t expecting that. This Inn is usually full during August, but Innkeeper said last night that there are only guests in six of the rooms out of fifty. But then day before yesterday, i was in 2020, so who knows how things are nowadays.

Camille.. Camille! It’s time for our mid August mystery tale. This one is just for you. We’ve waited thirty eight years for you to hear your story.

My story? I say.

Then i wonder if they can hear me.

I say, i tried to get here, but every time, something or someone got in my way. My grandmother came here years ago. Which flower are you? What is your name? Gran told me about so many of you..

Then i remember that guests aren’t allowed to ask questions. It’s our job to listen. I zip my lip, and let the one who says she’s Stella M. continue….

Mary Raynes

PS. This is to be a serial tale in, i think, twelve parts. Then again, i love neverending stories, so one never knows. This is my first post here. It has been hard for me to write this year, but think i finally have my groove back. I waited a long time to be sure, so i wouldn’t start something and then just disappear. 🙂