Evangeline tossed and turned, her impatience rising. She repeated, 'no sense in putting the cart before the horse' under her breath, like a mantra. It had little effect. A white-gowned attendant strode in to wheel her down the long corridor to the operating theatre. This was it. Her impatience returned. Now it was coupled with excitement, and fear. Fear that the procedure might not work, again. Gentle hands dressed her face in gauze, carving out two flaps through which the eyes would be implanted. Anaesthetic coursed through her veins while shivers took over. The drug was taking effect. Evangeline sunk into a deep reverie giving over to the engineering team working their magic. Upon awakening she brought her hands to her face, fingertips gingerly exploring the protective layering. She could feel nothing of the miracle that lay beneath waiting to be revealed. Her impatience returned. Again it was coupled with the familiar excitement and fear. This time with an added feeling of grace, - a good sign. She calmed herself. 'No sense in putting the cart before the horse', she chanted the familiar refrain. Seven days passed. The technicians came to check intermittently, and now they were back to remove the bandages. They seemed impatient, moving through their paces quickly. She sensed their excitement and fear, fear the procedure may not have taken, again. A circle of eyes peered intently at her, watching for the sign; integrated circuits connecting, whirring, communicating in unison. After an initial period of adjustment, Evangaline took a deep breath and opened her new eyes, lids fluttering like a venetian blind. A single tear leaked through the slats. More streamed down to her face. Impatience vanished all around. It was a moment to behold. She was beyond grateful. - Finally, a clear view. 3-D printing has so much versatility. Word prompt: a clear view
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Lyla fell softly into the dreamscape, her breathing light and tempered. The monitor was primed to note the slightest flutter, its precision indisputable. The dream catcher was ready. This was Lyla’s third cycle without producing a dream. She was expected to generate 3 or 4 each event but had become unexpectedly and inexplicably barren. This was not her usual practice. She had been prolific, exceptional even. Now they were considering decommissioning her. This was her last chance. The monitor hummed imperceptibly, the dream catcher was poised. …. An REM blink ….. A false alarm. Patience was called for. Dreams were the purview of the elite. Long extinct, the discovery of a dreamer was a rarity. Few had talent. Even fewer could produce reliably. The dream catcher was key. Its intricate gossamer web was finely tuned to frequencies unintelligible yet exacting. It alone could extricate the dream. There was only one. It could not be reproduced. The dream catcher was held in a vacuum-sealed chamber when not in use and guarded 24/7. Many partook and paid well for the privilege. The chance to dream, a uniquely transformative experience. Coveted. Bartered. Leveraged. It offered profound meaning, inexorable pleasure, and inestimable currency. Lyla lay in waiting. She felt nothing, heard nothing. She was the conduit. Synergy with the dream catcher was solely within its province. Once established, the connection was thought to be everlasting. Now this seemed doubtful. Days passed. Nothing. It was time. A decision was proffered. Lyla was deactivated. Overnight and without warning the dream catcher expired. Its delicate translucent strands hardened to a dark, cold, amber. It no longer resonated. It no longer received. No one anticipated the two would have cultivated a binding symbiotic attachment of this consequence. No one noticed the chemical and frequency changes taking place in each or the creation of their unbreakable union. The dreamer, the dream catcher, were no longer. And without warning or grace period, the nightmare came and took hold. Picture prompt: photo above Janice woke up early. She meant to scrounge around for the sewing kit the night before but fell asleep with the bottle in her hand, again. She rummaged in the hall closet and pulled down the blue Samsonite from its upper perch. It wasn’t inside. Rifling through the stale pile of winter blankets in the laundry hamper also drew a blank. The last place she checked was the cabinet under the bathroom sink. She got down on all fours pulling out the Ajax and spray bottles, flinging mouldy scrubs and crumpled toothpaste tubes behind her, and spilling the half-corked Pine Sol as she grabbed past the crushed box of sanitary napkins, feeling for the kit. A waft of chemical potpourri sent her reeling. She put none of the wreckage back. Janice was getting pissed off and needed a cigarette. Her familiar sense of defeat was almost in full swing, but she managed to keep her usual histrionics at bay and instead pulled on her shabby-chic pea jacket, stepped barefoot into clogs, and shuffled out the door to 7/11. There wasn’t a lot of time and the kids might wake up before she got back. ‘They best not wander around the row houses looking for her, like the last time she left them alone and CPS showed up.’ - She promised herself that she would be quick. She would not hang around to chat, or to bum a cigarette. After all it was only the sewing kit she was after. She scurried past the low buildings and stinky bins down to the corner. Her unkempt hair plastered to the side of her face fazed no one. The neighbours had seen her in all her glory many times before. Harold was at the counter when she breezed in. He did not look pleased to see her. He watched her like a hawk whenever she came in, ready for her to swipe any number of items. She was straight up with him this time. “Do you have a sewing kit? It‘s my daughter’s first day at school and I have something special for her.” It wasn’t cigarettes she was after. Her simple honesty surprised him, and he came out from behind the counter to help her find the home supply items in aisle three. Without skipping a beat, she grabbed the package of needles and thread, slapped her food stamps card down on the counter, and waved off the offer of a bag. Janice made a beeline home. It was still quiet in the flat. In a few moments thelittle’unswould overrun her whining for something to eat, their bellies empty and needing filling. They would have to wait. She had more important stuff to do. She plunked herself down on the sofa and pulled the pink sparkly dress out from the cellophane bag. Janice didn’t feel half bad about nicking it from Marshalls. It was real fancy, and she knew she’d scored a real prize. Laying it out flat, she was careful not to crush the ruffles or crinoline underneath. Her nimble fingers gently repositioned the broken wings on the seam, and with needle and thread brought the fairy princess back to life. Daisy would be over the moon. She would be the prettiest girl on the first day of school. Janice did good. She grabbed for her cigarettes and a fresh beer and put her feet up. Parenting was damn hard work. Word count 572 Published in 'Writing in a Woman's Voice', May 4, 2018 |
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