"No! I can't let you through here," the shadow of a border agent shouted to the lady with the rouge scarf and dark tunic drawn around bare skin. Borders formed where the brushstrokes of the oil painting ended, scarlet barricades, flanked by shadowy guards one dared not defy. She ran the blind, panicked run known to recur in nightmares, deep into the sanguine darkness, weaving past shadows that felt like presences, but vanishing when touched. And stood again at a border. The same one or maybe a different place, as all were identical. "This border is closed!" the guard declared emotionlessly, twirling an extended umbrella. "The exit, I must find the exit," she told herself in desperation, and sensed that it was hidden in the center of the city, among the multitude of unlabeled buildings. She covered her eyes with one hand, extended the other before her, then bolted off in an unknown direction. Harsh whispers showered down upon her, growing louder the closer she came to the door, wanting to confuse and disorient her, to make her forget. They did not want her leaving. She dashed through unlighted streets, looking inwards to see, stumbling finally upon the hidden destination as the whispers reached a crescendo. With one last surge of adrenalin she leaped through the vacant door frame into the room with the red sofa and the painting she had poured hours of her fantasy and imagination into. She sloped onto the cushioned softness and closed her eyes in sleep. Refreshed by the transitory interlude of an instant, she sat up in wakefulness to a scene unchanged, swimming constant on the threshold between the real and the irreal. Still lingering in her memory was the nuanced knowledge of how to complete her masterpiece. Orange. More orange.

Story #259