InsaneJournal

The White Clown dances.

Mildred leans forward, rapt. The Clown is dancing, dancing just for her.

It’s so interesting, distracting her from her worries. Her wallscreens-all three of her precious wallscreens-have been destroyed; her house has burnt down. Her husband is stark raving mad.

But none of it matters, because the White Clown is dancing, dancing just for her.

She claps her hands, delighted by the X-ray of a woman’s intestines. How clever! She doesn’t know what the plot is or how this is relevant to the story, but it doesn’t matter, of course.

She laughs at the sight of a jet, diving through the sky into the earth, which has the consistency and color of cotton candy. It seems perfectly logical to her; she doesn’t wonder at all.

Images travel, faster and faster, acting as a centrifuge as they separate her from her thoughts. She isn’t thinking anymore, isn’t worrying anymore; there’s nothing but the wallscreen in the hotel.

She doesn’t hear the thunderous roar of the jets flying overhead. No, she does hear, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. It has no impact on her life, here in the hotel room with the White Clown dancing in front of her.

She doesn’t care, not even when she sees the blossoms of red and orange out of the corner of her eye. Fire, some distant part of her thinks, but it doesn’t matter.

The city is aflame, but she doesn’t notice. None of it can affect her, she thinks distantly, her eyes still glued to the screen.

Then the White Clown disappears, replaced by blackness. How could that happen? Then she notices the city around her being devoured by flame. Power must have been cut off.

She searches for a way out, desperately, fumbling with the doorknob. She can’t stay in here; she can’t let herself die. The survival instinct has roused her from her torpor.

The next bomb is dropped right on top of her hotel.

Horror. Pain.

Then blackness.

The show has ended; the actors are gone.

There’s nothing left but dust.

Jilly Coppercorn was painting again.

She was so concentrated on her work that she didn’t notice the fairy besides her, studying the painting with an air of intensity.

Then the fairy spoke.

“That looks nice.”

Jilly turned, her eyes widening. “Thank you.” she managed to say. A fairy was speaking to her! She squirmed with delight.

Jilly studied the fairy curiously. She looked like an ordinary girl, albeit one with the bright blue wings of a bird.

“Are you a fairy?” she asked. “Or one of Jack Daw’s animal people?”

The girl considered. “I think…I’m something in between. A dream, or the memory of a dream.Not one of the First People, though. You can call me a fairy if you like.” She pointed at the painting. “Now tell me about the girl in the painting.”

“She’s a gemmin. Do you know the gemmin?” Jilly explained.

“Gemmin,” the fairy considered, tilting her head. “I remember the gemmin. And they remember me, I think.” She giggled. “Violet for memory!’

Jilly had met the gemmin a while ago. “What should I call you?” she asked, remembering that names had power. It might frighten this beautiful creature if she asked for her name.

“You can call me Silvia,” the fairy replied. “What should I call you?”

“I’m Jilly,” she said.

Silvia smiled. “You’re nice.”

“It’s just a gift I have.” Jilly replied.

Silvia paused, “I have to go now,” she said. “They’re calling me.” And before Jilly could say good bye, Silvia was gone, walking through the wall.

Noticing a blue feather resting precariously on the ground, Jilly bent forward and picked it up.

A few days later, she began the painting of a brown-eyed girl with the wings of a blue jay.

She would never see Silvia again.