Play@YSDC

Sleep is heavy, like a stage curtain, and a show is playing behind Genevieve's eyes. It's a magic act, in fact, and she sits in the front row of a faceless audience.

The lights flicker to life; the atmosphere becomes a little green. A dark-skinned, sharply-dressed man takes long strides over to a bare table. Mirrors at the back of the stage reflect his every movement.

This is a dream. She knows that - she's perfectly lucid. And it feels familiar, as though there's a twinge of something old in the air.

The dark man smiles at his audience - at Genevieve.

Kadael wrote: This is a dream. She knows that - she's perfectly lucid. And it feels familiar, as though there's a twinge of something old in the air.

Genevieve finds herself drawn to the show....focused and at attention. She knows she is dreaming but this is the first time in weeks that she remembers a dream, due to her studies and the exhaustion at night when she goes to bed. She has been sleeping so deeply that, come morning, she does not recall her dreams. Even more odd, is that she is aware right now...

Why is this familiar?

Genevieve falls back on her education and her belief of Jungian dream theory...

It only seems familiar but my unconscious mind is just sorting out memories formed through the day or a lifetime...putting them together to make this dream. That must be it...

However, even as these thoughts came, she did not feel entirely convinced...

She attempted to turn her head and view her fellow audience members but found she could not take her eyes off the dark man...his smile...his eyes...the performance...

I can leave anytime I want. She rationalized in her head. Let's see what this performance is all about...

She felt stoical but realized her palms were sweating and clenching the edge of the seat...

"Hello, one and all!" The man's smile splits into a grin, revealing a mouthful of shockingly white teeth. He doffs his top hat, and a rabble of butterflies sprays forth. The audience applauds, hands smacking together mechanically.

"Enjoyed that, did you? We haven't even gotten to the first trick, ladies and gentlemen!" His stage presence is larger than his body; he seems to command the very air to move. With a sweep of his long, black cape, he covers the surface of the table and shuts his eyes. "Now, a volunteer from the audience is needed here. Let me see who is the strongest..."

The cape is pulled away to reveal a plume of faintly shimmering smoke and a large jar - no, an urn. The man extends a hand directly toward Genevieve, opening his eyes and staring straight into hers. "How about you, miss? I could see the magic inside you from a mile away!"

The faceless audience applauds in a strange cadence of clapping as the flurry of butterflies disperse into the air but Genevieve realizes she is not clapping...

Upon sighting the urn, Genevieve feels anxiety grip her...

Why is this familiar?

This time her logic does not have a response...

She is focused on that gleaming, toothy smile and misses the dark man's words. However, his extended hand and piercing stare seem to convey enough...

I'm the volunteer...

She rises and, as she ascends the stage, the mirrors at the back of the stage do nothing to reveal the identity of the audience and only seem to animate the dark man's movements, even though it seems he is not moving...

Maybe the smoke from the act on the air is doing it...

She is lucid but this dream is playing upon her mind....

Another short burst of applause accompanies Genevieve's rise to the stage. Up close, she can clearly see the man's fine, sharp features, his skin shimmering under the greenish lights.

"Lovely, lovely," he says, and pulls a walking cane longer than his arm out of his coat sleeve. Resting an elbow on it precariously, he tips his head to one side and grins once more. "Now tell us, my dear: what is your name?"

Genevieve feels her mind swimming and responds to the request in a voice a lot less softer than she would regularly use...almost child-like...

"Genevieve..." She responds then surprises herself more by asking a question usually inappropriate in a stage performance but, considering this dream venue and lack of a billing, maybe appropriate...

"What's yours?" Genevieve asks, feeling herself blush...

She is startled. The sound of her voice exactly mimics how she remembers her voice being at age five but the body she presently occupies is her at age twenty-three.

She glances down at the table, despite the dark man's gaze, and sees the urn is still there. The anxiety rises.....

Should I stay here? Should I go? Can I?

Genevieve feels a fear she has not felt since she was eight or nine..the fear of death. She remembers at night, going to bed, and imagining an emptiness in large, abandoned halls, void of anyone...and memories slowly dissipating....with no one to acknowledge them...

She looks up and meets the dark man's eyes...

Her heart is pounding and she wants to look for a way out but in a moment of clarity....

"Is this real..?"

The dark man's grin nearly splits his face in two now. "Why, I am the Mysterious Ammon!" He declares it with a flourish of his cape towards the audience, eating their stilted applause like sweets.

"Genevieve, Genevieve..." He tests the name on his tongue, then reaches for the urn's lid. A puff of ash escapes, but nothing more.

"It's magic," Ammon murmurs under his breath, tilting his head so his dark eyes catch the light. "Do you believe, Genevieve? Go on, put your hand into this lovely urn. You don't want to disappoint the audience, do you?"

A thousand stares lock onto her every movement.

Genevieve is mesmerized by the dark man's eyes when she realizes her hand is extended, nearly inches from the urn's open top...

She felt a dread overcome her being and jerked her hand back so violently that she stumbled backwards and to the stage floor...

WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! She screamed in her head....

The dark man stood above her; his gleaming teeth still glowing in the green smoke of the air. The crowd was invisible and yet she could feel their eyes upon her....

The audience had been quiet before, but now the silence cuts through the air. The hum of the stage lights fades into nothingness. Ammon straightens, taking his cane in one hand. With the other, he twists the top between his forefinger and thumb.

"Power is wasted on those like you," he says, his grin still present yet somehow sinister. "You're afraid to even scratch the surface."

With a final twist, he takes his fingers off the cane, revealing a sharp, sparkling blade at the end. "More useful to feed the ones who know better."

Kadael wrote:"Power is wasted on those like you," he says, his grin still present yet somehow sinister. "You're afraid to even scratch the surface."

"Wait!" It's Genevieve's regular voice.

Ammon's words, like a challenge or dare, cause Genevieve's resolve to return...

It's just a dream, girl! Genevieve reprimands herself. Why the fear? Besides, I have not awaken so maybe my subconscious wants to reveal something...

"I'll do it."

Genevieve begins to rise, despite the lethal blade wielded by the dark man...

"Oh?" Ammon spins the cane in his hand, then sticks the blade into the stage floor. No one seems to care. He gestures toward the table, arching one of his finely pointed eyebrows. "Interesting. Go on and delight us, if you can. The urn still stands."

His eyes glitter darkly, traveling the length of her body. "Maybe you're more of a woman than a frightened little girl, now."

Genevieve rises and, as Ammon's eyes scan her body, she feels anger arise within her...

Damn the audience! Genevieve directs her gaze, full of contempt, to lock with the dark man's eyes...All the fear is gone. ..and damn you!

She pushes past him and plunges her hand, almost violently, into the urn....

I want to know!

Kadael wrote:"It's magic...."

His previous statement, though murmured, seems to echo loudly in her mind.....

Ashes spill from the urn like water overflowing. The audience utters a single, collective gasp.

"Such determination!" Ammon promenades around the stage, having abandoned his cane. "Such fire! What will emerge from this place where lost things go?"

A hand slips into Genevieve's, seemingly having come up from the bottom of the urn. The table is not covered - no one could possibly be hiding under it.

Genevieve gasps as the hand grips her own. From her previous vantage point in the audience, she knew the bottom of the table was not covered....

Unless it was all smoke and mirrors....

She grabs and pulls her hand against the one grasping her own...

I want to know...

Genevieve pulls up and out of the urn, revealing a slim, delicate hand covered in flakes of ash. It's a left hand, and there's an odd bump on the fourth finger that might be a ring. Thankfully, the hand is also connected to a wrist and arm; a little bit of sleeve is visible. The hand isn't resisting - if anything, it wants to come out - but whatever or whoever is inside the urn is rather heavy.

"She has the strength after all, ladies and gentlemen!" Ammon beams at the audience, spreading his arms wide. "But there's no shame in needing help, is there? After all, this act is monumental!"

"What do you say, Genevieve? A little audience assistance?"

Genevieve pulls at the hand, trying to draw the individual out of the urn but cannot, even going as far as to grip with her free hand....

"Yes...yes...I do need help..."

Again, her voice alternates back to her 5 year-old self. She glances to the audience for a volunteer but still cannot make out a face in the smoke that seems to hang in the air, green like a solid cloak of vines....

The dark man is a blur of movement in her peripheral vision...even though he may or may not be moving....

"Don't trouble yourself, my dear. You just concentrate." Ammon's smile is implacable as ever as he strolls to the very edge of the stage. "You heard Genevieve - and she's going to need all of you. The urn doesn't want to let go of this one, but we have more power than it could ever imagine."

"So I want you all to watch her closely, just like you've been doing. Think upward thoughts; think of flying, of leaping, and most importantly, of lifting. Imagine yourselves all holding this hand that she's managed to coax out."

A moment passes. Then, all at once, the weight inside the urn twists, and disappears. For a moment, Genevieve feels as though she's pulling air - a shoulder emerges from the depths of the urn, then the bend of a neck -

- it shouldn't be possible, the mouth of the urn is too small to fit a head -

- the floor of the stage is covered in ash and Genevieve is staring at the gray-streaked face of a woman, still clutching her left hand. The urn is unbroken, lying at Genevieve's feet.

Genevieve finds herself eye to eye with the ash covered face of the apparition she has drawn from the urn...

Again, she is on the floor but, this time, does not recall falling there....

She is still holding that hand...

Why is this familiar? What is this....?

Her mind begins to swim again...

The dream has began to possess her and she feels the fear rise again....

The audience's applause is an oddly muffled sound now, like it's coming from somewhere far away. So is Ammon's speech. It's as though the only thing in this world is the woman, kneeling on top of the table.

"...amazing, ladies and... made it happen! ...reunited at... the impossible!" His words seem to blur into each other.

The woman's eyes open: a bright, piercing blue. Her lips curve into a smile. "We always knew you would be beautiful." Her voice is as clear and sparkling as morning dew.

Genevieve rises to her feet, still holding the slender hand of the woman on the table....

"Mommy...?" Genevieve's voice is again the soft, lyrical one of her youth...

She feels joy at seeing her mother again but also a sadness at not having experienced one of these dreams for a very long time...

The audience and Ammon seem miles away....