300-Word Writing Challenge #37 (APRIL 2020) -- VICTORY TO CAT'S CRADLE!

[Abernovo]

A Reflection of the Monster.


Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick, tick, tick.

Every night, the monsters came at the same time. Every night, it was the same. The clock would stall, and time would stand still. Sara watched the shadows outside stop. But, inside, some shadows continued to creep through the house, with whispers of movement.

Mum had always said that there were no monsters under the bed. She was right. They were in the cupboard, in the attic, and in the basement; and now they came out, every night.

Mum had disappeared last week. Tick, tick, tick. There'd been a scream, the sound of something--someone--falling, then a dragging noise. Sara had been too scared to go look, but the house had been empty the next morning. Dad had left them years ago, but now she wondered if he'd been taken too.

Each night the same. Local houses fell silent and empty, with no movement the next morning. Even if they didn't go out, people still washed their cars, watched TV too loud, had arguments. None of that now. The street was deserted, except for Sara.

They'd not come for her, yet, but she could hear them outside her door. Rustle, shuffle, whisper.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time started again.

The next morning, she broke into her neighbour's house. The cat bowls had kibble and water, a thin film of dust covering both.

"Mitzy?" She knew the name from the kids. Nothing.

She raided the fridge. Her own cupboards were bare.

Tick, tick, tick.

Sara pulled up the duvet. The door handle was turning. She stopped breathing as it swung open. There was nothing there.

"Come with us," the voice whispered.

"Get away."

"We will not hurt you. You called us. We came. We did your bidding. They'll all leave you alone, now."

 

[Luiglin]

Killing It

Furtive figures skulked into the chamber on silent feet. Their leader took a moment to take it all in.

“Time is short,” he exclaimed. “You know what must be done and I need not remind you of what is at stake here. This is my greatest task ever, the pinnacle of my life’s work. I’ve trained you well. Now go, make me proud!”

Exploding out, the figures got to work with their allotted tasks. With assured grace, the leader studied his meticulous plan, hissing commands here and there.

Before they knew it, the time had passed. Letting loose a soft whistle, the leader gathered them up in the doorway to take one last glance before leaving, giving them all an appreciative nod.

~~~

Morning broke. The Dark Lord, munching a croissant and glancing at the Quotidian Parchment, strode down to his Throne Room. Behind him, came the Minion in velvety swooshes, taking care not to spill the tea on the tray.

It took a few steps before the Dark Lord noticed.

“What the...”

The colours did not just clash, they were in all out bloody war. Somehow, someone had managed to make a table out of a catapult and then covered it in laced leather. Leopard print silk drapes adorned the windows. A host of mirrors, in a myriad of styles and garish adornments, had been fixed to the ceiling. Before him, paintings of smirking orcs and an eye watering expressionist one of Norman the Troll hung above...

“Where’s my Throne?”

The Minion’s fingers hazarded an answer.

“The cushions?”

Stepping out from the shadows of a gold and sequined sprayed palm tree, came the interior designer.

“Surprise,” he cried. “Well, what do you think of the makeover?”

“It’s missing one thing,” uttered the Dark Lord. “Minion, a large, sharp stake please.”

 

[M. Robert Gibson]

Kajar and the Princess

Kajar studied the mirror. Solid gold frame. Should be worth something. Be too heavy though. Shame. Those candlesticks though...
A movement in the mirror caught his eye. Someone's in the room! He span around, but the room was empty. Turning back to the mirror, he found himself looking directly at a young woman.

"I'm Princess Empriva. I'm being held captive at the top of the tallest tower. I can talk through this mirror, but cannot leave. Please rescue me. You will be richly rewarded."

Aha, thought Kajar, the magic words, 'rich rewards'.

"Very well, Princess, I'll help you."

Kajar found the tower and started climbing the stairs. Strange, she's being held captive, but there are no guards. At the top of the tower, a single door stood ajar. Puzzled, Kajar unsheathed Drowsos, cautiously opened the door and peered into the room. There stood the Princess in front of an identical mirror. Kajar looked around and gasped in horror. Piled against the walls were hundreds of human bones.

"Ahh. My rescuer. Just in time for a feast - you!" The Princess laughed, revealing a pair of glistening fangs. She sprang.

Kajar reacted instinctively, stepped aside and swung his sword at the Princess. It passed straight through, leaving her unscathed but stood between him and the door.

The Princess edged forwards and Kajar edged backwards until his heels reached the wall holding the mirror.

The mirror! When speaking before, the Princess had sounded like she was in the same room. Was it possible?

The Princess sprang again. In hope, Kajar hurled himself against the mirror. Instead of cracking his head as half-expected, he crashed to the floor of the original room.

Hah! Not a mirror, a portal!

Laughing, Kajar jumped up, snatched the candlesticks and ran, eager to continue his quest...

 

[mosaix]

When Can You Start?

“Next!”

A young woman entered, somewhat hesitantly. It was night and the room was poorly lit but she saw me, to her left, seated at my desk and, to her right, the large ornate mirror that dominated the room. She seemed to relax a little and moved towards me.

We exchanged pleasantries and she sat in the chair opposite. She was well presented and attractive. Fortunately, not too attractive to draw unwarranted attention. Ideal.

“Thank you for attending at this late hour. I hope you haven't been too inconvenienced.”

“No, not at all. This is perfect for me.”

“Good. To business then. I require an assistant. A soul mate. A travel companion. Call it what you will. Suffice it to say we would be spending a lot of time together. Is that something that would be of interest to you?”

I smiled. She smiled back. Better and better.

“Yes. I think it would.”

“Tell me a little about yourself. They did explain that, sometimes, the hours can be unsociable?”

“Yes, they did. It suits me fine. I have no family here and little opportunity to make friends. I have no ties.”

She smiled again.

“This may seem a little impulsive of me but it seems that you have all the qualities that I require. Of course, we'll need to agree terms but I would like to offer you the position of my assistant.”

“You also have the qualities that I require. I accept.”

Some of the people the agency used to send were a complete waste of my time but not this one. She was perfect. Of course, the absence of her reflection in the mirror went a long way for me. As, no doubt, the absence of mine did for her.

 

[elvet]

Past, future, and present

She checks her reflection in the mirror. Her auburn hair was down and curled, his favourite style. Eyes subtly made up and skin glowing from her morning walk, she smiled thinking of the evening ahead. After all, this was the night, the special night.
She glances at the clock. It was five after, but the dinner reservations weren't until half past.
He'll be here any minute now.

They met at a cafe, his gaze catching hers from across the room. On that first date they talked for hours, and their relationship had strengthened ever since. Tonight she was sure he would ask her to marry him. They would finally move in together, and after a short engagement, plan a small wedding. Venice was the perfect honeymoon destination. It had been on their vacation list for a while. After they were married, moving back to the cramped apartment was out of the question. She had her heart set on a place in the country where they would eventually raise a family. She'd be working from home, and manage the household while he commuted to the city. Her mind could see everything so clearly. After their retirement, the two of them puttering in their garden, growing old together.

A familiar voice breaks her reverie. Checking the time, she hopes they won't be late.
A final look in the mirror...
Staring back at her is an old lady, face lined and weathered. Shaky fingers reach up to pat a wisp of grey hair into place.
By the window near the tray table, is a elderly man with a cane.
He smiles at her. "You look beautiful, sweetheart, just as lovely as you did that night I proposed.
Come and sit down, love. The nurse has brought your dinner."

 

[Culhwch]

MIRROR MIRROR

Look.

Look.

I know you’ve heard the story.

How could you not have?

Spin.

Fake news.

I was there. I know.

Hell, a lot of it was my fault.

In my defense, I never said I only tell the truth.

That was inferred.

From some things I said.

Still.

The queen, she wasn’t all that.

Sure, she had that smokey-eyed, raven-haired, dark-and-mysterious vibe going on. Was never really my thing.

Besides, looks are subjective. There’re no absolutes.

Except maybe that brunette cutie down in Cider Falls...

Anyway, I digress.

So I was hung up on this queen’s wall. And, you know, she’s not all there. Upstairs.

And I know what side my glass is silvered on.

So when she asks me who the fairest is (ignoring the multiple definitions of fair), I say, ‘You, love.’

Or words to that effect.

But.

Here’s the thing.

That went on for, like, twenty years.

Thirty, maybe.

And she wasn’t getting any fairer.

Either applicable definition of the term.

One day I cracked.

(Not literally.)

And she asks her question.

And I say, ‘Well. You know that girl, Snow?’

Look, I didn’t think it through. Not fully.

But it worked out okay.

Not for the queen, though. Goes without saying.

Those dwarves sure did a number on her.

Oh, you wouldn’t know about that. They left that part out of the story.

Anyway, I’m still on that same wall. But Snow’s the queen now.

Total disregard for hereditary monarchy. Whatever.

But she’s cool. Has me polished every other week.

And the dwarves are pretty decent fellas, once you get to know them.

None of them ever asks me who the fairest is anymore.

Well, except for the grumpy one, but only when he’s drunk.

 

[Simbelmynë]

Beyond the Limits of a Phantom

I awoke from hibernation to find my quarters significantly cooled. I rose, shivered through a heavy drowse, and padded to the ornate panel beside the hearth. Though I turned up the output dial, a chill persisted. The sun shone distantly through my latticed casement. This far out, the solar powered machinery aboard ship would struggle. I blanched, recalling my crime; I had escaped Terra's orbit.

Following the baroque corridors to the gallery, I approached the liquid mirror. The photosensitive timepiece chimed my authorisation as it performed an ocular scan. I wondered if the mirror also suffered its separation from the heart of the system, as the device's aqueous surface appeared to have congealed, and was begrimed with dark smudges. I would have wiped it clean, though I dared not disturb its waters.

The clock chimed again as the reflection began to change, its forms roiling and shimmering. The image settled once more: Maria faced me now, in place of myself. Her head turned with mine, our palms almost touched – a holy palmers' kiss – though her expression mirrored my concern as I noticed she wanted her usual colour; that her grey eyes were paler than a Plutonian dawn. Apparently the oils which flushed the phantoms with life had separated somewhat from their pigments.

Still, as our forms moved in symmetry, my soul was eased.

* * *

My second hibernation concluded, I hastened to the gallery, observing the Kuiper belt through the frosty portholes. I fancied I caught the glint of the dwarf planet to which Maria had been exiled.

A dark patina now veiled the mirror. The clock chimed, only this time I glimpsed little more than a shadowy outline; the hideous suggestion of a rictus grin.

I approached the system's frontier, whence I journeyed on to the next star.

 

[Perpetual Man]

The Narcissus Trap

I walk past the grand mirror and my reflection whispers by, sliding off the polished glass as I clear its field of view.

I stop.

Three steps back.

There I am staring right back at me.

The intricate gold frame is irrelevant. It was probably worth a small fortune, but it did not hold my stare like my own reflection.

I hasten to add, not my looks, rather that inverted image of myself.

The glass had been polished to a sheen, smearless, perfect in its cleanliness, the reflection as clear as life.

There is something bewitching in the movement, my hand moves, opposite the hand moves. Precise. Exact, no deviation. The background is as perfect as my own and yet it is not there.

It is just what it seems, a mirror image, but it pulls me in, eyes flickering across myself, the whole damned thing, trying, just for the briefest of moments to see – to catch that incongruity between reality and a perfect representation on a silvered surface.

Surely…. Surely it must be impossible for there to be such a perfect recreation, there must be some deviation…

One hand reaches, and fingertips come towards me, tips touching cold glass, both heads crook to one side. Brown eyes blink.

It occurs to me, in that moment, am I real? Could it be possible that I am the reflection, that those eyes belong to the original ‘I’?

A silent moment, translocation.

He becomes I; I becomes he.

I am looking out as he looks at me.

Two hands pull away from each other in perfect synchronicity.

It is a trick of the mind. I am still real, no reflec…

Desynchronization. His hand moves faster than mine.

A clenched fist. A punch.

Glass shatters…

I am gone.

 

[Celine_Brace]

The Truth of Magic

Wake.

He sprung up from bed, rubbed his face. Across the room, a whisper of movement caught his eye. His reflection stared back from the ornate mirror. He drew closer. Nothing here.

He heard the echo again, someone whispering in the darkness.

He breathed, called his magic to the surface, “Who’s there?”

His own face blurred, and a woman’s image took shape in the glass: tall, with elegant curves that hugged a willowy frame. There was darkness behind her golden eyes.

His fingers flexed involuntarily, aching for his blade.

She stepped gracefully from the mirror, circled him appraisingly. His skin prickled under her glance.

“Like any great warrior, there is darkness in you. Your magic is saturated in its perfume.”

“I don’t use black magic anymore.”

A smile cracked the corner of her lips, “Once you know the whole truth of magic, you can’t unknow it.”

His Rena was asleep in her bed only one door over. “I’ll tell you once,” A sizzle of light snapped between his fingertips as he drew electricity from the walls, “leave this place.”

“You fear someone will see past your handsome face, your worrier persona, to your true darkness. Then what will they do?”

He clenched his fists tighter.

“You know the answer. People fear what they don’t understand.”

He felt the poisonous truth in her words.

She leaned in, as if to press a kiss to his cheek, “I want to set your glorious darkness free.”

He thought of his compulsion to hide his true nature, to isolate, the control it required to be the kind of man Rena might love, “There is one thing I desire.”

“Tell me.” She purred.

“For you to die.”

Pivoting, he punched a blazing and snapping fist through her chest.

One thought screamed in his mind: Rena.

 

[BigJ]

In the Eye of the Beholder

Sunlight peeks between the blinds as my alarm clock breaks the morning silence. I’m already awake; every day I’m already awake. The alarm screeches, grating; I wait, as though hitting the alarm would make everything real, would mean my life in this awful, tiny apartment, a nondescript room in a featureless building in the middle of this concrete jungle hell, is real.

It was tolerable when I wasn’t alone.

Gently, I click off the alarm. I have to stop myself from instinctively reaching out to the other side of the bed. The empty side. The hopeless futility of the action is not lost on me. Maybe one day I can forget.

I shuffle out from under the covers and swing slender legs off the bed. Frail, underfed, bones aching; I feel as if three times my age. The mental strain required to accept my fate and stand up is almost too much to bear. I am soft and brittle all at once as I slowly rise from the mattress, and tired feet carry me across the room.

I catch my hollow reflection in the mirror on the dresser. That mirror was the last gift from my love before . . .

I spend a long moment, eyes closed, fighting back tears. My eyes open and I look again. I see myself, but . . . sharper, than I thought. My hair, tousled, unruly, but nothing a quick shower won’t fix. My eyes, tired, but piercing, betraying quiet intelligence. My body, thin, hungry, but muscled, and strong; strong enough to make today a good day. To make tomorrow better. To keep going. To live.

I stride down the hall to shower and begin my day, oblivious to the soft glow emanating from the words carved into the mirror’s back side.

“May you see what I’ve always seen.”

 

[Mr Orange]

One Night at the Museum

“The mast. It’s proof, you see.”

I glanced at the brilliant white tuxedo (almost as dashing as my red Velour number) and the chiselled features above it. Hmmm, there might be hope for this dreadful gala after all.

He gestured at the two-hundred-year-old painting and then at a photo. The photo was of the same Gaudi-esque church as in the painting, with a modern radio mast adjacent it. Right where a spindly grey tree was painted.

“My good man, they didn’t have radio back then.”

“Well-” He was interrupted by a kerfuffle behind us. His eyes flickered, then he abruptly changed subject.

“I say, nice tux.”

My chest puffed. “It’s genuine Turkish Velour.”

“Mind if I try the jacket?”

“Umm… Very well.”

We switched jackets (his smelt wonderful) and he smiled.

“Awfully sorry, but if you get in trouble, try the pocket.”

Then he was gone, in my jacket, running through the crowd. There was a yell and I turned to see five bulky men in cheap looking suits with expensive looking weaponry coming towards me.

“Oh, crap.”

#

They caught me within two blocks and threw me down an alley.

“You’re done, Yazzzzny.” One hissed.

“I’m afraid there’s been a dreadful mistake” I countered. Then I remembered the pocket. My fingers found a small button. I pushed it.

#

I was standing in front of a familiar church. Except… no mast. But he was there, in fatigues, leaning casually on a curved wall. He smiled languidly.

“Well done, you made it.”

“Where’s the mast?”

“No mast. We’re in a slightly different dimension now. They can’t find us.”

When he saw my blank look, he sighed. “The lizard people? That control life on Earth? Welcome to the revolution.”

I sniffed. “Unlikely. And what have you done with my jacket?”

 

[Elckerlyc]

Reflections of Existentialism


I woke up; there is a first for everything.
Before me, quite close, stood a woman looking at me while adjusting her garments. Impulsively I reached out, grabbed and dragged her towards me. She disappeared. Satisfied, I fell asleep again.

I woke up once more. Another woman in another place, standing to close for me to ignore. I lunged, grabbed and pulled. She vanished. Just before I, contentedly, fell asleep I noticed a mirror on the opposite wall. It showed an empty room, with a ornate mirror on the opposite wall.
Again and again I woke up, saw, grabbed and pulled with alacrity. Always immediately followed by restful sleep. Isn’t it wonderful to have purpose in life?

Until I lunged... and missed. Who of us was perplexed most I do not know.
The world lurched. Suddenly I looked into a place that seemed hell. Perhaps it was. There were blazing fires, people screaming and a thick, sick smell that clotted into yellowish clouds, swelling and swirling as it were on the sound and pitch of screams. A voice boomed over the din, “Err again and this will be your new home.”
I tried to swallow. No such luck; I fell asleep.

And life continued, although less carefree as desired. Gradually I understood that I housed within a mirror, which was in fact a portal, pulling anyone through who came within grabbing distance, mostly humans. A mirror couldn’t possibly be my natural home, but what my true habitat was I couldn’t say. I started worrying a bit about cracking mirrors. But, once task done, sleep always prevented any pondering.

I missed, again.
The world lurched. Hell appeared, partly obscured by a reaching claw. Instinctively I lunged, grabbed, pulled. I glimpsed something repulsive, heard a booming “Aargh...!”
I slept; peacefully.

 

[chrispenycate]

Smoke and illusions​

'The lighting's anachronistic' I thought. Still, any period play the lighting is wrong - if it had been accurate the audience would have seen nothing through the gloom - and film even more so. So spotlights were concealed in decor, hidden by belief.

And props. had done splendid work on the rest of the set. That mirror, as an example looks to weigh half a ton, and be a historical artefact insured for more than the play will generate ever, let alone on this tour, but is actually a smokey plexi sheet with kitchen foil stuck to the back, and the frame mouldings are neither plaster nor carved wood: construction foam, light as a baby's dream. It needs a cushion behind it on stage to stop it emulating a wobble board. Its reality is fragile, like most things in rep, including the cast and crew, cut down to the essential for belief, weightless for travel.

Out here in the sticks who knows that, when this play was set, lighting was torches in sconces, while electricity, which also drives the fake clock, was the domain of storm gods? Who would even care, when given a chance to escape their daily grind.

Reality is not the endless stream of church halls and school auditoriums, the smoke rising from audiences in open-air festivals the ever-changing reflections in a flexible mirror, nor even a van long overdue for a service, preferably replacement. It is not the provenance of the dream, but the concentration of a plain, earnest woman taking as many hours as a mediaeval monk over his illuminated manuscript to get it right at several metres distance. It's the applause of those escaping from their tedium, coming out of our real world into boredom.

Reality is what we make it,

 

[Starbeast]

Detective Magazine #21
"One Dark Stormy Night"

​

"Yeah. It was a dark, stormy night. Flickering lightning gave me a preview to what laid ahead on the road as I drove my black sedan toward the Lon Chaney Senior Museum. $20,000 was my reward for returning a lost, priceless mirror. Riding along with me was a curator who helped me locate it, a cute chick who liked creepy relics. She wasn't some typical floozy, but an average women who had that certain special something that could keep me up at night. I'd shoot the Moon down for her, making it crash into Earth, or I'd cover her in rose pedals, while cleaning her glasses..."

"I have a name you know."

"Oh, right. Hagatha Squishsquirrel. Her name was like butter, melting on toast."

"Call me Haggy. Who are you talking to?"

"The reader. I'm narrating."

Haggy peered at the reader, "Eek! cough cough."

"You alright Haggy?"

"I swallowed my gum."

#

"So, Gold Fritter...you expect me to wok?"

"No, Mr Bon-Bon. I expect you to fry."

...And we'll be right back with James Bon-Bon in, Gold Fritter. After these..

(click)

"Aww, Haggy. The reader and I were watching that."

"Straighten your tie. The museum owner has arrived, Lon Chaney Junior."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr Chaney. I'm Detective Noir."

"Call me, Lon. Thank you for retrieving the Georges Melies, silent movie prop."

"You're welcome, Lon. Wasn't there a curse attached to that mirror?"

"You mean, if the mirror is broken the dead will rise to devour the living. Just a tale for tourists."

#

"Larry. Hold the ladder while I hang this mirror."

"Be careful Moe."

CRASH!

"Curly! Why didn't you catch it?"

"I'm a victim of circumstance. Hey Moe. I smell rotten flesh."

"Don't look at me. I changed my socks months ago."

 

[Parson]

“Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely”​

Braids flowing, forehead furrowed, Emperor Cho stomped into the mirror room. It was his true seat of power, the inner sanctum where almost no one was invited. Those few who had knowledge of the room knew that Emperor Cho would spend a lot of time there, alone, when he was angry, like today. It was supposed that he blew off steam by yelling and cursing at the mirrors. The supposition was wrong. The mirror room was actually the secret weapon which kept Cho’s power absolute.

Cho waved his hand three times over the clock. A keyboard appeared. He typed in a 27-digit random code and the mirror’s true nature was revealed. “So…, did Wu-Hung think that he could protect his daughter when the Emperor chose her for his personal pleasure in a ‘Night of a Thousand Cuts?’ Who did that noble think that he was anyway?!” Cho thumped his chest. “I’m emperor! I will not be refused!”

Cho’s fingers flew over the controls. A viewing screen showed the royal city. As Cho adjusted the focus, Wu-Hung’s street and house appeared. He found Wu-Hung in a private room moving his bowels. His body guards were outside the door. “Perfect!” after a second of fine-tuning Cho thumbed the red button and Wu-Hung disappeared. Cho’s enemy just ceased to be.

Later that day the word of Wu-Hung’s disappearance spread. ‘Another of Cho’s enemies had disappeared while alone and closely guarded.’ Although it was widely assumed that Cho had orchestrated the disappearance; there was no evidence and no witnesses to the crime. Nothing could be done.

Two days later Cho let his choice be known again. Trembling, Su-Hung appeared for Cho’s pleasure and her pain.

Outside the silent rebellion gained momentum.

 

[The Judge]

Full Sick of Shadows​

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The clock ticks. Its hands turn. Elaine watches, waits.​

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The Master stands at the window looking out at the world. The mirror catches shadowy glimpses of views gliding past – mountains, sunsets, windswept moors. Time was, Masters chose quickly; this one is slow.​

​

Perhaps paintings are harder to sell now. That happened with the weaving, the tapestries. Long gone, the relentless click of her loom, the stab of her needle.​

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“Stop the hour!”​

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She obeys, touching the clock’s hour hand. He’s found the scene, but not the moment. In the mirror, cerulean skies, with hints of viridian.​

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“Come on,” he mutters at the view. “Move out the way.”​

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The problem is people, then? More people in the world? How many centuries has it been?​

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“Stop the minute.”​

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She obeys again. The clock no longer ticks.​

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He moves from the window. The mirror shows beach, headland, calm sea. Dawn light, few shadows. Fixed, immutable while the clock is stilled.​

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Shadows. Her existence is nothing but shadows. Fixed, immutable. Forever.​

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She grips her palette knife.​

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><​

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Time passes. For her. The light through the window, the view in the mirror, they remain the same. Only the canvas has changed, charged with both light and view.​

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At the mirror’s edge, shadows. Dabbing violet on the canvas, she wonders what causes them.​

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Wonders and must know. She touches the clock’s minute hand.​

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The clock ticks again. The shadows move.​

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Someone walks onto the beach. No Lancelot this; an elderly woman. Then a younger woman, and a child.​

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Laughing.​

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Living.​

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The knife is suddenly in her hand, slashing the shadow-filled canvas. She tears at the clock, throws it at the lying mirror, smashing both.​

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Finally free, she stands at the window, looks out at the world. At people. Life.​

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Elaine of Astolat goes to join them.​

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.​

 

[Teresa Edgerton]

The Face in the Mirror​

Tick. Tick. Tick. Emily watched the hands of the clock move toward midnight. Would he come? Had she imagined him before? Tick. Tick. Tick.

Slowly the door behind her opened and a stranger stepped inside the parlor. She lacked the courage to turn and face him; frozen in place, she could only watch his reflection in the mirror. An ordinary middle-aged man, utterly harmless looking—but she had no idea who he could possibly be or how he had gained access to the house. Yet he had already done so twice, and this would be the third time. The thought of a strange man who could come and go at will in her home and no one but herself the wiser sent a thrill of terror down her spine.

“Who are you?,” she said—just above a whisper, as fear choked the words in her throat. “Why are you here?”

“I am here because this is my home.” He, too, addressed the reflection in the mirror; not once did he look directly at her, anymore than she looked at him. “Are you … are you Emily?”

“Yes. But how did you kn—“

“They sold the house, your parents. Didn’t you know? Soon after you …, soon after it happened.”

A chill crept over her, numbing her with terror. “After what happened?”

“After you died.”

She couldn’t feel her hands or her feet. Her heart was a cold lump in her chest. But it couldn’t be true, what he said, because here she was, here she had been since … well, for the last three days and nights anyway, right here in the parlor. “No, no. I’m not dead, I’m not a ghost. You must be the one.”

Tick. Tick. To her dismay her reflection in the mirror was fading, fading. Tick.

Gone.

 

[Ursa major]

​

On Reflection​

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There’s a twisted magic in all mirrors, but that one….​

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In mirrors, right becomes left, left becomes right. Top and bottom, however, remain top and bottom. Fundamentally – top and bottom are more important than left and right – everything stays the same.​

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It’s the same if right becomes wrong: the world is the same, only the way we look at it, the way we behave, changes. At least that’s what I believed… after I looked into that mirror.​

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I found it hidden in the attic of an abandoned house. I’d snuck in there to escape the rain. Hearing other people entering the house, I headed up to the attic and barricaded myself in. In those days, a stranger might kill you as soon as look at you.​

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What struck me about the mirror was that the glass was free of dust. And the mirror didn’t work: the reflection’s left was my left. The mirror was thin, so the trick wasn’t done with… well… mirrors.​

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Then I noticed that my refection was in only one of the mirror’s four panes. The others showed quite different images, with no sign of me or the attic room behind me.​

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“You do realise I’m not you,” my mirror image said. “I’m in a parallel universe, one where I’m rich, one where I grabbed what I wanted. You can do the same.”​

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The next day, when both rain and strangers were gone, that’s what I did. The first thing I grabbed was the mirror. I’m looking at it now.​

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I’m just as rich as my counterpart – if that’s who she really is – on the other side, but I’m not her.​

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Looking at the mirror’s frame, all I see is the gilt. And all I feel is guilt for what I’ve done, for what I’ve become.​

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[Ursa major]

The challenge is now closed and so the voting is open.

To cast your THREE votes, use the link below.

Please vote for your top THREE choices; note that all three votes must be cast AT THE SAME TIME to count.​

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