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Reflections

Amanda stared into the mirror—and a myriad copies of herself stared back. Endless reflections, stretching off into infinity. She turned her head and the rows and ranks of tiny Amandas turned with her. She rested her head in her hands and gazed dreamily at all the little faces, half turned toward her, half away.

One turned around and smiled mockingly into her eyes. Amanda gasped. She felt as though she were falling into the outstretched arms of the girl in the mirror. Suddenly a sense of menace overwhelmed her, tightened her throat and threatened to choke her.

Amanda woke up with a jolt, lying in a heap of tangled sheets. She drew a long breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh. After a time the pounding rhythm of her heart slowed, and she swung her feet over the edge of her bed and sat up. There was no way she was going back to sleep. Something about the dream had unnerved her.

Quietly she padded down the dark hall and switched on the lamp beside the bookcase. She ran her finger along the row of books on the top shelf: David Copperfield, Ten Little Indians, The Tell-Tale Heart—she shuddered and moved on. Here was one with no title. Amanda stopped and pulled the book from the shelf. It was glossy, black, and unmarked, with no sign of a title or author’s name. She couldn’t remember ever having seen it before, either. It fell open somewhere in the middle and she began to read:

The girl fingered the fringe of her shawl, plucking at the delicate threads, and still would not meet his eyes. In the taut lines of her face one could read some of the anguish and strain of the last weary months.

“Emily,” he said pleadingly, “my darling. I love you more than life itself, and that is why I must leave you. I am in danger.” He sighed and laid a slim book on the table. “Read this and maybe you will understand…Goodbye.”

She listened as his footsteps softly receded along the passage. Still she did not move, gazing dully into the silvered surface of the vase on the table before her. At last she turned away. With trembling fingers she reached for the book, lit the lamp and began to read the lines of print that marched across the yellowed pages:

We had been Journeying through the dense & humid Jungle for nigh on Three Months, when the following Strange and Wonderful Events befell our Company. To our Surprize, in the very heart of the Jungle we came upon a manner of Hut, or Longhouse, after the fashion of the Savages of Nova Mundi. Next instant Savages dropp’d from the tow’ring Trees all about us, having crept up unseen by devious Paths, & indicated to us by Signs that we were to enter the Dwelling. These Men, although of exceedingly Small Stature, scare higher than a Youth of 12 years, carried about them all manner of Strange and Fierce ornaments carv’d from Bone & we readily Complied.

Nearing the Hut I perceived the scent of some musky Perfume. Soon it was apparent that the pleasing Odor issued from a Candle of animal fat, the only means of Illumination. By its flick’ring Light I saw one of their number stretch’d upon a Pallet. It was plain that his body was wrack’d with the shivering Pains of fever. Turning his Face to me I saw the Candle Flame mirror’d in his unseeing Eyes. To the wonder & amazement of All, he open’d his mouth and spoke aloud in English, with an accent such as one who hails from Oxford. I have faithfully Inscribed herein a Full and Complete Account of all he said, in hopes that one day some Person may make sense of it:

All six of the men seated around the table bore the same expression. Although their faces were perfectly smooth, betraying no thoughts, a certain urgency was present in the way they moved. The air in the room was tense, almost oppressive. Shadows of the silent figures gleamed in the polished tabletop.

One spoke.

“The experiment is in grave danger, gentlemen. It is no longer a secret.” He pulled a stapled sheaf of papers from a file and passed it to the man at the head of the table. The leader turned to the first page and began to read aloud fluently, in a deep, mellow voice:

I could hardly believe my eyes as I staggered down the slope of the great dune. Water at last. Oasis is without a doubt the sweetest word in all the world. I collapsed at the edge of the pool and drank greedily. At last I forced myself to stop. Staring into my own reddened eyes, reflected in the water, I thought of the friend I had had to leave somewhere in the endless miles of sand. I will say without shame that I wept.

Once more I unfolded the piece of paper he had given me at the last, too weak to offer any word of explanation with it. It was a printed page torn from a book. My head still reeling from my ordeal in the merciless sun, I began to read:

The dirt road that runs through the middle of the village is empty. A hungry dog lurks apologetically in the shadow of one of the houses, whining occasionally. A girl jumps rope beside it. She chants a little rhyme in a breathless singsong voice, stopping often to admire the copper bangle on her wrist. She is perhaps seven years old. Laughing, she lets her jump rope fall and runs to pet the skinny dog. She removes the copper bangle and polishes it with the hem of her red skirt until her dark eyes are reflected in its gleaming surface. Then the girl sits down on the steps of the house and picks up a book bound in dusty maroon cloth. She opens it, seemingly at random, and haltingly reads aloud:

I stood alone at the edge of the sand and gazed at the island that would be my home for the next six months. In that moment, I felt a sweeping wave of loneliness that threatened to overwhelm me. I wanted to run into the surf, dressed as I was, swim after the ship and explain that it was all a mistake. The feeling was gone as quickly as it had come; in its place, I felt a strengthened resolve.

I turned and began to walk along the beach with a firm and confident step, slipping off my shoes to let the white sand caress my bare feet. Then, ahead of me, I saw the sun glint off something on the shore. It was a bottle, brilliant blue glass of an unusual and lovely shade. I brushed the sand off it and saw my own face reflected, eyes wide with wonder. I eased the cork out and carefully slid the contents into my palm—a pure white feather and a crumpled piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook. It bore no desperate cry for help, no last message from a shipwrecked sailor. Instead, written in a neat round hand, I read the following lines:

Amanda stared into the mirror—and a myriad copies of herself stared back. Endless reflections, stretching off into infinity. She turned her head and the rows and ranks of tiny Amandas turned with her. She rested her head in her hands and gazed dreamily at all the little faces, half turned toward her, half away.

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Here I sort of let the writing take primary importance over plot, and let it go wherever it wanted. It was quite interesting to write but I don't think it's very satisfying to read. Maybe if I added a dark and mysterious secret, and dropped hints all through, and stopped just a little too soon...I'll have to work on that.



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