Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
Still Life
Christine's bare feet sank into the dew-soaked grass and she tried to decide whether she was dreaming.
She was in a grassy field with no recollection of how she got there. The sky was going dark. She was, for some reason, dressed in nothing but a thin white gown that was almost transparent. An enormous willow tree drooped over her head. Nothing was familiar.
Yes, it seems like a dream, she thought, but she still wasn't sure. Everything felt solid and tangible. She could hear her heartbeat. The air was so crisp that it stung her throat when she inhaled; had she ever noticed her breathing in a dream?
Something rustled in the grass nearby.
"Hello?" she said. Her voice sounded strange. It was like hearing an echo come out of her own mouth. "Is someone there?"
More movement, but she could see nothing. She pressed her back against the trunk of the tree. It's all just a dream anyway, she thought. None of this can be real. I will wake up any minute.
She heard footsteps approaching. The sky was going dark, and something was getting closer, and it was just as she felt the touch of an unseen hand at her throat that the scream welled up inside of her, and-
***
Christine woke to sheets tangled around her body and staleness in her mouth. It was hot. Everything was damp with sweat. She kicked her way out of bed and stumbled to the window, sticking her head out. Three stories below she could see the pavement baking on the street.
She was sure she had been dreaming a moment ago, but now she couldn't remember anything about it. The clock told her it was noon. She dressed without even knowing what she was putting on. Her mind was already on the thing that was waiting for her in the living room: the painting.
The easel stood in the center of the room, and she approached it slowly, almost reverently. She felt a little thrill run through her as she turned it and saw the canvas she had finished last night: the scene showed a pale, blonde, nymph-like woman in a barely-there gown, lying in a green field under a rather dreary willow tree. She reclined on her side, head propped on one hand, chin tilted down, all daintiness and gossamer fabric and flowing hair. She looked (or at least, Christine wanted her to look) carefree and distracted.