st_germain skitsch dennis browne yawned. he was finding it difficult to wake early, early as 5:30, as if something in his astral dreams tugged at his will to begin. a dream, there was in present tense, of standing at the top of a ridiculously high ladder with his chihuahua in his arms. there was someone beside him. a man, perhaps. they briefly discussed how high they were and respected the obvious danger of the unreasonable and impossible acclivity. and then one more came floating in on the rising tide in the pitch black of middle darkness. at first it was about a recalcitrant dog, which then shifted like dreams do, being cast about by turbulent seas and riptides, to a young girl who he was somehow considering to adopt. she was fragile, but fearless, sowing a naive evil, unaware, yet elusive. he sat up, fully awake now, his hair swept into a cowlick from tossing and turning and being baked by the forced air heat. he felt his neck, burning slightly with sweat. his clothes from the night before sat on an old rocking chair beside his bed which had been in his family since he was a small boy. he pulled cordoroy pants on his sore legs, being careful not to bend his knee too sharply. he was nursing stress from skiing. he ran his arms into a fleece and then stood up. a copy of new york magazine fell to the wood floor. he pulled a thin curtain aside and looked out the same window he was used to seeing the full moon bathing in midnight clouds. there was a strange car in the driveway. 100117 ... skitsch dennis instinctively raised his right hand to his head and fisted a chunk of his short but thick hair. who is this? he thought, blinking fast twice, pausing, and then once more. he stepped over to the dresser drawers, spotting the picture of himself with his team of spelunkers. they were head to toe in wet mud and had just completed a day exploring a medium sized cave near tully in upstate new york. he pulled open the top drawer and dug for a pair of black socks. his feet were a mess. he liked to cover them up, just as he covered his true self. he shut the drawer and bounded downstairs. pushing through his cluttered office, he yanked on a pair of mucking boots, barn jacket, and a ski hat. a siamese cat meowed both a greeting and a plea to go outside. he pulled the wooden door opened and tapped the screen door forward. he heard the rooster and a distant whinney from one of his horses, probably the pony. the cat slunk like a ribbon around his feet and skipped into the morning. there was no sound from the car or movement. he identified it as a black mini cooper with white stripes. dennis strained to see inside the vehicle from where he stood on the porch, gazing through a dormant wisteria vine. with all the trees leafless, his vista was improved, but the light from the day's ardent beginning was creating an obtrusive glare, rendering it impossible to know if anyone was actuallys inside. he walked off the wooden porch, on to the stone patio, past the century old walnut tree that once held a swing and now offered shade to an iron birdbath that sat on a circle of moss laden creek rocks, each one placed into a mosaic. down the driveway, he approached the tiny car with a mixture of fur-raised confidence and friendly, if not interested, curiosity. the windshield reflected the sunrise and appeared to be painted with the color of a bellini. dennis could now see a person in the car. it was a woman. she was in the passenger seat. she wasn't moving. 100118 ... skitsch dennis could feel his heart racing. the shock of the woman's presence made him nervous. he quickly went to the driver's side and checked the door. it was open. he could hear the welcome of the electronic beeping, bringing a poetic sense of reality to his growing curiosity. he slid his body in and leaned across the leather seat, pressing up against the steering wheel. observing her flushed cheeks, he hoped she was only asleep,and braced himself with his left hand and tried gently waking her by tugging at her shoulder with his right hand. she didn't respond. he tried harder and then attempted to nudge her on the cheek, yelling to her, but still she laid motionless. with two fingers he checked the pulse at her neck. it was strong. her skin was warm. he put his ear to her mouth and heard her gentle, steady breathing. dennis felt better. at least she's alive, he thought, relieved. he sighed, and pushed his hair off his forehead. he could hear his own voice and realized he had been talking to himself, and using mostly swear words. he caught sight of her purse on the floor between her feet. he didn't hesitate and reached down to search for identification. he found her wallet immediately and looked for a driver's license. looking past several credit cards, he found only one card with a photo, but it was in french and resembled a simple i.d. card. "anna lacroix," he read aloud and studied the photo, then gazed at the actual woman's face. it was her for sure. there was the shoulder length brown hair, the same arch of the eyebrows, the same angle on her nose, the part of the lips. the address was st. germain. but what is she doing passed out in my driveway? dennis thought, perplexed. and perhaps more importantly, he wondered, biting his cheek, who had been driving? 100118 ... skitsch dennis was also able to find a small leather journal in the unconscious woman's purse. he opened it to the first page. it was the only one that contained words. the rest of the book had illustrations of faeries and fawns, centaurs and pans, even giants. there was a single paragraph written in piss poor french, as follows... "nous irons ensemble à un endroit que nous ne pouvons pas aller à moins que nous soyons disposés." dennis didn't speak french but he had spent much time in france and had even been to st. germain-en-leye during the festivals as a clown. he knew enough of the intrinsically beautiful language to roughly translate the handwritten text as, "we will go together to a place we cannot go unless we are willing." dennis sat over in the front seat, feeling the leather suck him in like a lap dance. he thumbed through the images, most of them in ink and what appeared to be dried blood. ink is blood, dennis mused. he could feel himself clenching his teeth. something is about to happen to me, he thought and this thought was like a bird calling out of the silence to announce that spring is coming. the final picture alerted his vision with something akin to a jolt of hotwire. it was himself. and at that very moment of recognition he felt a sting on his neck, just below his right ear. it felt like a bee sting, but instead of the immediate burn easing, it only continued with greater intensity. his hand rose instinctively to determine what it was. he felt a small wooden needle and yanked it out. there was a drop of his own blood glistening on the tip, shining like a lone red star in a sky of muted grey. i've been poisoned was his first thought. actually, he had been victim to a laced blowgun dart. a wave of anxiety hit dennis and he felt himself tumbling upside down in a crashing surf, around and around, upside down. his breath was like a bird flying out of his mouth. he kept reaching for it and it began to flap its wings slower and slower, its feathers changing colors until the sky behind it also exchanged hue until all, bird and sky were one smudge of yellow, then grey, then black. dennis slumped into the seat. he was out cold in less than a minute. 100119 ... skitsch perhaps when you are dreaming you feel a unique sensation that is much like if you had made a wish and then found it surprisingly coming true right and solid before your very eyes. well, thia ia pretty much what dennis browne experienced as he regained consciousness, not in the world he had lost it, but in another world, in which he had just crossed into from a bridge. he felt lightheaded and somewhat weak, but upon the ascertainment of his fortunate elocution, he smiled and stepped forward with expectation of social engagement, much like dorothy's anticipation moments before meeting the scarecrow. he opened his eyes and found himself sitting in the front seat of the same mini cooper, yet now, the woman was awake and she was smiling. the top of the convertible was down and the sun was shining. they were parked solitary along the edge of a lake. the woman was now wearing her sunglasses and had a scarf around her head to ward off the wind. she was smiling and quoting rimbauld. "idle youth enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive i have wasted my life." 100120 ... log burning fire elder flowers 121204 what's it to you? who go blather from