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Mark Feffer

December 19, 2013



Sometimes I dream in music. It winds toward me like a carpet gone mad, and if I stay in place it twists its scale around my neck, pulling tight until I cough up reds and yellows and greens, every color there is except for blue. Blue I get to keep for myself, blue that is touched in places with gray like mist, sky-light on one side, ink on the other, scattered patches of an evening’s moonlight in places breaking through.

The blue is what saves me, in the same way blue-colored blood saves you through the simple act of reaching your heart. It saves me when I fall and scatter the mist so that wherever I look, I see its shades glimmering, colliding against each other, failing to coalesce, everything around me shimmering in the way water shimmers as the sun goes down. The mist will rise from the water and surround me, blocking everything from sight except what I stand on, which is wet and firm, blocking the music, letting me dream for a scant minute in pictures before I smell the salty, sour tone of stagnant water. It makes me think of other places, of old wood boats that float tentatively with algae and barnacles growing thick around their hulls, their decks slick even in dry weather, held in place by the fog that plays around them, in with the tide, out with the tide.

Standing at the stern I see only halfway up the deck. I see nothing over the rail, hear only algae brushing the water and the occasional patient footfall of the woman who stands at the edge of my sight, her hand wrapped lightly around a shroud. A beautiful woman, she is years older than me, but younger in her movements, voluptuous and tall, with skin a perfect tan from living in bright light though she seems comfortable here on this old boat, in this night’s fog, and I move quietly toward her, softly, softly, and when I am close enough so that I am something more than a blur she turns and her eyes alight on mine as if she has known me for years. The coat she wears is unbuttoned, what she wears beneath is gray and tight and I feel that if I speak I will change things, for better or worse, I don’t know, but will change things.

She turns to me and I think she’ll give me something besides blue, but all she concedes is the slightest of slight, sad smiles and then she says, Oh, my darling, I’m looking for a man who dreams in words.



Mark Feffer has been a writer, journalist, video editor and multimedia producer. He envisioned the end of the world in his novel “September,” published in 2006. Born in Swampscott, Massachusetts, he earned a bachelor’s degree in Broadcasting and Film from Boston University and a master’s degree in Journalism from Northwestern University. He lives in Bucks County, Pennsylvania.

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