Isabella Lee

As she raises her arm, following an arc from her thigh to over her head, she imagines that she is the one who sprinkled the stars across the night sky.  

Maeve smiles as she rests her head on her mother’s shoulder, nuzzling into the long curve of her neck. Their bare feet are buried deep in the cold sand, their shoulders warmed by her mother’s hand-knitted blanket. In a few hours, Maeve will leave for the city. The job offer sits, starred in her inbox, among the rejections for more desirable positions. Her mother’s shoulder begins to tremble, so she’d rather not meet her gaze.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Daybreak.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Pools of amber light spill into the sapphire sea, like a giant egg yolk. Maeve wonders if she’s ever woken up to see the sun rise before. If not, then she believes she is in ideal company, and wouldn’t mind sitting there for a long, long time.  

The trek home is slow. Her mother attempts to hold her arm – an awkward position, neither sure of which hand should be placed in which elbow’s bend. She strings together some nagging words: 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Make sure you never skip a meal!” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You can always tell me anything that’s going on there.” 

 

‎ ‎ ‎ Maeve nods. She glances up at the winding path leading to their home, then down at the hands wrapped around her elbow. More creases than she remembers. 

‎ ‎ ‎ Standing at the front door, Maeve sees her reflection in the window and smiles. With teeth. Laughing. She shares her mother’s dimples. Her mother spins her around, fussing over her upturned collar.  

‎ ‎ ‎ “Haven’t left anything?” Maeve’s mother mumbles, patting Maeve on her arms. 

‎ ‎ ‎ “No Mum, I love you,” Maeve kisses her mother on the cheek, grabbing a hold of her suitcase before waving and walking away. 

 

Maeve goes past the bay, past her old school. She kicks at some dead leaves on her way, her suitcase bumping along behind her. Sometimes, it hits a branch and flips, twisting Maeve’s arm.  

Maeve’s rented apartment sits at the edge of the city centre, squeezed between skyscrapers. As she stumbles inside, her exhale glides along each wall, undisturbed. The second-hand sofa, bed, and kitchenware that she bought with her mother whilst searching for a place near her job sit quietly. The dipping sun trickles in through the small window, forming a pathetic puddle beside the sofa. Maeve curls up on the sofa and soon falls asleep. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ An elderly man leans against the concrete wall at the entrance. He holds a clipboard, guarding an array of golden booths. ‘Booths’ overstates their detail – they’re more like glowing sticks of butter.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Good morning. Name?” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Maeve.” She reaches out her clammy hands. The man continues skimming his roll.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Ah, welcome. I’m Bert. The orientation guy. Do you come from far?” His voice sounds as though it is perpetually affected by phlegm. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Very.” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bert gestures to a plastic stool placed beside a booth. As Maeve sits, he unclips several documents from his clipboard. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You’re to read and sign these for the higher-ups. Have you heard much about this role?” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Nothing.” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Now, see… each booth is a Home occupied by a Reverie, the revolutionary apparition being trialled by the Corporation. What appears depends on the individual and their… you’ll see for yourself soon enough. You are to enter a Home, meet its Reverie, and record your encounters in this logbook. Your pay will be calculated based on the quality and quantity of your reports.” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bert clears his throat. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Do note,” he mutters, “that the company encourages you to stay in one experience for as long as possible. Does everything make sense?” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Maeve nods.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I’ll leave you to meet the Reverie then.” 

On entering the Home – simply being absorbed by the blinding light – Maeve finds a yellow bench jutting out of a side wall. Maeve stares at the opposite wall for several minutes, trying to recall the warm colours that the sun had splashed on the water’s surface the day before.   

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A marigold-coloured hand unfurls from the wall, reaching its slender fingers towards Maeve. Maeve prods it with one of her own fingers. The hand turns to face its palm to the ceiling, beckoning. Maeve takes hold of it, yanking it towards her torso.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A golden woman emerges, her divine locks of hair spilling out from the wall like rays of afternoon sunshine. She smiles as though something pure has amused her. Her arms stretch around Maeve’s back and Maeve trips off the bench into the embrace, falling through the wall. 

As she raises her arm, following an arc from her thigh to over her head, she imagines that she is the one who sprinkled the stars across the night sky.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The truck bed bumps along the dirt road that she has travelled across before on a road trip. The faceless driver hums a familiar tune, tapping their fingers on the steering wheel as they drive past endless fields. Sparkles seem to spill off the large petals of the flowers planted on this land, showering the dry ground.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She rolls over to take in the beauty that surrounds her – deep pinks, yellows, and oranges, illuminated by moonlight, swaying slightly in the cool night air. She pushes herself against the plush cushions to kneel and slips off the back of the moving truck. It’s a smooth landing, and her feet leave no imprint on the dirt. She walks towards the fields as the driver waves, continuing along the road.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She plucks a couple of the flowers planted closest to one field’s edge. Two more spring up in their place, bursting out of the dirt and immediately spreading their vibrant petals. She lies down again in the centre of one field, inhaling the fresh air, clutching her chosen flowers to her chest, closing her eyes. 

Maeve slumps against the booth, her chest heaving. Her hands travel up the wall that the Reverie emerged from to find a solid façade. She reaches beyond the Home, finding the logbook to scribble down what the Reverie allowed her to see, to do. Maeve tucks her tousled locks back behind her ears before emerging from the booth, collecting her belongings.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Finished? Good going,” Bert exclaims as Maeve approaches him. “Keep your chin up, the Reveries are here to… help.”   

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Maeve watches as some dry leaves tumble by.  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bert waves towards the Homes, glowing even brighter in the darkness. “I’ll call you if someone from the next shift leaves early. If not, then I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Oh… of course. See you then.” 

An incomprehensible amount of time passes.   

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Maeve, I think you should come back. Is the work too stressful? I’m worried about you.”  

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She sits – on the sofa, at the bus stop, at the entrance to the garage, constantly waiting for a call from Bert to say that a Home has freed up and she can work overtime if she wishes. Of course she wishes. 

The doorframe before her is covered with stickers – glittery ones, smiley faces, suns with sunglasses.  

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Mum!” Hurried footsteps echo from some place beyond before her beaming mother appears with her virgin dark roots. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Good morning! Let’s get you dressed, it’s starting soon!” 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her closet is an explosion of rabbits, cartoon characters, and misspelt words. Maeve’s hands hover over each shelf before her mother’s shoot through her shoulder, producing her high school graduation robes from the jumble. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her mother takes her hand and they stumble out of the bedroom. The wind whistles, ricocheting off the white walls of the… school. She’s walking across the stage to collect her graduation certificate, her mother is waving and holding up her camera a few rows back. Her hair is dyed blonde, gleaming in the expanse of grey and white. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ With the blinding flash of the camera, she is nestled in the crook of a warm shoulder, gazing out at the rising sun. She is convinced that she can sit on the bay forever. 

The truth is that Reveries nourish her soul, satiate her more than any food or person ever could. What a job, what a life, what a calling! It’s a thankless position, but she longs for the sun and flowers in every waking moment.