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Crestwood was a town of familiar routines and that afternoon, as the sun draped its golden hue over the town’s vintage stores and little cafés, I found myself strolling the streets, seeking inspiration for my next artwork. My canvas awaited at home, but the colors and shapes eluded me, as they often did when my 'gift' decided to interfere. I needed clear inspiration, not fuzzy imagery from some strange part of my brain.
I’d always been in tune with more than just the tangible world. Yes, it had been this way for as long as I could remember. Vibrant images painted themselves in my mind, sometimes clear and specific, other times shadowy and abstract. Hands, faces, eyes or even weird creatures. I should have been an illustrator, not a painter.
Over time, I'd come to realize that these strange images weren't mere figments of imagination, but something else entirely different. My artistry combined with my clairvoyant knack, was both a blessing and a curse.
As I walked past Mrs. Rooney's bakery, I was almost lured inside by the delicious aroma of fresh pastries. Her cinnamon buns were to die for, but I already struggled with my weight. In a world where being rockstar skinny was the pinnacle of beauty, I had round covers and had even been described as plump by my ex-boyfriend. No, I wouldn’t indulge today, but the flyer taped to the window caught my eye. The handwritten note spoke of a 'Support Group for Unusual Experiencers' hosted by none other than Dr. Emily Thompson.
Dr. Emily? That’s my doctor! Or she used to be. I couldn’t afford sessions at the moment. I hadn’t sold any art in months.
I paused, my heart thudding in my chest.
The word 'unusual' echoed in my mind. Wasn’t that what my life had become since the visions began? It wasn't easy living in a town like Crestwood, with its ever-watchful eyes and tongues eager for gossip. I’d always been 'Clara, the dreamy artist.' But, if they knew about my visions, would the title change to 'Clara, the freak'?
The thought of sharing my experiences with a group both tempted and terrified me, but then again, I was one to be a daredevil, despite my build and otherwise cautious nature.
On one hand, there was the promise of understanding, the lure of meeting people who might be experiencing the same phenomena as me. On the other, there was the risk of being exposed, misunderstood, or worse, ridiculed for being vulnerable. Yuck. I didn’t have much luck with being vulnerable. I chewed my bottom lip, pondering my next move.
To be or not to be a part of this group? That was the dilemma.
Feeling torn, I continued my walk, but those bright colored flyers were everywhere. I spotted another on a lamppost, then one outside the library, and even one on the community board at the local diner.
Crestwood wasn’t that big, but Dr. Emily Thompson had made sure her message reached every corner. Was this a sign?
By the fifth flyer, my apprehension was eclipsed by a budding curiosity. Who else in Crestwood had had unusual experiences? How do they deal with it? If there were others like me, perhaps we could find solace in shared experiences. My fingers traced the date and time of the meeting, mentally bookmarking it.
My sketches that evening had not improved and in fact, were even more distracted. Shades of blue and grey swirled around the canvas, merging and twisting in a dance of their own. They blended to make a boring goop of color that could only be described as battleship gray. It was clear my thoughts were occupied by the impending meeting, by the myriad of possibilities it presented.
Between the Late Show and the late movie, I came to a decision. I’d attend Dr. Thompson’s support group once, just to listen. I needed answers, and perhaps this was the universe’s way of guiding me toward them.
Tomorrow, maybe I will step into a world of shared secrets, hoping to find a piece of my own puzzle in the stories of others.
The haunting afterimage of my most recent vision pressed on the back of my eyelids – a fiery burst, its incandescent flames reaching out hungrily. Such vivid bursts were always disturbing, a stark contrast to the often serene and tranquil town that was Crestwood.
The flames weren't merely orange and red; they were an orchestra of purples, blues, and golds, coalescing into a dance of destruction. And amid those flames, I could discern vague shadows. Figures, perhaps? Or just a play of my imagination? It was hard to tell.
There was a burning in my gut, an urge to translate this vision onto paper. These images had a peculiar way of overwhelming me if I didn’t let them out. Not again. With a sigh, I rose from my bed and trudged to my studio, a space filled with half-finished paintings and worn-out sketchbooks. I had commissions that needed to be completed, but I was totally and completely blocked. That needed to change or else I’d have to move back home.
The room, dimly lit by a single lamp, seemed to welcome me, almost sensing my need to vent my emotions. Maybe if I do this I can get back to my work. Maybe.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my trembling hands. Reaching for my charcoal, I started with the heart of the fire, where the intensity was the greatest. The strokes were broad and harsh initially, echoing the violence of the vision. But as the minutes ticked by, the sketch began to take on a more nuanced form. The subtle gradations, the play of light and shadow, the intricate patterns the flames made as they danced – everything flowed onto the paper as if the vision guided my hand rather than my own conscious thought.
The process was cathartic, each stroke serving as an outlet for the maelstrom of emotions roiling within. But as the vision poured out, an inexplicable weight settled on my shoulders. Was I just recreating a figment of my imagination or was this a forewarning of something more tangible? The uncertainty was exhausting.
An hour later, with my energy spent and the weight of the vision somewhat lifted, I stepped back to look at the sketch. It was as if the paper had caught fire itself. The dynamic strokes and whirls of the charcoal had captured the essence of the vision in a raw, unfiltered manner. The very sight of it drained me, and yet, I couldn't pull my gaze away. Despite my hopes, the vision, though now on paper, continued to burn in my mind.
I wondered if the flames were merely a symbol or a sign of events yet to unfold. That seemed impossible, but I couldn’t be sure. With a sigh, I decided to call it a night. But as I drifted off to sleep, the words on Dr. Emily Thompson's flyer floated back, offering a glimmer of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, there were answers out there.
