The City

It always starts the same.  A view of the city from the hill, white, bleached, the sun reflectig off the buildings.  I see the familiar path which leads down the hill, descending in serpentine coils.  And always the city, white and unshimmering in the clear air.  Once more I start toward it, down the path.  The same objects mark the way, glistening in the warm afternoon sunshine.  As I come to each, I look for the next, and thus come to the base of the hill and the outskirts of the city.  The heat becomes more intense.  Dark shadows move between the buildings on the streets themselves, in the shadow of the buildings, black interstices flowing around the white lacunae, the only contrast to the brightness.  I come to the fountain, pause as always to watch the water cascading down, splashing, sparkling where the sun’s rays touch it.  Nearby is the oak tree, its branches spread wide.  Luminous flying insects dart between the branches.  I pass through the archway.  The city is old, paved in cobblestones.  I walk upon the familiar cobblestones, feeling their hardness under my feet.  A stream runs through the city.  I cross the bridge and pause to watch the fishes flash silver scales toward the sun.  They appear transparent in the clearness of the water, silvery forms against the white watery background.  The bridge continues as a path that crosses a courtyard and ends in steps that lead to a building.  I climb the steps and pass between two columns, vertical shafts of light in the sun, and through doors which, as always, are open awaiting me.  I follow the corridor the length of the building and come to the same room, which I enter.  The room is empty except for a picture on the far wall.  I approach the picture.  I am unable to focus on the subject.  I strain to see it.  My effort is useless, the picture fades.

The dream is always the same.

The objects all fall into place as I knew they would.  The heat is unbearable.  Everything is brightness except for the shadows which appear only for a moment before disappearing.  Instead of being reassured by the objects which come and pass exactly as the dream, I become more and more frightened.  Faster I run.  Everything is happening more rapidly than the dream.  The fright is replaced by dread, but a dread mixed with expectancy.  I round the oak, its black branches outlined in white like a hand thrust against the sky.  The sky is bright, too bright to look at.  There is no sun to be seen now but the sky is bright.  I pass through the the arch; it casts no shadow.  I run across the cobblestones.  My feet make no sound on them.  All as the dream.  Am I in the dream?  Over the bridge.  The silver fishes flash.  Up the steps, noiselessly.  The doors are open as I knew they would be.  Down the corridor.  My heart is beating.  I feel it rather than hear it.  At each beat a flash of light pounds my eyes.  Breathless, shaken, fearful, I enter the room.  The picture is waiting.  It looms ahead of me.  The room is bright.  I cannot see because of the brightness.  And then I see: I am beyond the dream.  I  recognize the picture, the terrified face, the distended eyes, the outstretched hands, and in the background the city.  It is I.  The picture grows bigger and bigger.  I stretch out my hands . . .

Bio: Larry Lefkowitz’s stories, poetry and humor have appeared in publications in the U.S., Israel and Britain.  He is looking for a publisher for his novel about the assistant to a critic who, following the death of the critic, is asked by the latter's wife to complete an unfinished novel he left.