Hanna Plotnikava, My Kingdom
Illusion of Dreams & Existence
Crisosto Apache
Driving home, fearing the dream may happen again. A child crosses the road and stares at me. Looking at my own hands, trying not to look up. I do. Does the child exist? People cross the street. My arm hurts. Scars run up, dividing the skin into shallow rivers of broken elastic bands. People intertwine into moving shapes strobing in the sun’s immaculate light. The street is clear, and the child is the last to cross. Does the child exist? Rolling down my window. Cool air dries the sweat off my forehead. Driving past and stopping, hoping it isn’t happening again. People cross the street and the child stares at me. Looking away and fighting the urge to look again. Does the child exist? Driving on. That night I sleep. Waking from a strange noise coming from another room. Getting out of bed and walking down the hallway. Stopping in front of the bedroom the noise stops. Turning around and heading back to bed. In my sleep, I wake to the sound of a crying baby. Sitting up in bed and notice I am alone and then go back to sleep. In the morning I rise and get ready for work. Sipping coffee, I hear a child laughing from the other bedroom. Looking in the direction of the door the noise stops. Does the child exist? Leaving the house, getting in the car, and proceeding to work. Turning my head and begin to back out of the driveway. In my periphery, I notice a child walking. Stopping as the child turns to me. Rolling down my window and asking the child’s name. The child turns and runs. Continuing to work. Does the child exist? Driving my usual route home that evening and it happens again. On the way, stopping twice and seeing the child each time. I begin to worry about these visual reoccurrences. Does the child exist? That night I go to bed early. In the night waking again to the strange noise coming from the spare bedroom. Crawling out of bed and walking down the hall. The noise stops near the bedroom door. Turning around and heading back to bed. The next morning, I am waking to the sound of a laughing child. Crawling out of bed and noticing I am alone. Getting dressed and heading downstairs to drink coffee. From the kitchen, I hear crying coming from the spare bedroom. Approaching the door, and staring at the knob, the noise persists. Slowly swinging the door open and entering the room. Looking around. The room is empty. Turning around and exiting the room and thinking, does the child not –exist?
Crisosto Apache
Driving home, fearing the dream may happen again. A child crosses the road and stares at me. Looking at my own hands, trying not to look up. I do. Does the child exist? People cross the street. My arm hurts. Scars run up, dividing the skin into shallow rivers of broken elastic bands. People intertwine into moving shapes strobing in the sun’s immaculate light. The street is clear, and the child is the last to cross. Does the child exist? Rolling down my window. Cool air dries the sweat off my forehead. Driving past and stopping, hoping it isn’t happening again. People cross the street and the child stares at me. Looking away and fighting the urge to look again. Does the child exist? Driving on. That night I sleep. Waking from a strange noise coming from another room. Getting out of bed and walking down the hallway. Stopping in front of the bedroom the noise stops. Turning around and heading back to bed. In my sleep, I wake to the sound of a crying baby. Sitting up in bed and notice I am alone and then go back to sleep. In the morning I rise and get ready for work. Sipping coffee, I hear a child laughing from the other bedroom. Looking in the direction of the door the noise stops. Does the child exist? Leaving the house, getting in the car, and proceeding to work. Turning my head and begin to back out of the driveway. In my periphery, I notice a child walking. Stopping as the child turns to me. Rolling down my window and asking the child’s name. The child turns and runs. Continuing to work. Does the child exist? Driving my usual route home that evening and it happens again. On the way, stopping twice and seeing the child each time. I begin to worry about these visual reoccurrences. Does the child exist? That night I go to bed early. In the night waking again to the strange noise coming from the spare bedroom. Crawling out of bed and walking down the hall. The noise stops near the bedroom door. Turning around and heading back to bed. The next morning, I am waking to the sound of a laughing child. Crawling out of bed and noticing I am alone. Getting dressed and heading downstairs to drink coffee. From the kitchen, I hear crying coming from the spare bedroom. Approaching the door, and staring at the knob, the noise persists. Slowly swinging the door open and entering the room. Looking around. The room is empty. Turning around and exiting the room and thinking, does the child not –exist?