Follow Your Heart
Copyright 1998 Ginger Johnson
All Rights Reserved
Tara glanced in the antique mirror holding court in the store's only window. The surface dulled by time's hand, caught and tossed back light from a street lamp. Frowning, she stopped and watched her image shimmer in the reflection. She held her breath as her closely cropped blue-black hair lengthened until it stretched past her waist. Her blue eyes took on an eerie shade until they almost matched the color of her hair.
The jeans she wore melted away, in their place a dress appeared. Not knowledgeable in history, instinct told her the dress was old. Flaming red, the velvet beckoned for her touch, but the glass barricaded her from the material.
The surface shifted again and a field of heather gathered behind the woman. A caste's grey slated walls dominated the horizon, imposing its will on the land. Turrets lanced the billowy clouds racing above them. Stunned, Tara felt the wind whip through her hair, wrap itself around her slender frame, caressing her skin.
She watched herself turn toward the fields and the citadel reigning over them. Tara touched the window, the cold of the glass crept up her arm. Her heart ached to follow. Turning, her image whispered, "throw off the human body . . . come home where your heart resides."
Tears tumbled down Tara's cheeks as she watched herself grow smaller, the mirror's opaque surface reappearing.