Five Card Story: A Day in the Life of Abigail Gray

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a Five Card Flickr story by Alice Feldman created Sep 28 2009, 02:01:28 pm. Create a new one!

flickr photo credits: (1) krutscjo (2) Choconancy1 (3) spacedlawyer (4) Rachel Smith (5) krutscjo

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It was a billowing Sunday afternoon, the wind stripping the warmth from my body as I walked throughout the secured courtyard of the Museaum of Post-Modern Art. In passing the pond, I see a row or flowers arranged in chromatic scatterings. I take one step back, then one step more. Slowly the picture comes into focus. It is a face, whishpering into the wind. This museaum brings chills to my spine.

Abigail - She pulls her black matte trenchcoat closer to her body, trying to keep he warmth in. I walk on.

There is a memoir of a woman, Eliza Browne, condemmned for withchery in the late 1700's. She was seen taking a stroll in the sky, says the tombstone. Abigail shudders and marches on. I suppose she isn't a big fan of the supernatural. Hell, I wouldn' be either with a story like hers.

We end our stroll by a towering stone gazebo at the exit of the museuam. I ask Abigail if she would like to go out for tea. She averts her eyes from mine and points her head at the ground. Her delicate fingers graze her ear as she tucks a few strands of her honey-mist hair away. She mumbles an almost incoherent "yes". I understand, and take her by the hand and lead her out of the musueam.

In the cafe, where we order green tea, and proceed to discuss. I look up at the crisscrossing lacings of ceiling above me. I ponder about colonial America and witchery and almost forget about Abigail until she prods me with her spoon. Abigail Gray speaks, a full sentence. The first one in over a week, and she says, "I'm ready now."

Abigail Gray - that's my name, she tells me. I let her continue, I don't want to interject at a crucial moment like this. You see sir, two weeks ago, not long after my late grandfather's death -- she's so educated, I think to myself -- I started to have these corrupt visions in my sleep. Nightmares, I think you may call them. -- she winks in my direction, fully at ease now -- I saw m grandfather walking down our ephemeral spiral staircase; holding out his hand to me. Dancing with me. These visions occcured two or three times before I decided to tell my gaurdians about them -- the two snobby people that sent Abigail to me, I remember them -- ... she loses her thought for a moment, but then smiles and goes back in. And now, I am sitting here with you. With you trying to understand me and trying to force a few words out of me. Well here you have it, it's all yours. You can go home and write up your report once I'm through speaking. You can even publish a bloody book if you'd like! -- I place my cup down and glance up at her, a little unconvinced. But just in case, I reach into my messenger bag and pull out my notepad. -- I, Abigail Gray resign. No longer shall I stay on this Earth with these gray people. I resign. Tomorrow I am joining my ken in the spirit world, and anyone that would enjoy a spirital evacuation may attend. I shall be leaving at a quarter past noon in the old Saint William's Cathedral. Thank you. -- I jot down her last few words, and steal a glance up at her. With my line of work, you really don't see too many surprises. She's a nice girl, good looking. Too bad she's loony.-- And with that, I take Abigail by the hand and escort her home, her trenchcoat flying in the wind all the while. As I sit her into her taxi cab, she says three words to me, "Remember my name." And that's the last I ever saw of her.

Two days later, it was all over the paper. The girl. The death. The wind. The colour. Abigail Gray, executing her last performance by St. William's, falls into a heap. And sputters out a few last words before dieing. Not very unusual, actresses love to go out in style. But, the reason I never forgot Abigail Gray?

All of the pictures and photographs taken on the day of her death St. William's cathedral, all of them, were gray. Everything in every picture is the most peculiar shade of silver- gray. Except for Abigail, she glows like the shine of her honeymist hair. And that's why I never forgot about Abigail Gray. I've seen a lot of things in my line of work, but I've never seen someone like her.

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flickr photo credits: (1) krutscjo (2) Choconancy1 (3) spacedlawyer (4) Rachel Smith (5) krutscjo

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