Here it is for your reading pleasure:
“The Post Card”
Lucinda stood in the art museum gift shop looking for a postcard for Mother. This trip to London had been amazing, and she wanted so badly to share it. But somehow, none of the reproductions on the little cards could capture the thrill of standing just inches away from a masterpiece. Close enough to examine the very brushstrokes of a great artist. Close enough to even touch the canvas (an unthinkable sacrilege for an art history major, but tempting, none the less).
She gave the postcard rack a languid spin. Nothing caught her eye. Why couldn’t she find a reproduction of that beautiful painting she’d seen in the Pre-Raphaelite gallery? It was a girl in a garden, sitting on the low stone wall of a fountain. She had milk-white skin, a brilliant green dress, and waves of glorious red hair cascading down her back. Mother would adore it. It was so like a scene from the kinds of books she loved.
Closing her eyes, Lucinda visualized the painting. She snorted softly and spun the card rack hard, as though it were a merry-go-round, not a merchandise display. A breeze fanned her face as the rack whirled around. She blinked, expecting to see cards flying in every direction. Instead, a dark funnel cloud hovered before her.
She reached toward the tiny tornado, intending to stop it, but was sucked into its vortex–a little girl on a merry-go-round turning much too fast. The gift shop was spinning, spinning, spinning. She felt sick. Closing her eyes, she reached out, grasping for something, anything.
Her hand closed on a postcard: the Pre-Raphaelite painting. Her head throbbed. Make it stop.
The world ground slowly to a halt. The postcard she’d been clutching had evaporated. The gift shop was gone. Instead, she found herself seated by the garden fountain from the painting. She peered into the water and gasped as she recognized the emerald gown, the milk white hands, and the flaming red hair cascading over her shoulders.
Copyright © 2015 Rebecca D. Bruner