\nDid you comb your hair the other way this morning? Do I see you face-on or widdershins? Behind us an abandoned city of the ancients pierces the sky, but I have eyes only for you: the boy staring back at me from the sparkling surface of the lake, so like me but not me.\n<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m told the city offers countless wonders; strange reflections in the lake are just local superstition. But after hours of staring, the differences between us accumulate. Visible only in snatches, animated by the glitter dance of light on the water. The saccades of your eyes, individual windblown hairs, the smile haunting the corner of your mouth.\n<\/p>\n
\nOr how, when my attention wavers, I glimpse you flick your hair the other way and laugh.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nProfessor Sloeworthy glowers into the city\u2019s depths, like a fat dragon hoarding treasure.\n<\/p>\n
\nI arrived with her expedition a week ago, trading life as a gutter rat to be little more than a slave. But it\u2019s my only chance to taste adventure; I spent too many years on the streets to go it alone, to risk failing and returning to penury.\n<\/p>\n
\nSloeworthy and her assistants attend to the glamorous mysteries. Gravity going wobbly. Machines that never run out of power. Doors connecting buildings miles apart.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe drudgery of studying you, an unsubstantiated local fairy-tale, falls to me\u2014after I have cleaned camp, prepared meals, washed clothes, taken a beating to ease the others\u2019 frustrations.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIt\u2019s nonsense, but record everything, Adewale,\u201d Sloeworthy yells. \u201cThat is, if you can <\/em>write.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nDespite her dismissiveness, the water disturbs her, shimmering even on overcast days. She doesn\u2019t want to admit what she sees. In her world, what shies from cold analysis doesn\u2019t exist.\n<\/p>\n \nBut I know better. By night, I drown in dreams thick as molasses: dreams of the millions who once lived here, speaking with their reflections in the lake.\n<\/p>\n \nAcquaintances. Maybe friends.\n<\/p>\n \n \nSloeworthy heard about the reflections from local fishermen. They are loathe to disturb the lake. They go out only on windless days when the surface is smooth as glass.\n<\/p>\n \nThey speak of reflections scratching an ear or sneezing, all on their own. An old man claims that his likeness once caught a giant catfish and got pulled under, never to resurface.\n<\/p>\n \nFearful, he refused to go near the lake, and orders us away.\n<\/p>\n \n \nAfter weeks of studying moments trapped in ripple and shimmer like flies in amber, you and I glimpse one another more easily.\n<\/p>\n \nThe others, meanwhile, grow confused. The city resists them. They mutter darkly into the shimmering lake when they think nobody is looking.\n<\/p>\n \nI wake early to find a word written backward in breath on the privy mirror.\n<\/p>\n \nA-D-E-W-A-L-E.<\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nOur name, written by your hand, manifest on my side.\n<\/p>\n \nI almost wake the others. This is my ticket to real status. To adventure!\n<\/p>\n \nBut then I see your knowing smile in the water and tell no one.\n<\/p>\n \n \nYour Sloeworthy yells even more than mine. Both have dark circles under their eyes. Last night, one of Sloeworthy\u2019s assistants drowned in the lake. They beat us, then I wade into the water, standing foot-to-foot with you. You jump and stamp and tear your hair, fracturing from me, while I remain frozen in perfect desynchrony.\n<\/p>\n \nI find your outburst cathartic. To survive the streets, I had to bottle my temper, sit on my dreams. Now, I warm myself by the embers of your rage. I dare to feel again, just a little.\n<\/p>\n \nLater, I realise that in the excitement I have lost a shoe.\n<\/p>\n \n \nMore items go missing. A hairnet, a comb, a sock.\n<\/p>\n \nThen I find Sloeworthy\u2019s hat under my pillow. I hasten to return it, only to find her wearing it.\n<\/p>\n \nI stumble to the lake to see you sitting on a rock, polishing a shoe. My shoe.\n<\/p>\n \nThe lake glitters. You laugh, clamping your hands over your mouth, faerie-like.\n<\/p>\n \n \nYou show me your loot from my side. You demonstrate reaching <\/em>with eyes closed. Soon I can pinch things from your side, too.\n<\/p>\n \nFor the first time, I feel like I matter. I have power.\n<\/p>\n \nBy now, our expressions rarely align. You look to the mountains. To adventure. Excitement fills your eyes.\n<\/p>\n \nBut I\u2019m afraid of losing the first wonderful thing that ever belonged to me. If only I could be with you for real. Then I\u2019d be brave enough to chase any dream.\n<\/p>\n \n \nSloeworthy would give anything to know what I know. She would reward me handsomely, at least stop the beatings.\n<\/p>\n \nBut I won\u2019t give you up for anything.\n<\/p>\n \nYour gaze is fixed more and more on the mountains. I beg you to wait until I find a way to come over to your side. It\u2019s just a matter of commitment. Why else would you be here if not to lead me to a better life.\n<\/p>\n \n \nYou have a black eye. Your Sloeworthy yells at you, having discovered your loot from my side; my Sloeworthy yells at the lake for driving her team mad. It\u2019s all coming apart.\n<\/p>\n \nYou shimmer-shine and shadowcast, speaking our found tongue: Let\u2019s go.<\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nBut I can\u2019t.\n<\/p>\n \nAshamed, I hide, away from the water.\n<\/p>\n \n \nCome morning, I have no reflection in the lake.\n<\/p>\n \nBefore Sloeworthy can grab me, I run to the fisherman with no reflection.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhen\u2019d your other leave?\u201d he barks.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHow did you know?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cLook like you ain\u2019t sure if you gonna drop dead.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWill I?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cStill here, ain\u2019t I?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cBut I don\u2019t want to be afraid like you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHe flinches. \u201cCity ain\u2019t abandoned for nothing: lake shows not what\u2019s outside but what\u2019s inside. What\u2019s in me is dreams of drowning; this life dragged on too long.\u201d He turns rheumy eyes on me. \u201cWhat\u2019s in you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAdventure,\u201d I say, realising that you were only ever a part of me, one that has already left.\n<\/p>\n \nAll the rest of me must do is follow.\n<\/p>\n \nWho knows, maybe we\u2019ll bump into one another again.\n<\/p>\n “Arthur H. Manners (he\/him) is a British speculative fiction writer, with a background in space physics and data science. His work is published in places like Strange Horizons, DreamForge, and Drabblecast. In 2023, he received the Writers of the Future award. He\u2019s currently working on a cosmic-scale science fiction novel involving alien megastructures, chaos theory and fractal mayhem. Find him on Twitter (@a_h_manners<\/a>), Instagram (@docmanners<\/a>) or his website (www.arthurmanners.com<\/a>). Sign up to his newsletter for new story updates, cat photos, and links to science, art and other eclectic titbits (http:\/\/eepurl.com\/hAQw8b<\/a>).”\n<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Did you comb your hair the other way this morning? Do I see you face-on or widdershins? Behind us an abandoned city of the ancients pierces the sky, but I have eyes only for you: the boy staring back at me from the sparkling surface of the lake, so like me but not me. I\u2019m …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107985,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[10,3,20142],"tags":[20143],"class_list":["post-140407","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fantasy","category-fiction","category-tcl-54-winter-2025","tag-the-colored-lens-54-winter-2025","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140407","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107985"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140407"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140407\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140416,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140407\/revisions\/140416"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140407"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140407"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140407"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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