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The Me in the Mirror - Response to a Brenda Arledge Word Prompt

I’ve enjoyed writing for many years. I'm dedicating more time to the craft in my retirement days.

Word Prompt = Mirror

Brenda Arledge, fellow writer here on HP, put this prompt out there nearly two months ago now. I started this piece all the way back in early July, but only got around to finishing it up these past two days. Enjoy, and have a good weekend, everyone!

“The Me in the Mirror”

His reflection in the glass beckoned, lips moving, forming the words, as his own mouth kept perfect time:

“Come on. Try it. Enter.”

So, he did. He stepped right through, right into the glass reflection, eye melding with eye, finger pushing into and through finger, into mirror glass, ten digits each dissolving into one and then the other, feet and knees and toes and all the everything else sliding through and then all the way in, passing through some barrier that was no barrier at all.

He gasped, looked down at his hands, turned them palm up, palm down, repeated these movements thrice more.

He then wheeled ‘round in time to catch himself wheeling ‘round, turning back to give glance at the him behind him. And there he was…looking like a jackass staring at a new gate, as his father-in-law would say. Or, better still, like a pig looking at a wristwatch, maybe. This was a favored debriefing room phrase after a go or two of air-to-air engagements. It happened often enough: a pilot lost situational awareness in the midst of a dogfight, turned into dried sage tumbleweed blowing aimlessly across a lonesome northwestern highway. He grinned unconsciously, saw his reflection do the same, noticed the look came off as more smirk than smile.

“Can I do that again?” he asked of himself, touching fingers to the glass, his likeness doing the same from its now-reversed position.

“Not likely, my friend.” He could feel and see his lips moving in the reflection, but he did not speak.

He didn’t understand how or why, but he was then compelled to turn, and did so. He walked out of the room, around the corner, out of sight of the mirror. He was still working on the how and why when suddenly he was once again standing in front of the mirror, looking at himself, grinning, holding by its cocking lever in his left hand a Model 1938 Red Ryder BB Gun.

Before he knew what was happening, the trigger was pulled. Mirror glass splintered, crackled, tinkled to the floor in hundreds of shimmering shards.

“You’ll put an eye out,” he said, as he looked down at the myriad pieces of his reflection scattered in the mirror mosaic around his feet.

Then he laughed maniacally, turned and walked out of the room into the unfamiliar house.

“Hey, honey, where do we keep the broom and dust pan?”

© 2021 greg cain