A Day in August
by Ásgrímur Hartmannsson
Everything is white. Wait... Everything is still white. I think I’ll just stare at that for a moment now... there we go. I’m awake, really. Better look around. Yes, it’s white all around all right, at least from where I can see. An entirely white room.
It is made of some sort of cloth, and I can hear it flapping in the wind. It must be pretty bright outside, because the material is letting in plenty of light. I can see the stitches clearly above me.
Speaking of that, I better sit up... Big mistake! The room is spinning... I feel like I need to hurl... Behind that chair there in the corner! Quick! I jump off the table I woke up on and the vomit came out before I realised, but it all goes the same way – behind the chair... I hope.
I feel my stomach empty out. Better stay here for a minute, just in case anything more wants out... Okay, let’s sit down and check out the situation.
I am in a tent of some sort, a white one, with a table in the middle. Why was I sleeping on top of that? The memories are hazy. There is a bench on each side, I sit in this padded chair in the corner, and next to me is a small coffee-table, with a container on top of it.
I check out the container. Buttered bread, with ham, caviar and something else I don’t want to know because I need to puke again...
That was better. Now I suppose I better get out of here before someone discovers what I have left for them in the corner. Now, how do I get out? Damn tents! There must be a zipper on there somewhere... but I am too dizzy to find it... wait! Here it is!
And I escape. To the mud. And hundreds of these white tents, all in an array before me. I look around. There’s this muddy path between them. There are some mats in front of some tents, but they are covered in mud. The whole place smells like a port-a-potty on fire. Looks like there is nobody around, I might be able to escape.
I reach the end of the long line of tents. There is a small pond there, or a medium-sized one, with a little bridge across. There is a lot of junk floating in the water. A few steps to the right there’s a colourful structure of some sort. There are a few windows on it. There’s someone in one, selling popcorn to a kid. They are one of three people I can see there. The third one is ambling out of a large tent across the pond. He is wearing fluorescent bib-overalls and a camo hat.
That reminds me, what am I wearing? I should have known: fluorescent rainclothes. And a camo hat. I must look ridiculous. Better get out of here quick.
What a strange place... there’s a red windmill there... plenty of small igloo tents on what appears to be a golf course. Someone is sleeping on top of one, holding a bottle on his chest. And there, on the other side, next to that medieval shanty is a lighthouse.
A medieval shanty? Forget about it... Let’s just leave. It looks like the cops are here already. I can see their car near an ugly hut next to that medieval structure. Just act naturally. Sure. Nothing wrong with being dressed in an orange raincoat on a sunny day. Not when there’s a lighthouse and a windmill. And hundreds of odd white tents in neat lines.
Must be some sort of a cult. My head is aching. Is that blood? Yes it is. Now there’s a gate. There are two men guarding it with a dog. Wait... oh what the hell. I’ll just try walking out casual-like. They seem more interested in people coming in anyway than me. Or do they?
Let’s find out.
Copyright © 2006 by Ásgrímur Hartmannsson
