p r o l o g u e
Joline Anaïs Ottosons, Jojo Ottosons, or Jo.
That's her name. Sometimes is miswritten as Jolie. I don't know if she ever complained to anyone who called her Jolie—especially teachers—and I don't know though if anyone has ever acknowledged her so-French middle name, or how to pronounce it, but no, the name Jolie just doesn't fit her. Joline does.
The thing is, I can perfectly remember the date today or when the last time I talked to my parents: the second week of October 2004, and it was autumn, just before the fire blew up my entire little cottage back in Montana.
But I can hardly remember her hair and eyes color. Not even the clothes she wears and the lipstick she applies. Her shoes? Well, they're one of the popular casual shoes from a local shop that's just a few blocks from my house, but I can't remember the color. She always pops up with that unzipped leather jacket and plain t-shirt, pair of jeans hanging tight above her tied shoes, and I think she only knows a single clue on how to style a woman's hair: she lets her hair fall naturally every time, even in the air of 38 degrees celcius. But still, I don't have a freaking damn hint about what colors they are. I can't see it. Better, at least in my reality, I can. I can recognize colors.
The guess-what-color-it-is game only happens in my dream.
A daily dream.
YOU ARE READING
The Monochrome Chronicle
RomanceAldwine Danvers is convinced that his dreams foretell the future. However, the truth is far stranger than he has imagined. In actuality, his dreams make the future. Sometimes the world of his dreams is escaping from his mind, and replacing the world...
