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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

Dreams of Summer II


Zadown

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Awarness surfaces from the soft void, whole and round, smiling a little. Its surroundings appear, or are created, at a slow walking pace, their touch on the waking mind a friendly caress. Color of peach and toned down glare of a yellow, huge sun, parts of the world obscured under a layer of light, some fading into the sepia of forgotten photographs. A smell of slightly roasted dry earth, languid silence that can only live in the pauses between cicadas of the summer night. It is shapeless, itself, a blurred presence in the middle of soft sensations and mild breezes.

 

Warm wave sloshes through it, rising from the yielding ground, tingling gently as it seeps through the ambiguous shape. A slight irritation or two mar the flawless perfection. It can't help itself, can't embrace the pastel-coloured world without growing fingers and hands and feels itself grasping a sun-warmed staff, gloves chafing its newly-created prehensile organs. Some unseen threshold is suddenly stumbled over. Last view of the dream is a picture painted over with dark blue and yellow, pillow turned into a bed of broken glass and jagged juxtapositions.

 

She sits up, trashing, breathing too hard, too fast, something restricting her motions and escalating her panic, her motions sluggish and taxing.

 

"Hey! Hey! Relax, relax, shhhh..."

 

Beyond her sister, through the moist visor of her helmet, she can see the familiar walls of their house, the triple-glass window and the cold moonlight, the glint of winter stars on the black sky.

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