01-04-2016, 12:50 PM
January 3rd, 2016
In her dream, there was a Red Hare.
He was ever-present, sometimes lurking in the corners or riding along half-forgotten in her arms as she roamed through a landscape. Other times he was all that there was and all she could focus on. He was a creature of the wild, no tamed pet or meat-rabbit. His body was long and lean, his legs were strong and his loping stride was long and assured. His eyes were an unusually intelligent brown, deep chocolate and animal no matter the understanding they held. His pelt was even and dense and smooth, and the red of fire and blood and passion.
Tonight she followed him through a forest. The trees were nothing more than dark outlines, shapes black enough to match the dense canopy and night sky above. The Red Hare was an unusually bright apparition, and would keep a good distance in front of her as she walked but always stop within sight and wait for her. He wanted to be sure she was coming along with.
This went on for what felt like an eternity-- perhaps she was lost in a coma, and she would never wake up? Perhaps her sleep was so deep that she'd actually died? -- but finally and all at once the scenery changed. No longer was she roaming through a forest, but had come upon a grassy field that interrupted the trees. The Red Hare had vanished, and she was standing out in the middle of the field with no recollection of walking across to its center. Above there was light from a fat yellow full moon, and many stars punched their way through the inky backdrop of the sky. In this dim night light she could see a small brook bubbling its way down a gradual slope. She chose to follow it and began walking up the slope, to where it originated instead of where it was going.
The slope grew progressively steeper until she came upon a small but abrupt hill in the landscape. Standing atop it was a petite figure silhouetted against the night sky. She could see that it turned its head to look past its shoulder at her, and that it seemed to be waiting for her. Feeling a sense of urgency, she approached the hill briskly and started to climb. Slipped on the wet grass and fell, got up and tried again. The brook rushed noisily to her right, seeming to be spouting from the very top of the hill. Digging her heels into the earth and grasping the grass tightly in her fists, she finally made it to the top of the hill to stand behind the dark figure.
you've been taking your time -- waiting too long
Confused, and feeling her voice paralyzed by the mechanics of her dream, she thought an apology that was mingled with the uncertainty of what she'd done. The figure seemed to hear her even though she'd said nothing. The figure itself was saying nothing, yet speaking through the very air and earth.
power is not given to never be honed -- yours will grow dull
Suddenly the figure had moved. It was much like earlier when she'd found herself in a field instead of in the forest with no sense of time lost on the in-between. One moment the figure was simply that, standing facing the other way atop the hill as well. The next it was right in front of her, turned about to face her, and the light of the moon cast some details of the face into sharp relief. It was pale, pale white with a vivid blue painted over the eyes and mouth, with a mass of red hair that floated suspended above the scalp and flowed down past shoulders-- down, down, to the ground where it was liquid red bleeding into the bubbling brook and staining the fresh waters with war.
The light of the moon had brightened now, as though a theater house light had lifted, and she could see that the blood had not only tarnished the creek but had somehow seeped into the rest of the landscape as well. It wasn't dew or an evening rain that made the grass slick enough to slip on. She rubbed her hands against themselves and felt the gummy stick of blood on her fingers.
It was with intense red eyes bazing into her very soul, burning and blazing and demanding that the being impressed--
do not waste what i've given you child
-------
Margot Travers awoke with a jolt and a gasp and sat upright in her bed. The sheets stuck to her back, pulled free from the mattress by flailing in the night. Her hair was tangled and stuck against her neck and face where her skin was tacky with sweat. After a few moments of sucking in frantic breaths and reorienting herself with reality, she groaned and scrubbed her hands on her face and into her scalp.
The sunlight was pressing feebly through the windows, lighting her room from black to dim through whatever space the blinds allowed it to pass. A glance at the digital face of the alarm clock beside her bed told her it was a little after 9:30am. Not the ideal time she would have chosen for waking up on a Sunday, but she didn't feel any obligation to try and get back to sleep either. Especially not after a dream like that.
After some frustrated kicking at the sheets tangled around her legs, Margot threw her covers back and padded bare feet across the cold wood floor of her studio apartment to reach the bathroom. There she regarded herself in the mirror.
Margot Travers was a small girl, always had been and apparently always would be. She barely exceeded the 5'0" threshold and couldn't see much beyond her collarbone in the unfortunately high mirror of her bathroom. Her face was round and dominated by a pair of large hazel eyes, and her lank hair was thoroughly brown. Or, it usually was. Her hair was what actually earned a furrow of thick eyebrows and had Margot leaning into her reflection, the edge of the pedestal sink pressing into her middle, so she could get a better look. Fingers raked back the hair at her right temple, parted and moved it to inspect and confirm what she'd thought she'd seen.
Where one might find gray hairs beginning to sprout from stress, Margot instead found red.
In her dream, there was a Red Hare.
He was ever-present, sometimes lurking in the corners or riding along half-forgotten in her arms as she roamed through a landscape. Other times he was all that there was and all she could focus on. He was a creature of the wild, no tamed pet or meat-rabbit. His body was long and lean, his legs were strong and his loping stride was long and assured. His eyes were an unusually intelligent brown, deep chocolate and animal no matter the understanding they held. His pelt was even and dense and smooth, and the red of fire and blood and passion.
Tonight she followed him through a forest. The trees were nothing more than dark outlines, shapes black enough to match the dense canopy and night sky above. The Red Hare was an unusually bright apparition, and would keep a good distance in front of her as she walked but always stop within sight and wait for her. He wanted to be sure she was coming along with.
This went on for what felt like an eternity-- perhaps she was lost in a coma, and she would never wake up? Perhaps her sleep was so deep that she'd actually died? -- but finally and all at once the scenery changed. No longer was she roaming through a forest, but had come upon a grassy field that interrupted the trees. The Red Hare had vanished, and she was standing out in the middle of the field with no recollection of walking across to its center. Above there was light from a fat yellow full moon, and many stars punched their way through the inky backdrop of the sky. In this dim night light she could see a small brook bubbling its way down a gradual slope. She chose to follow it and began walking up the slope, to where it originated instead of where it was going.
The slope grew progressively steeper until she came upon a small but abrupt hill in the landscape. Standing atop it was a petite figure silhouetted against the night sky. She could see that it turned its head to look past its shoulder at her, and that it seemed to be waiting for her. Feeling a sense of urgency, she approached the hill briskly and started to climb. Slipped on the wet grass and fell, got up and tried again. The brook rushed noisily to her right, seeming to be spouting from the very top of the hill. Digging her heels into the earth and grasping the grass tightly in her fists, she finally made it to the top of the hill to stand behind the dark figure.
you've been taking your time -- waiting too long
Confused, and feeling her voice paralyzed by the mechanics of her dream, she thought an apology that was mingled with the uncertainty of what she'd done. The figure seemed to hear her even though she'd said nothing. The figure itself was saying nothing, yet speaking through the very air and earth.
power is not given to never be honed -- yours will grow dull
Suddenly the figure had moved. It was much like earlier when she'd found herself in a field instead of in the forest with no sense of time lost on the in-between. One moment the figure was simply that, standing facing the other way atop the hill as well. The next it was right in front of her, turned about to face her, and the light of the moon cast some details of the face into sharp relief. It was pale, pale white with a vivid blue painted over the eyes and mouth, with a mass of red hair that floated suspended above the scalp and flowed down past shoulders-- down, down, to the ground where it was liquid red bleeding into the bubbling brook and staining the fresh waters with war.
The light of the moon had brightened now, as though a theater house light had lifted, and she could see that the blood had not only tarnished the creek but had somehow seeped into the rest of the landscape as well. It wasn't dew or an evening rain that made the grass slick enough to slip on. She rubbed her hands against themselves and felt the gummy stick of blood on her fingers.
It was with intense red eyes bazing into her very soul, burning and blazing and demanding that the being impressed--
do not waste what i've given you child
-------
Margot Travers awoke with a jolt and a gasp and sat upright in her bed. The sheets stuck to her back, pulled free from the mattress by flailing in the night. Her hair was tangled and stuck against her neck and face where her skin was tacky with sweat. After a few moments of sucking in frantic breaths and reorienting herself with reality, she groaned and scrubbed her hands on her face and into her scalp.
The sunlight was pressing feebly through the windows, lighting her room from black to dim through whatever space the blinds allowed it to pass. A glance at the digital face of the alarm clock beside her bed told her it was a little after 9:30am. Not the ideal time she would have chosen for waking up on a Sunday, but she didn't feel any obligation to try and get back to sleep either. Especially not after a dream like that.
After some frustrated kicking at the sheets tangled around her legs, Margot threw her covers back and padded bare feet across the cold wood floor of her studio apartment to reach the bathroom. There she regarded herself in the mirror.
Margot Travers was a small girl, always had been and apparently always would be. She barely exceeded the 5'0" threshold and couldn't see much beyond her collarbone in the unfortunately high mirror of her bathroom. Her face was round and dominated by a pair of large hazel eyes, and her lank hair was thoroughly brown. Or, it usually was. Her hair was what actually earned a furrow of thick eyebrows and had Margot leaning into her reflection, the edge of the pedestal sink pressing into her middle, so she could get a better look. Fingers raked back the hair at her right temple, parted and moved it to inspect and confirm what she'd thought she'd seen.
Where one might find gray hairs beginning to sprout from stress, Margot instead found red.