Entry from the journal of Cassiopeia Curran, aged fifteen:
I had a dream. I was somewhere I didn't know. Kneeling on stone, I think. It was cold. My eyes were closed.
I opened them, and saw nothing but light. It didn't hurt. It didn't even make my eyes water, but it filled my field of vision.
My eyes were open, but I opened them again. The light was brighter this time. I felt a sense of joy purpose rightness.
I opened my eyes again. I realized that I was staring into the sun.
Entry from the journal of Cassiopeia Curran, aged nineteen:
Had a dream. I was a bird, flying above a desert. Nothing around for miles, but then: two figures on the sand. Only one moving. Got closer.
It was a pair of elephants. One crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Covered in dust. The other stood over it, trunk moving over its face and ears. The elephant stumbled, fell. It looked up at me. She was crying. She trumpeted, and I heard a woman's cry of grief.
She sounded like Grams. . .
I'm going back.
Selected entries from the journal of Cassiopeia Curran, aged twenty-two:
Had a dream. A woman and a man asleep in a bed, facing each other. Naked sword between them. Neither of them were me, thank fuck . . .
. . .saw the lake again. This time I watched from the shore as a figure stepped up to it, opened its mouth, drank the water down. . .
Had a dream. I was running through the snow at dawn. Turned backwards and saw I was leaving a trail behind me made of my own fallen hair. Turned forwards and saw the wolf. She held a knife in one hand and a doll in the other. . .
Had a dream. Won't forget it. Not writing it down.
With the windows open, the sounds of the city filtered in. Every so often a crowd of people strolled by the street beneath the apartment, laughing and talking in the tones of the mildly intoxicated. The air was humid with an unresolved rainstorm.
She'd been in Valesport for two weeks now. Not enough time to get used the heat. Not enough time to get used to waking up in an empty apartment. Barely enough time to unpack. The side of the futon where she hadn't been sleeping was covered in clothes that hadn't fit in the closet.
As she crossed the room to the tiny kitchenette Cass ran a hand over her scalp, felt the soft fuzz of her hair beneath her fingers. In weather like this, the cut was going to be a real blessing; she hadn't realized how much her hair trapped the heat until it was gone. Every time she turned her head she seemed to feel it, though, the phantom sensation at her neck.
The cabinet door over the stove creaked as she opened it. She retrieved a chipped mug that said "BEST GRANDPA" on it and held it under the tap. The wood floor was slightly sticky underfoot, from sweat or something else. She'd forgotten that floors were things you needed to clean. She'd get around to it eventually. Probably.
The emptiness of the space around her still jarred her senses. No one blaring music behind a closed door, no one fighting for the stove or reciting poetry in the living room; no one passed out in the hall. No cats, no rats, no screams of joy or anger. Either the walls here were thick or her neighbors were considerate, because she had yet to hear anything from either side.
The loneliness was not pleasant, but sweet somehow in its novelty. A hurt of her very own, and one nobody could see.
Cass carried her mug of water to the window and took a sip. It was lukewarm, and tasted faintly of metal. As she stared down at the dimly-lit street she felt a breeze roll over her, bringing the scent of rain with it.
The storm was coming soon, then. Good. The wait was almost over.
I had a dream. I was somewhere I didn't know. Kneeling on stone, I think. It was cold. My eyes were closed.
I opened them, and saw nothing but light. It didn't hurt. It didn't even make my eyes water, but it filled my field of vision.
My eyes were open, but I opened them again. The light was brighter this time. I felt a sense of joy purpose rightness.
I opened my eyes again. I realized that I was staring into the sun.
Entry from the journal of Cassiopeia Curran, aged nineteen:
Had a dream. I was a bird, flying above a desert. Nothing around for miles, but then: two figures on the sand. Only one moving. Got closer.
It was a pair of elephants. One crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Covered in dust. The other stood over it, trunk moving over its face and ears. The elephant stumbled, fell. It looked up at me. She was crying. She trumpeted, and I heard a woman's cry of grief.
She sounded like Grams. . .
I'm going back.
Selected entries from the journal of Cassiopeia Curran, aged twenty-two:
Had a dream. A woman and a man asleep in a bed, facing each other. Naked sword between them. Neither of them were me, thank fuck . . .
. . .saw the lake again. This time I watched from the shore as a figure stepped up to it, opened its mouth, drank the water down. . .
Had a dream. I was running through the snow at dawn. Turned backwards and saw I was leaving a trail behind me made of my own fallen hair. Turned forwards and saw the wolf. She held a knife in one hand and a doll in the other. . .
Had a dream. Won't forget it. Not writing it down.
With the windows open, the sounds of the city filtered in. Every so often a crowd of people strolled by the street beneath the apartment, laughing and talking in the tones of the mildly intoxicated. The air was humid with an unresolved rainstorm.
She'd been in Valesport for two weeks now. Not enough time to get used the heat. Not enough time to get used to waking up in an empty apartment. Barely enough time to unpack. The side of the futon where she hadn't been sleeping was covered in clothes that hadn't fit in the closet.
As she crossed the room to the tiny kitchenette Cass ran a hand over her scalp, felt the soft fuzz of her hair beneath her fingers. In weather like this, the cut was going to be a real blessing; she hadn't realized how much her hair trapped the heat until it was gone. Every time she turned her head she seemed to feel it, though, the phantom sensation at her neck.
The cabinet door over the stove creaked as she opened it. She retrieved a chipped mug that said "BEST GRANDPA" on it and held it under the tap. The wood floor was slightly sticky underfoot, from sweat or something else. She'd forgotten that floors were things you needed to clean. She'd get around to it eventually. Probably.
The emptiness of the space around her still jarred her senses. No one blaring music behind a closed door, no one fighting for the stove or reciting poetry in the living room; no one passed out in the hall. No cats, no rats, no screams of joy or anger. Either the walls here were thick or her neighbors were considerate, because she had yet to hear anything from either side.
The loneliness was not pleasant, but sweet somehow in its novelty. A hurt of her very own, and one nobody could see.
Cass carried her mug of water to the window and took a sip. It was lukewarm, and tasted faintly of metal. As she stared down at the dimly-lit street she felt a breeze roll over her, bringing the scent of rain with it.
The storm was coming soon, then. Good. The wait was almost over.
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everything's oKay - by kaythebold - 09-19-2016, 10:09 PM
RE: everything's oKay - by kaythebold - 10-15-2016, 05:23 PM