ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Fever Dreams
| Vignette - Fever Dreams | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-07-26 Tiny and not actually -- very coherent! BUT. Oh well. |
| Location
Unconsciousness | |
The world exists to him in more colours than for most. Ian would say it's because he's a wizard, seeing into the octarine. Dusk says the same. Octarine. Not wizard, though, but cat. Purring when pet, basking in the sunlight. Seeing Death, when he shows up. Which he's been doing with a lot more frequency, lately. Stalking the city streets. Stalking /under/ the city streets. More sunlight there than he would have thought. Fierce-warm, bright-lit. The sewers lit up in octarine. Even now, it's hot. Searing-hot, burning-hot. His nerves lit up in octarine. --- It's quieter, down on the farm. At least, the noise is an entirely different caliber than city-noise. It's still there, if you listen. The chickens scratch in their yard, a tractor-motor rumbles in the distance. The stream burbles over rocks and the breeze through the cornstalks whisper-rustles ceaselessly. With his eyes closed, it's peaceful. Gentle stream, gentle breeze. The smell of earth and the smell of corn and the smell of blood sticky-hot-wet turning soil into mud. With his eyes open the world is harsh; it's /always/ harsh, searing itself too-vivid, too-bright into his vision. Throbbing just behind his eyes. Some days, he wants to gouge the other one out just for a moment of peace. --- Hot, now, but summer-hot, sunshine-hot, not the same searing-burning-fire. A picnic spread atop a cliff, ropes and webbing strung between trees as anchor points. A tiny scratching sound below. Shark-claws blunting themselves against rock in the grasping climb upwards. He belays from the top, anchored in himself against a rock, warm and hard and solid at his back. Taking in rope in casual-habitual motions. Pulling in the slack, up up up. Up, up, up. The other end of the rope slithers up over the cliff, empty. --- Deep, deep underwater. Cold and a terrible constant crush of pressure, squeezing oxygen out of lungs. Down this deep there should be no sunlight and yet. Even here the world shines. Too many colours in too bright a contrast, illuminating things down here that are not meant for eyes. Creatures consisting predominately of gaping maws with too many jagged sharp teeth. --- New York, again. But still and quiet. The sounds of the city have been replaced by those of the farm. The shifting and scratching of animals, the rustle of breeze through leaves. From atop the roof of the Lofts, the view shows nothing but deserted city streets sweeping far and away in all directions. | |
