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Snippet #904

located in Life, a part of Almost an Allegory, one of the many universes on RPG.


The container of experiences that a living creature goes through, whether asleep or awake.


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The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had come, the dark thunderheads rumbling into the distance. She stood there, her clothes clinging to her like a second skin, dripping, as she watched the woman's hair dance solemn nocturnes in the current.

She was thankful for the rain, for moments before, she had killed someone. There was no blood to wash off, no weapon to cast off, instead, the drenching storm disguised the river water that sopped her clothes where she plunged the woman's head beneath the turbulent current.

It was foolish to do so in savage daylight, under the flickering cover of bending horsetails, whose shadows were like black tributaries, spreading out into the true tributary where the woman's hair exploded underwater like a macabre Medusa under my straining arms. Broad daylight, an act of desperation. I clutch the weapon to my breast, my handprints on her throat. I'm soaked. She drifts. I run.

I am fleeing from it, this gauzy doppleganger come to visit my fantasy. I ponder this act of murder safely hidden in the ether of imagination, this clarity that comes with crises of the existential kind, with sharp desires to rid yourself of the old. This is the point of one's life, balanced on the edge of a knife, at once looking forward and back, Janus-faced.

A tapping, like horse hooves.

"Hello? Mel?"

I open my eyes to find him tapping a pencil against the glass desk. Their eyes are on me.

"Do the human-interest story. The local one about the dog driving a car?"

They're watching me, sepulchral, blood-sucking, but I say, Damn it. Damn the human-interest story. My life is suddenly balanced on the edge of a divine blade, so damn these cramped cubicles, smell of toner, eyes reflecting the non-photo blue of computer monitors, "... please accept my resignation," my indignation, my refusal to write lines to spin lies on the human condition.

I, Janus-faced look back with eyes of flint and look ahead with clear-eyed excitement of adventure and quest and journey, the clarity of untethered imagination. I, fleet-footed, pass through the glass doors into the Elysian fields of fantasy. I, lynx-eyed never look back.

I clutch the weapon to my breast. My handprints are on her throat. She drifts. I run. Reborn in the river, every act of creation is, at first an act of destruction.

She hadn't noticed her hair clinging to her skin in dark rivulets. Her breathing harsh. But when she rose, lightning illuminated her surroundings, casting her eyes eternity-blue, eyes that could see forever, for she had changed her destiny. Where it would take her, she did not know.

With each unfolding step, she leaves it all behind her: the river runs, the horsetails bend, and a woman's hair dances solemn nocturnes in the current, her eyes non-photo blue.