Compendium:Dream 4 - Revision history

Apheori: added Category:Dreams using HotCat

2020-07-08T21:38:41Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 21:38, 8 July 2020
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	The other side is cold and empty.		The other side is cold and empty.

			[[Category:Dreams]]

Apheori: 2 revisions imported: Deprecating compendium...

2020-07-08T20:52:34Z

2 revisions imported: Deprecating compendium...

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Revision as of 20:52, 8 July 2020

Apheori at 04:25, 3 April 2014

2014-04-03T04:25:14Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 04:25, 3 April 2014
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	This dream is of a field, vast, golden, sweeping into distance. A woman sits in the grass, weaving strands together into the fabric of the hills, undulating in the wind. She looks up, and mouths words. She looks away, and says nothing. Her hands never stop. The hills never stop, rippling outward, illusions of grasses growing from the fabric and swaying, swaying.		This dream is of a field, vast, golden, sweeping into distance. A woman sits in the grass, weaving strands together into the fabric of the hills, undulating in the wind. She looks up, and mouths words. She looks away, and says nothing. Her hands never stop. The hills never stop, rippling outward, illusions of grasses growing from the fabric and swaying, swaying.

	The sun beats down. It is hot, burning, an oven under sky, baking the golden not hills to a glorious brown. Baking, burning. I squirm away, but it doesn't stop, for there are no shadows.		The sun beats down. It is hot, burning, an oven under sky, baking the golden not hills to a glorious brown. Baking, burning. You squirm away, but it doesn't stop, for there are no shadows.

	''There are shadows everywhere. Corner eyes that drift and flicker. Darkness not quite there. See-through world. What's behind?		''There are shadows everywhere. Corner eyes that drift and flicker. Darkness not quite there. See-through world. What's behind?

Apheori: Huh.

2014-02-08T05:00:56Z

Huh.

New page

This dream is of a field, vast, golden, sweeping into distance. A woman sits in the grass, weaving strands together into the fabric of the hills, undulating in the wind. She looks up, and mouths words. She looks away, and says nothing. Her hands never stop. The hills never stop, rippling outward, illusions of grasses growing from the fabric and swaying, swaying.

The sun beats down. It is hot, burning, an oven under sky, baking the golden not hills to a glorious brown. Baking, burning. I squirm away, but it doesn't stop, for there are no shadows.

''There are shadows everywhere. Corner eyes that drift and flicker. Darkness not quite there. See-through world. What's behind?

The respite of shadows is fleeting under this merciless sun, this empty sky. Such a sky should surely crack in this heat, and crack it does, slowly, webbing out, a weave of cracks to mirror the weave of the hills. Bits fall from cracks. Dust and blue dirt. It trickles down and mixes with the hills, sowing splotches of darkness against the gold that smoke and sizzle under the deathly sun.

''Out of the cracks in the sky come vultures.

There are no vultures. Only blue and gold, meeting with a ripple and a clang, spreading from their spiders, sea and sky, desert to desert.

''There are thin spaces in the desert, shimmering air that ripples and distorts, showing images of things not there.

''The thin spaces are shadows where fabric ripples too suddenly.

The vultures dive for the shadows and tear through. Out spills darkness as the grass splinters and unravels, twisting away from itself in its hurry to come apart. The oven heat disperses into nothing as sky and sun shrivel and crinkle into the night.

The other side is cold and empty.