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Rated: E · Draft · Other · #1440085
a girl waking from a dream, for the story im trying to write, short scene work in progress
         At one point you were mother and father, brother and sister, you were family, most important; you were friends. But that was a time when there was only the two of you and nothing else, a time when things were simple, a time where you were or you weren’t; but those times are gone now, snuffed out by the ever moving sands of time, they were ruined and that’s ok; nothing is forever, nothing except you that is, only you can bring those times back, you just have to Live.
         She opened her eyes and closed them again wincing; the sun was far too bright. With her palms against her eyes, successfully blocking the hostile light, she let out a low groan. Morning, the birth of a new day, certainly not her favorite time, the only redeeming factor was that it led to another night. Perhaps if she could softly plunge back into sleep she could skip it altogether. Drifting through the air, as she tried to will the sun into retreat behind the wall it had risen up from while still hiding behind the safety of her hands, came the sound of young children playfully running around disgruntled shopkeepers. They were most likely trying to get to the market cross where the others their age played, they had conquered the area since the last execution; ironic how a place can provoke both a child’s laughter and a criminal’s cry before he dies. Less noticeable over the children were the warnings of their mothers not to trip and fall among the muck that was everywhere someone their age would like to play, but it was inevitable, a few would return covered in grime it was just a matter off who, so their attemps where half-haerted, after all having to keep an eye on them would just interfere with their shopping not that much could be done with the money at hand. The children’s antics, though ignored by the mothers, were however a nuisance to the average shopkeeper, who already had to keep a close eye on the few chickens they hoped to sell to any passing by servant out to buy food for their master’s table, they could escape without any help. However letting the more expensive chickens and the rare goose lose was a favorite past time of the young ones, or rather watching the owners of the escapees chase after them. Much to the shopkeeper’s dismay the entertainment often ended with a stolen bird, but in general they had gotten better at preventing the act to begin with and the outbreaks were getting scarce. Apparently this fine morning, as closes to fine morning could get, was one of those days where they couldn’t stop the inevitable, the laughter got harder when squawking joined the normal sounds of market as one of the children had managed to flip up the latch, the only thing imprisoning the ready-to-run bird. Among the lighter laughter of the children the still blinded girl heard the booming laughter of the miller’s assistant who also found enjoyment of the running adults as he and his master did not fall victim to such tricks, the miller’s swords saw to that.
         “Heh, I see you slept in again” came an irritated grunt from her left. Removing a hand just enough to see, the waking girl turned towards the offending voice that had disrupted her thoughts and the melody coming from the market. It was Damarcus, irritated that she had not noticed him sooner; he had that famous smirk of his and was wearing his civil soldier uniform without a mark on it as always, a testimonial to his idle work. This was not the girl’s first encounter with the civil servant and like all the other times she hoped this would be her last. Damarcus was demanding, demeaning, and a dreadful soldier, after dealing with him twice she knew he was not a good person, unless you had money, which she did not have. “So are you going to say anything or just look at me runt?” he asked nudging the girl harder then need be with his foot, “did you hear me?” this was also accompanied by a hard nudge.
         “Yes, I slept in” she replied quietly not wanting to give him any reason to think he should kick her next.
         “You still tired?”, she sighed eternally, what was going to happen next was well known, the so called ‘peace protector’ did not care for anyone’s well being other than his own, but instead found his daily entertainment in the pain of others the question was a trap for sure, but she didn’t get the chance to respond. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. Here, let me help wake you up” and with that, the now fully awake girl found herself not blinded by her hands but a bucket covering her eyes, the bucket also being the source of why she was soaking wet. “There that should do it, heh heh” Damarcus walked away whistling as if nothing had happened. To him the encounter was probably just that; nothing. After all what had he done? Get a girl on the street wet? He did that or something like it everyday and today was no different. Not all the civil soldier where like him thought, some really where there to protect the peace. They were new, none of the other towns had anything like them, as far as anyone knew at least. Damarcus had joined the force after learning that they could get people in trouble,, the surprise was that no one else had kicked him out yet.
         The soggy girl resisted the urge to call out “thank you” after his fading figure as to insure that he not get the satisfaction of ruining her morning, plus he had indeed woken her up, something she had needed to do. She had been up late reading and thinking and, remembering the noise from the market, she was surprised that she hadn’t slept in even later, the hustle and bustle that the girl had heard was common for early mid-day and her long night had earned her a nice sleep to at least dinner. That’s when she remembered her dream, if you could call it that, all it was, was a voice.
         She sat there leaning against the wall, soaking wet, with a bucket on her head thinking about the voice. It could have been male or female; not that knowing would have made a difference to her. The voice did sound inelegant though, sharp and crafty, a trickster’s voice; and yet she had felt secure when it spoke although, as a trickster, that would be what it wanted, but still she couldn’t help but trust the voice, that it meant her no harm and she believe that what it had told her, whatever it said, was true.
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