Category: Dream

Weaver can’t have her favorite seat at the bar. She winds up with 3 rowdy brothers as tablemates. Even worse, there’s some guy that thinks blues is something that can be programmed. All she wanted was a quiet night of drinking.1,106 words.

“Wow! You carved that altar and alcove by hand?” “Stone against stone. No metal tools. No powered tools. Just stone against stone and my hands.” “You smug shit. You used your powers.”

He (but don’t remember who) handed me a cup of hot, strong, black coffee. He sighs, then begins speaking somberly. “I’m sorry. My c*…” I don’t remember the rest. I’ve blacked it out. I don’t want to face it. It has happened twice in the past 48 hours. There is not that many people I…

I looked up from my pages of work. I noted who came in. I resumed my work. This bistro is public, and within the boundaries of the City. I don’t want to get on the Envoy’s bad side.

“Why are you on the cliff edge, anyway?” “I need the change in perspective. And the distance.” “Oh. So you’re running again.”

“You’ve let yourself go. It concerns me.” AND ANOTHER THING… (even though the speaker is probably smeared across a few bushes by now) Where the hell were [rhetorical] you when I was being broken? Where the hell were you when I had to defend myself against my own broken pieces? Where the hell were you…