The Bird Watcher (Silhouette) Jun 1, 2014 0:19:50 GMT -6
Post by synthpop on Jun 1, 2014 0:19:50 GMT -6
|Her eyes opened in the dream and saw down twenty feet of beach before the fog’s thickness hid the land and sea from her. The air moved in front of her nose in whips of frigid, wet air carrying the odors of the tide: the foam riding on the water lapping the mud like the wet tongue of an old dog a day away from the point of never wanting to drink again, the smell of bits of shells, seaweed, and fish soaked into the ground. But something else permeated that air. It was a scent of grassy rot, of crushed fruit and flowers turning into a reddish blob of compost somewhere beyond sight, and sight ... was different. Shadows were dark and black, hiding details from her in such as a way she had never known.|
The seawater washed over her hooves on a gust of the ever-blowing wind, and her hooves sunk by inches into the silty shore, tiny puddles forming around them. Like that, she felt it, thought she heard it with Bat Pony ears, the first sign that this world could not possibly be her own. A lone vibration, deep and low, rippled the tiny pools of water. It came up into her chest and sat like the weight of ages, dwelled in her ear in a drone swelling and receding like the water. Somewhere in the grey, out in a distance long into that fog, a seagull’s squawk sounded out unnaturally long and shakily. It nearly covered the last, and perhaps most disturbing sound. Silhouette heard it by a twitch of her ear, the scissor-snip sound of a voice whispering “S” sounds so faint that the wind nearly blocked even that sound from her. It was enough to hide the words from her, leaving her with those whispered sounds weaving throughout the world like a snake or a fine needle through silk. But, shouldn't she have been able to hear more? What she heard ... it sounded dull and perhaps even suffocating. It was as though ear plugs where in her ears that she could not touch or remove.
At the edge of the limits of Silhouette’s vision in that fog, a dark, pony-sized shape stood along the water, but away from the shore, where the wind swept like an obsessive’s brush over grasses long, hard, and brittle, other things seemed to glisten in the moisture like piles of nightcrawlers intertwining in a storm, but the fog hid details well. When the thunder rumbled and distant lightning sprawled out, it did so only to light up that dim like the dust of chalk tossed into darkest dirtiest machine oil.
Nothing leapt out at Silhouette except the damp wind at her side. Nothing spoke save for the whispers. Nothing moved except the water carrying dark chunks of debris. She was alone.