Margaret Shield (sophist) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2017-09-01 22:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, r * chel, r: margaret shield |
WHO: Margaret Shield
WHEN: Evening; 1 September
WHERE: The flat she keeps with Rupert
SUMMARY: A few too many drinks lead to sleep and upon waking, Margaret tries to remember what she dreamed of.
WARNINGS:None.
Whiskey-fueled sleep is blessedly dreamless and heavy, the break from thinking and reality a welcome distraction from the vivid hues of Dunhaven's Indian summer. And perhaps Margaret is making a habit of Four Roses Single Barrel in her favourite glass, and in her favourite chair. But there is no one to tell her otherwise. Not even Rupert, who she imagines moves quietly around his sister and maybe drops a blanket here or there. But today is different. With school out, she throws the windows open and allows sleep to come. But the dream is vivid. It tracks along in such a way that it feels familiar, faded and comfortable, like an old overcoat. Upon waking, there is that strange moment in which both settings blur as if the film hasn't been completely changed from the old reel. And she blinks, the shutters click between her chair and that drowsy, warm feeling in her muscles with a warm, humid day in July. A dozen bodies are spread out on the grass before her at push ups, masterfully making their way through a set of one hundred. "Faster ladies! Come on. My grandmother has more life in her, God rest her soul." They toil harder, sweat glistening on a dozen brows. All but for the littlest one, whose shock of blonde hair stands at odds to his straining head. His elbows strain to make one. The woman, whose red nails she perceives as her own, grips the clipboard tightly. Margaret stirs again, scoots out to the edge of her chair and takes a breath. "What the hell." |