![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ib_archiveauthor: jaz templet (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
yachiru)
email: yachiru [at] gmail.com
artist: zachary knoles (acebullet
email: zknoles [at] zacharyknoles.com
The dawn just barely streaks over the hill in green-yellow tendrils and the air is still. We are already up, waiting for the sun to peek out more. Waiting to start our work.
Old Zelda fetches the water from the well. I follow her, standing guard. Watching for anything in the trees or hills. Rats crawl over the distant bank, feasting on leftover bone fragments. I watch them.
I am 12 years old. I am a human, mostly. Two eyes, a mouth, two ears. My hair is brown, curled around my nape. My eyes are green. My name is Emily. I carry a shotgun.
Old Zelda takes a long time to pull up the water. Each day I think she has to go deeper to get it. I think maybe it's running out, going dry like everything else. But I don't ask. I keep watch.
She has a scar on the side of her face, a curving scar. Sometimes when she sleeps I tilt my head and it looks like a crooked smile.
The rats are all piled up together when we're finally ready to leave, their fat bellies poking out. We used to eat them before - I think something must have happened that made them bad to eat.
It's hard to think of a beforetime. A time before the fire, before the hunger. Before the horrible coldness. I think about the now time. Today and the next day and the day after.
The Hunting party is there when we come back. Old Zelda gives them the water she collected. I want to protest and ask her to save some for the rest of us, but I am silent. We'll go back after, I think. To that long stretch of gravel and sand. We'll go back and get more.
They have no food to share this time. Their faces are covered with blood, dripping blood on their shirts and bare chests. They have none to share but they have eaten. It is not our way to scream and yell at each other, so I say nothing. Hungry. Always hungry.
The Hunters rest in their huts. Their huts are nicer than most. Thick canvas that helps with the heat, beds padded with cloth instead of dry leaves. It's been three days since they brought anything back.
I go to my hut and change clothes. Mine are dusty and itchy. I grab a shirt that says "Coke" and some shorts with holes worn through them. I don't wear shoes. My feet are tough enough. The Hunters wear shoes. Flat leather shoes and white plastic shoes and black leather shoes - many kinds. They have to run sometimes. They need them more.
In the beforetime I think we all wore shoes. They matched, I think. I can remember a bright face, showing me how to tie the laces. Small red shoes. I think it used to be my favorite color.
Old Zelda comes in and clucks at me. I've spent too long in here and there's work to be done. Old Zelda used to be the Dreamer. They get the nicest hut, the one above all others. They spend the days and the nights there, dreaming. They know where the water is, where the food is. They know when to move and where to move to avoid the red dust.
Old Zelda Dreamed the wrong Dream, so Old Zelda has to work now. I don't think she likes it. She doesn't complain but I see her watching that hut when she thinks no one is looking. She doesn't think she Dreamed wrong.
We were supposed to stay. We were supposed to greet the dust with open arms. Old Zelda Dreamed we came from the dust and said we had to go back. No more moving. No more hunger.
We work in silence, gathering up dry wood; dry twigs and leaves and anything that will burn. The fire has to be hot so we can be warm. The cold dark drives too many away. They drift into the darkness and never come back. We have to have a big fire, right in the center, so they know to come back. So they know we're here.
I drift away from her, carrying my bundle. In the far bushes I see something white. I hope it's cloth or something soft I can use to lay my head on.
I crouch down. It's small and white, but soft, really soft. It has two really long ears, and one of them is half torn off and I can see small puffs of white inside. I reach in and pull some out, scattering it on the ground. It has no eyes and no nose, but it does have a bright red mouth. A grinning mouth. I hold it against the side of my face. So soft.
I have wandered too far and been gone to long. Old Zelda sees me and my prize and she takes it. I can do nothing to fight her so I let her.
I remember how soft it was. The thing. I can almost remember what it's called.
We go back when we can't carry anymore dry things. We pile them up and come back for more. Most of the day is gathering. Always gathering. Always hungry.
Eventually we have enough. Old Zelda goes to rest.
I am left alone to guard. I have my shotgun. I have my pail of water. I pace around, drawing shapes in the sand with my gun. I see something glinting. Something moving. I move closer.
There. Just over the hill I see it clearer. It comes closer and I see it's a she. She has dirty blond hair and clear green eyes. They light up when she sees me.
"Oh thank God. I thought you were one of them! Those monsters. They say they've been spotted here. We were just so hungry and scared. There's no food. No anything back there. Is there food here? Please, can you help me? Where's your mother, child?" She's frantic and smiling and chattering. She is beautiful.
I shoot her in the face. Her head explodes. I lean down and start to eat, getting as much as I can in my mouth. The others have no doubt heard the shot, and they'll be coming soon. I'll have to share then. Don't want to share. So hungry.
Always hungry.
the end
yachiru)email: yachiru [at] gmail.com
artist: zachary knoles (
acebulletemail: zknoles [at] zacharyknoles.com
The dawn just barely streaks over the hill in green-yellow tendrils and the air is still. We are already up, waiting for the sun to peek out more. Waiting to start our work.
Old Zelda fetches the water from the well. I follow her, standing guard. Watching for anything in the trees or hills. Rats crawl over the distant bank, feasting on leftover bone fragments. I watch them.
I am 12 years old. I am a human, mostly. Two eyes, a mouth, two ears. My hair is brown, curled around my nape. My eyes are green. My name is Emily. I carry a shotgun.
Old Zelda takes a long time to pull up the water. Each day I think she has to go deeper to get it. I think maybe it's running out, going dry like everything else. But I don't ask. I keep watch.
She has a scar on the side of her face, a curving scar. Sometimes when she sleeps I tilt my head and it looks like a crooked smile.
The rats are all piled up together when we're finally ready to leave, their fat bellies poking out. We used to eat them before - I think something must have happened that made them bad to eat.
It's hard to think of a beforetime. A time before the fire, before the hunger. Before the horrible coldness. I think about the now time. Today and the next day and the day after.
The Hunting party is there when we come back. Old Zelda gives them the water she collected. I want to protest and ask her to save some for the rest of us, but I am silent. We'll go back after, I think. To that long stretch of gravel and sand. We'll go back and get more.
They have no food to share this time. Their faces are covered with blood, dripping blood on their shirts and bare chests. They have none to share but they have eaten. It is not our way to scream and yell at each other, so I say nothing. Hungry. Always hungry.
The Hunters rest in their huts. Their huts are nicer than most. Thick canvas that helps with the heat, beds padded with cloth instead of dry leaves. It's been three days since they brought anything back.
I go to my hut and change clothes. Mine are dusty and itchy. I grab a shirt that says "Coke" and some shorts with holes worn through them. I don't wear shoes. My feet are tough enough. The Hunters wear shoes. Flat leather shoes and white plastic shoes and black leather shoes - many kinds. They have to run sometimes. They need them more.
In the beforetime I think we all wore shoes. They matched, I think. I can remember a bright face, showing me how to tie the laces. Small red shoes. I think it used to be my favorite color.
Old Zelda comes in and clucks at me. I've spent too long in here and there's work to be done. Old Zelda used to be the Dreamer. They get the nicest hut, the one above all others. They spend the days and the nights there, dreaming. They know where the water is, where the food is. They know when to move and where to move to avoid the red dust.
Old Zelda Dreamed the wrong Dream, so Old Zelda has to work now. I don't think she likes it. She doesn't complain but I see her watching that hut when she thinks no one is looking. She doesn't think she Dreamed wrong.
We were supposed to stay. We were supposed to greet the dust with open arms. Old Zelda Dreamed we came from the dust and said we had to go back. No more moving. No more hunger.
We work in silence, gathering up dry wood; dry twigs and leaves and anything that will burn. The fire has to be hot so we can be warm. The cold dark drives too many away. They drift into the darkness and never come back. We have to have a big fire, right in the center, so they know to come back. So they know we're here.
I drift away from her, carrying my bundle. In the far bushes I see something white. I hope it's cloth or something soft I can use to lay my head on.
I crouch down. It's small and white, but soft, really soft. It has two really long ears, and one of them is half torn off and I can see small puffs of white inside. I reach in and pull some out, scattering it on the ground. It has no eyes and no nose, but it does have a bright red mouth. A grinning mouth. I hold it against the side of my face. So soft.
I have wandered too far and been gone to long. Old Zelda sees me and my prize and she takes it. I can do nothing to fight her so I let her.
I remember how soft it was. The thing. I can almost remember what it's called.
We go back when we can't carry anymore dry things. We pile them up and come back for more. Most of the day is gathering. Always gathering. Always hungry.
Eventually we have enough. Old Zelda goes to rest.
I am left alone to guard. I have my shotgun. I have my pail of water. I pace around, drawing shapes in the sand with my gun. I see something glinting. Something moving. I move closer.
There. Just over the hill I see it clearer. It comes closer and I see it's a she. She has dirty blond hair and clear green eyes. They light up when she sees me.
"Oh thank God. I thought you were one of them! Those monsters. They say they've been spotted here. We were just so hungry and scared. There's no food. No anything back there. Is there food here? Please, can you help me? Where's your mother, child?" She's frantic and smiling and chattering. She is beautiful.
I shoot her in the face. Her head explodes. I lean down and start to eat, getting as much as I can in my mouth. The others have no doubt heard the shot, and they'll be coming soon. I'll have to share then. Don't want to share. So hungry.
Always hungry.
the end
no subject
Date: 2010-02-01 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-01 09:56 am (UTC)(Aside: not to self-plug, but I've got a timelapse video of myself painting this illustration (http://www.artofzacharyknoles.com/timelapse.php?page=imaginarybeastsjantimelapse) if you or anyone else is interested.)