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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2018 5:03 pm
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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2018 5:04 pm
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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2018 5:05 pm
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The moon.
The girl was the moon.
The girl was the dream.
The obelisk.
The glyphs, the signs.
The pain.
It came back to her, and rooted her as she openly gaped, and after a while, finally worked her jaw to speak.
"Yes," she began, "I had that dream too, and I thought I saw the moon, but it wasn't you. Oh, Shush!"
Her mind spun, in a way that too jumbled her thoughts, momentarily robbing her of more words. She hoped, in that moment, that the doe would find something of value in that, to tell her more than "nothing."
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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2018 5:06 pm
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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2018 5:06 pm
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"So it does," she said, almost grimly, "but I didn't let go without a fight. And after all, we're still here."
She leaned into her tenderly, a purposeful phrase. "We're still here."
Some part of her thought, perhaps, that this was a sign of belonging, and she felt ever more reluctant to leave Shush alone in this moment.
"Where will you be going, Shush?" she decided to ask, "Home?"
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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2018 5:07 pm
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Soft, hard, soft. Her touch was as warm as the mountains were cold.
"Nowhere…" she began, "elsewhere…" Everything dies. The kind doe had fought. That was a fight she knew not how to fight. She was a corpse; it snaked its roots into her chest, and swallowed her in rot. She died. She was a ghost, who drifted, who only Wandered. Who followed only the cries of lost children. There were the plains, and Mama's gentle voice. She died. His waning breath; the fragile sac. She died. She was a ghost, she had no home. She followed the cries of lost children, only. "I have no home," she said.
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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2018 5:07 pm
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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2018 5:09 pm
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What a thing to say, under the cold moon rays; what a thing only a doe so strong – a doe so kind – could so easily say. Everywhere home, till you found it – nowhere was home. She was a ghost, long had she died. She was a corpse, with only rot. There was no home, no home for her, only the cries of lost children. But the doe – the doe was kind, and she was strong. Her touch was soft, hard, soft, and warm. She did not seem to know she was a ghost. She would come to know it, and she would go away. There was always an end, to everything. Everything dies. But, for now…ah, for now…her touch was warm. "Yes," she said. "Foxy," she said, because she knew it.
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Posted: Sat Feb 10, 2018 5:09 pm
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