Surreal

Picking Up the Pieces

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She lives at the crossroads of time and space. The rest of her kind left long ago, choosing to search for a new world instead of trying to repair the one they already had. But she couldn’t go with them. This was her homeland, the world that had given birth to her. She couldn’t let it die. Now she stands alone in a barren land, trying to pick up the pieces they left behind.

Trying to rebuild.

She dreams of how things were, focuses her power on reversing the decay. She grits her teeth as that power flows out of her, and she picks the constituent pieces of her reality off the ground like scattered rubble, molding them into something new.

It is slow, lonely work.

Her world was vast, and the universe will nearly be in its death throes by the time she’s finished. But she hopes that if she fixes it they’ll return. Without them, without her world as it once was, she knows she’ll never be whole.

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Nightmare

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Sleep. It weighs her down, muddles her thoughts. She can’t let it drag her under. If she falls asleep now, she’ll die.

She can feel the creature salivating in the shadows, waiting for her to tumble into its toothy maw. It’s hungry and wants to feed.

Sleep. It sings of peace, promises solace and renewal even as it threatens obliteration. The world tilts as she turns her head. She can sense the creature in every corner, hiding just beyond the range of her perception, an ambassador from the underworld who will steal her life the moment she departs from the waking world.

But her eyes are heavy. So heavy. Like tiny iron curtains, closing over the final act of her life.

Consciousness gutters like a dying flame.

She can hear its voice.

You are mine.

Yes, she thinks, too drowsy to resist. I am yours. And she finds herself drifting toward the dark, drifting toward death, heedless of the annihilation that awaits.

Come to me.

She closes her eyes.

You are mine.

A cold embrace. Then darkness.

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