Merely Scratching the Dawn

Jocelyne, Kelsey has pointed out, likes musicians who are shy, addicted to drugs, and record mostly on their own. After watching far too many Goldberg Variations clips on YouTube, I have come across my defining preferences: passionate about their music and slightly out of touch with reality.

Although soaking one's hands in hot water before playing is a pretty good idea when my cold living room is involved.

...There I am.

Look what I found on my computer.

Cold. She gripped the object clasped within her fingers tightly, as if that action would alleviate the burning of frost on her lips and the stiffening of her limbs. She rose from her seat on the edge of the deserted square and moved to stand beside the broken fountain in the middle.

Her eyelashes scintillated with what could have been the remains of tears. In fact, a light snowfall that had never reached the ground had dusted her shoulders and face, a memory of angel breath sparkling in her long hair.

The air was utterly still, as though the world around her had shivered and died. The flowers strewn over the ground seemed to be left over from a celebration centuries before. There was no sound, no howl of wolf in the distance or scuttle of leaves across the paving stones.

She suddenly felt a wave of dizziness, and slid to the floor with a sharp intake of breath; nausea, acute pain, stars dancing before her eyes. She hovered for a while on the verge of consciousness, images parading through her mind.

She had been spared. She did not know what she would do, left to continue her people’s work on her own. She did not know how much longer she would live.

As the girl on the ground lapsed into deep slumber, the shadow in the air lifted and turned away.

Power. Sheer, pure power. And for what would you sacrifice it?