USS Enterprise, post Starship Mine
Most nights are short.
Sariel dreams of white sand.
But some nights are long.
Sariel dreams of shouting, of torn leaves and a rapid-fire rattle she can't name.
Most days are peaceful.
Sariel dreams of bonfires built on foundations of driftwood, all clean warmth and wood smoke, lapping waves and starlight and talking-singing-laughing in rough circles. Sariel dreams of the nonexistent smell of iron, pleasantly conspicuous by it's absence.
Then again, some days are interrupted by surprises.
Sariel dreams of tangled brown hair, star charts and black-feathered wings in the twilight.
Some weeks are very, very good.
Sariel dreams of starfields, of steel grey and clean lines and temple doorways blossoming shimmering blue in the black. Sometimes there's a singing congregation on the other side. Sometimes there's an old, old preacher rumbling "aleluia, aleluia, through on dry land," in an accent that almost sounds like home. Once there's a row of candles flaring from orange to lamplit white, and Sariel counts four separate flames lighting up the void in streamers just before the door closes and the image fades.
There are no shadows, in that dream.
but there are moments that are less so.
Sariel dreams of feline eyes in a humanoid face. Once the eyes are glass green. Once they're gold. Once they're the shape and color of hydrogen molecules, drawn in running paint.
Sometimes there are bad patches; that's going to happen regardless of your situation.
Sariel dreams of whistling in her ears, of steel on steel ringing just above her head, and of ships the size of small towns turning delicate maneuvers at the touch of a button. She feels every move those ships make.
And some days, things work out brilliantly.
Sariel dreams of dancing in the streets she knows, of lanes and turns and shortcuts she could tread with both eyes closed. sometimes she's in full costume, mud-spattered and beaming; sometimes she's in coral pink straight down to her shoes; sometimes there are yellow flowers circling her head like a wreath. Or a halo. Sometimes she's in Derek Walcott Square.
Time can pass in a handclap. Time can also be marvelous when it crawls.
Sariel dreams that her surroundings change in the blink of an eye. Once in a while, the road beneath her becomes a marshy thicket, all banners of moss and live oaks at the edges. Once in a while, she goes from dancing calypso to a two-step without even thinking, swishing barefoot through the water and the mud and the wild, warm air. She's never alone, then.
On the other hand, time can be nothing short of horrible when it's moving slow.
Sariel dreams of electricity arcing hot and fierce, of benevolent trees walking with purpose, of turquoise water and braided hair and blood in the snow. Sariel dreams of cold hands, blue hands, blue lips and blue faces, of clickclick clickclickclick clickclickclick variations in the dark, of engineers-soldiers-outlaws-friends who sound like rescue when they speak.
There are twenty-four hours in a ship's day. That's roughly one watch for every eight hours, not including switched shifts, unexpected situations and days off.
Sariel dreams that the world around her changes from second to second. Images move in stutters an flashes; once she's in a shuttlecraft. Flicker. Once she's in a classroom. Flicker. Once she's in a bustling market in Accra-a half-demolished building in Shakespeare's London-a cathedral in the heart of New York. Flicker, flicker, flicker. Sariel dreams of being seven years old and talking to a tiny boy who says he's awake. Sariel dreams of a magic pub in her house's upstairs corridor. Sariel dreams that her whole family went away.
Time passes.
And Sariel dreams that they came back again.
Sariel's dreams are hazily remembered, when she wakes.
Sariel dreams of white sand.
But some nights are long.
Sariel dreams of shouting, of torn leaves and a rapid-fire rattle she can't name.
Most days are peaceful.
Sariel dreams of bonfires built on foundations of driftwood, all clean warmth and wood smoke, lapping waves and starlight and talking-singing-laughing in rough circles. Sariel dreams of the nonexistent smell of iron, pleasantly conspicuous by it's absence.
Then again, some days are interrupted by surprises.
Sariel dreams of tangled brown hair, star charts and black-feathered wings in the twilight.
Some weeks are very, very good.
Sariel dreams of starfields, of steel grey and clean lines and temple doorways blossoming shimmering blue in the black. Sometimes there's a singing congregation on the other side. Sometimes there's an old, old preacher rumbling "aleluia, aleluia, through on dry land," in an accent that almost sounds like home. Once there's a row of candles flaring from orange to lamplit white, and Sariel counts four separate flames lighting up the void in streamers just before the door closes and the image fades.
There are no shadows, in that dream.
but there are moments that are less so.
Sariel dreams of feline eyes in a humanoid face. Once the eyes are glass green. Once they're gold. Once they're the shape and color of hydrogen molecules, drawn in running paint.
Sometimes there are bad patches; that's going to happen regardless of your situation.
Sariel dreams of whistling in her ears, of steel on steel ringing just above her head, and of ships the size of small towns turning delicate maneuvers at the touch of a button. She feels every move those ships make.
And some days, things work out brilliantly.
Sariel dreams of dancing in the streets she knows, of lanes and turns and shortcuts she could tread with both eyes closed. sometimes she's in full costume, mud-spattered and beaming; sometimes she's in coral pink straight down to her shoes; sometimes there are yellow flowers circling her head like a wreath. Or a halo. Sometimes she's in Derek Walcott Square.
Time can pass in a handclap. Time can also be marvelous when it crawls.
Sariel dreams that her surroundings change in the blink of an eye. Once in a while, the road beneath her becomes a marshy thicket, all banners of moss and live oaks at the edges. Once in a while, she goes from dancing calypso to a two-step without even thinking, swishing barefoot through the water and the mud and the wild, warm air. She's never alone, then.
On the other hand, time can be nothing short of horrible when it's moving slow.
Sariel dreams of electricity arcing hot and fierce, of benevolent trees walking with purpose, of turquoise water and braided hair and blood in the snow. Sariel dreams of cold hands, blue hands, blue lips and blue faces, of clickclick clickclickclick clickclickclick variations in the dark, of engineers-soldiers-outlaws-friends who sound like rescue when they speak.
There are twenty-four hours in a ship's day. That's roughly one watch for every eight hours, not including switched shifts, unexpected situations and days off.
Sariel dreams that the world around her changes from second to second. Images move in stutters an flashes; once she's in a shuttlecraft. Flicker. Once she's in a classroom. Flicker. Once she's in a bustling market in Accra-a half-demolished building in Shakespeare's London-a cathedral in the heart of New York. Flicker, flicker, flicker. Sariel dreams of being seven years old and talking to a tiny boy who says he's awake. Sariel dreams of a magic pub in her house's upstairs corridor. Sariel dreams that her whole family went away.
Time passes.
And Sariel dreams that they came back again.
Sariel's dreams are hazily remembered, when she wakes.