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Open to friendly company; one or two others.
Set around 06:00 on
Word count: 580
They say that time is an illusion. Who they are, no one is quite sure, but regardless of what they say, there is someone who will repeat it. Maybe because they truly believe it; maybe because it's what someone else wants to hear; maybe just because it sounds pretty at the time. But there is always someone who will tell you that they, this mysterious entity of they, say something. And today, Grace was among those who would tell you such things, because lying in the grass, staring up at the sky, she was sure that they were right - time certainly was an illusion. It came and went as it pleased, fleeting, mercurial. Some days, it seemed to progress steadily, ad rem, and it was over just as soon as one might suspect. Other days - and this day, in particular - it seemed as if the hands of time might flip-flop back and forth, the sky seeming first lighter, then darker again. Perhaps the sun could not manage to drag itself out of bed this morning, and each moment of seeming light was an alarm raging, and the waxing and waning of the dark, a snooze button for the earth.
Naturally, Grace knew nothing of alarm clocks (short of Taj's incessant cawing and pecking if she should sleep too late), though she did know a bit about beds. The field she had flopped down in was cozier than many of the old human beds that she had come across, and despite the cool of winter morning, she was warm enough. Her frayed jeans were a bit discombobulated, one leg slightly twisted, the other pulled up nearly to her knee. Her blouse, thankfully, was green - but not by mistake, oh no. It had once been white, before dozens of nights and mornings just like this one. Eventually, sick of scrubbing out stains, she'd instead spent her time creating a perfectly grass-coloured dye. She certainly wasn't going to stop flopping down in the grass, wriggling about to get comfortable, and gazing at the stars for hours on end. It was worth much more than any nice, clean, white blouse could be worth. She had pulled a colourful, woven blanket from her knapsack sometime past midnight, although her concept of time didn't mirror such ideas - whatever time it was, it simply was, really. She wasn't bothered with specifics.
She propped herself up on one elbow and lit her pipe with a restored lighter. Her father, always the mechanist, the builder, the repairer of all things, had given her many gifts during her life. These had been among them - a carved wooden pipe, inlaid with turquoise stones, polished to a shine, and a small, metal lighter that had to be refilled with flammable liquids occasionally. A small bottle of said liquid sat at home; she had refilled the lighter recently enough, she thought, that she wouldn't need to again soon. She coughed a little as she exhaled, her head rushing. Taj let out a caw that might have been laughter, and Grace cast him a look of faux disdain. "Why don't you try it, moĭ drug?" she taunted, and Taj ruffled his feathers in indignance. The very sight of it, combined with the translingual wordplay, caused the blonde girl to topple over, laughing heartily. She laughed for some time, the sound echoing into the depths of the night that lingered as the sun tried desperately to drag itself awake.