estelendur

 Imagine this: three children playing on a set of swings in front of a school. If you look closer, you will see that they aren't really children, but young teenagers, possibly freshmen in high school. They are playing that old game wherein one person sits in a swing while another spins them around, twisting up the chain, then letting go, sending the rider into a fast spin. One of the girls (for they are all female) is spinning another, and she's going fairly quickly as well. Suddenly the girl in the swing begins to scream. Everything stops, centers on that one bit of time, that scream. The girl is caught in the swing chain. The spin

 Swords flash, fly, spark, gleaming in the light. I focus, going over the sequence as I go through it. Timing is everything: off again. Damn. I hear a conversation across the room; it sounds intriguing. We've finished this run-through; I wander off to investigate. Wait. What's tha- CLANG. Ouch. I'm okay, really I am! Oh, that's blood. Interesting. How did that get there, I wonder? Hand on my forehead? Hand on my forehead is an excellent idea. Whoa. And now we're going into the hallway - ah, they're sitting me down. Everybody is so panicky. It's just a little blood! Oh. Right. A sword cut my head open. Thank you for the water - w

This kitchen is small, and rather cramped. The furnishings are cheap, second-hand, but there is a kind of dignity there nonetheless. The walls and ceiling are painted a brilliant white; every surface is scrubbed absolutely clean. The floor tiles have a blue-white pattern. The cupboards along the wall used to be cracked; they are now duct-taped and painted. Their brass handles are polished, and gleam in the sunlight streaming through the large windows above the metal sink. The refrigerator lists to one side; its plastic door handles are chipped and scuffed. The shining metal is almost entirely obscured by magnets, notes, drawings, and photos.