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Another snip - Aspects Book 2
Jan. 29th, 2008 04:07 pmIt was a dim and chilly Sunday morning when he woke up. He didn't wake as if he had been asleep. There was no sleep as far as he could remember. He just woke up, full and alert as the morning light ran across his open eyes. It was as if he was not there on moment, and then was suddenly there the next. No yawning waking up as the sun rose over the horizon, or eyes springing open to the clamor of an alarm clock. He was just suddenly and inexplicably awake.
He could not move his head. He could not move his eyes, nor could he blink. His arms and legs were imobile as well. If he had been any other person, he would have panicked. He might have wondered if he had been in some horrible accident and was trapped in a body, unable to communciate with the rest of the world.
He was, instead, only mildly surprised. He surveyed what he could of his surroundings. Tall trees, red barn, cows and horses were all in his current field of view. A farm. How quaint. He caught, just on the edge of his vision, the image of his right hand. It was gloved and tied to a pole that appeared to run horizontal behind him. He was fairly sure that his other hand was tied likewise, if he could see it. There were wisps of straw sticking out of the glove. There were, in fact, wisps of straw sticking out all over his vision.
He chuckled mentally, because he had no vocal cords to make the sound. He didn't even have lungs to push the air through his non-existant vocal cords.
"All right," he thought to himself, "I guess if I had to be put someplace, this was as good as any."
Being unable to shut his eyes would be an inconvienence, as he would have prefered to meditate on his next course of action with his eyes closed, in a quiet room of his choosing, with perhaps some soft music and a glass of dry red wine. Of course, he would have prefered to still be alive in his own body, but that couldn't be helped at the moment.
The fact that he was no longer in the abyss at all was the surprise to him. Moving his conscious mind to an inanimate object was far beyond his abilities. Someone must have done it to him. That was the mystery, and that was the question. Who ever it was was someone with a sense of humor, obviously. Someone very, very strong, who was able to pull his consciousness from that place of permanent black and stick it into the body of a scarecrow.
Someone he was fairly sure would be coming to talk to him, or would pull his mind from this temporary home to another. Someone who he was willing to wait to meet to find out why they did this. He pondered the question of time and the question of waiting and decided that it really didn't make much of a difference. What was time, after all, when time was all you had.
He could not move his head. He could not move his eyes, nor could he blink. His arms and legs were imobile as well. If he had been any other person, he would have panicked. He might have wondered if he had been in some horrible accident and was trapped in a body, unable to communciate with the rest of the world.
He was, instead, only mildly surprised. He surveyed what he could of his surroundings. Tall trees, red barn, cows and horses were all in his current field of view. A farm. How quaint. He caught, just on the edge of his vision, the image of his right hand. It was gloved and tied to a pole that appeared to run horizontal behind him. He was fairly sure that his other hand was tied likewise, if he could see it. There were wisps of straw sticking out of the glove. There were, in fact, wisps of straw sticking out all over his vision.
He chuckled mentally, because he had no vocal cords to make the sound. He didn't even have lungs to push the air through his non-existant vocal cords.
"All right," he thought to himself, "I guess if I had to be put someplace, this was as good as any."
Being unable to shut his eyes would be an inconvienence, as he would have prefered to meditate on his next course of action with his eyes closed, in a quiet room of his choosing, with perhaps some soft music and a glass of dry red wine. Of course, he would have prefered to still be alive in his own body, but that couldn't be helped at the moment.
The fact that he was no longer in the abyss at all was the surprise to him. Moving his conscious mind to an inanimate object was far beyond his abilities. Someone must have done it to him. That was the mystery, and that was the question. Who ever it was was someone with a sense of humor, obviously. Someone very, very strong, who was able to pull his consciousness from that place of permanent black and stick it into the body of a scarecrow.
Someone he was fairly sure would be coming to talk to him, or would pull his mind from this temporary home to another. Someone who he was willing to wait to meet to find out why they did this. He pondered the question of time and the question of waiting and decided that it really didn't make much of a difference. What was time, after all, when time was all you had.
