Here is a slice of one of something larger I am working on, working title, The Thunderbirds. You can find more by clicking on that tag/category. At this point it is not necessary to read these in any particular order, but you can read this as post #1.
In the first dream my horse is a white cloud against a smooth blue landscape. I sit on her back gazing out at the wide expanse. I once read in an off-world magazine that humans couldn’t always see blue or at least they couldn’t describe it. What would their ancients have made of this vista with its strange light, blending sky into mountain into desert prairie? I wondered about my own ancestors language and experience. I knew little of my history so I had created my own.
Stretching out for miles, the sky and land were almost seamlessly one, simply different shadows of that cerulean light fading in and out of each other, flat as a photograph. At first glance it was ordinary, but the feel of it was alien, peculiar; at once the view that confronted me daily and something I had not noticed before.
Curiosity and trepidation danced in my stomach. I was compelled to move forward, but I didn’t know why. It seemed foolish and dangerous, neither my cup of tea. I wanted chamomile. I looked ahead and all I saw was thistle. I could be riding toward my demise. The flatness ahead left no cover. Anyone that might be hiding in the hills would see me coming long before I saw them and that made me nervous, more so as a lone traveler.
In the dream, there was little of the familiar. There was no Easy, no Alli, no memory of anything coming before. Only a sense of loss and deadness. This was not my country, but ahead even less so. The great unknown looming at the end of a great flat plain. It was not really my choice to be here or to go forward but I couldn’t go back. Forward was mystery that made no promises. Backward was dust and bone.