Marie-Ange's dream, late this evening.
May. 8th, 2004 02:04 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsAngie's Askani dream. She gets a fairly calm one, and a song stuck in her head.
Marie-Ange curled up under her thick comforter, and pulled one of her pillows down over her head. Between classes, and the stupid, moronic, frustrating fight with Clarice and Angelo, and then kidnapping Doug and trying desperately to not show how tense and stressed she was, in light of how tense and stressed -he- was, and then failing completely, and then the not-earthquake, she was expecting not to sleep.
When she started yawning, it was a relief. One little piece of good news in a otherwise bad day. Even the movie had been pretty bad. She rubbed her eyes, and pulled the blanket over her head as she fell asleep, hoping that tomorrow would be at least -calmer- if not better.
--
The small classroom looked onto a brightly lit patio, windowed with tempered acrylic-steel, so that the rooms received as much sun as possible without fear of UV radiation or sunburns. That there was a shelter under the rooms, and that the tempered windows could be brought down on hinges to shield the occupants of said shelter in case of emergency was known - but rarely openly discussed, even after safety drills.
A number of children, young by any standards, sat in groups around low tables, chattering happily as they
participated in the time-honored tradition of fingerpainting.
The teacher, also young by some standards, stood leaning against the wall, watching. The day before a holiday always made the children restless, and when it became obvious that nothing would be learned today, she had given up. A day of painting and play would not hurt them, or set them back in their lessons.
The general feeling of well-being and happiness was only dented a bit by the clanging bell and flashing amber light of the emergency alarm, which was soon followed by a telepathic 'buzzing' that served to warn the few people who might be lingering in hallways or lavatories.
By this late in the year, nearly all the children knew from repetition that they were to put their things down, and walk quietly and quickly towards the door at the back of the classroom that led to the shelter.
They knew this. They -rarely- succeeded on acting on it without fear or fussing.
As always one or two children began to cry. It was expected, and as trained - and on instinct from countless drills -she- had been through as a child, the young teacher simply caught them up in her arms, and carried them along. They could be calmed later. She could feel a few cold smears of paint on her neck from the small boy cradled against her neck as she continued to herd the children through the door and down the ramp.
As they passed her, she counted heads - fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and the two in her arms made eighteen. No stragglers, no children hiding under tables, and no one running past her trying to get a toy or blanket or favourite coat. She pulled the thick door closed, juggling one child against her hip while she tugged hard to latch it into place.
In the shelter, the children huddled in groups, barely talking. A few whispers, a quiet sob - or laugh, a snore here and there. They sat, and waited, and fell asleep in little piles, and some of the older children, from other classes, sang. It wasn't anything any child ever -decided- to do, it was just what they did to calm the youngers, to keep everyone's mind off the alarms and the thick walls and doors of the shelter, and to give them something to concentrate on.
Eyan, diya, no'assri ihr //
Fiel, e'falhayih, no'erhi, no'serit //
Eyan, diya, no'assri ihr obhri //
Fiel, e'falhayih, no'nahaena i'serit //
Queh, feir, solbera ihr //
Hain, e'falhayih, noani seia lairanti //
Queh, feir, solbera irh obhri //
Hain, e'falhayih, noariena i'serit //
--
When morning came, Marie-Ange pulled the pillow aside, looking around the room in confusion. An oddly vivid dream, without the accompanying insomnia. She shrugged, and pulled the spiral-bound notebook from her nightstand to record it. It hadn't felt quite like one of her normal dreams, but something seemed familar and important about it anyway. As she wrote, she hummed to herself quietly, the tune to a song she thought she half-remembered from childhood.
Marie-Ange curled up under her thick comforter, and pulled one of her pillows down over her head. Between classes, and the stupid, moronic, frustrating fight with Clarice and Angelo, and then kidnapping Doug and trying desperately to not show how tense and stressed she was, in light of how tense and stressed -he- was, and then failing completely, and then the not-earthquake, she was expecting not to sleep.
When she started yawning, it was a relief. One little piece of good news in a otherwise bad day. Even the movie had been pretty bad. She rubbed her eyes, and pulled the blanket over her head as she fell asleep, hoping that tomorrow would be at least -calmer- if not better.
--
The small classroom looked onto a brightly lit patio, windowed with tempered acrylic-steel, so that the rooms received as much sun as possible without fear of UV radiation or sunburns. That there was a shelter under the rooms, and that the tempered windows could be brought down on hinges to shield the occupants of said shelter in case of emergency was known - but rarely openly discussed, even after safety drills.
A number of children, young by any standards, sat in groups around low tables, chattering happily as they
participated in the time-honored tradition of fingerpainting.
The teacher, also young by some standards, stood leaning against the wall, watching. The day before a holiday always made the children restless, and when it became obvious that nothing would be learned today, she had given up. A day of painting and play would not hurt them, or set them back in their lessons.
The general feeling of well-being and happiness was only dented a bit by the clanging bell and flashing amber light of the emergency alarm, which was soon followed by a telepathic 'buzzing' that served to warn the few people who might be lingering in hallways or lavatories.
By this late in the year, nearly all the children knew from repetition that they were to put their things down, and walk quietly and quickly towards the door at the back of the classroom that led to the shelter.
They knew this. They -rarely- succeeded on acting on it without fear or fussing.
As always one or two children began to cry. It was expected, and as trained - and on instinct from countless drills -she- had been through as a child, the young teacher simply caught them up in her arms, and carried them along. They could be calmed later. She could feel a few cold smears of paint on her neck from the small boy cradled against her neck as she continued to herd the children through the door and down the ramp.
As they passed her, she counted heads - fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and the two in her arms made eighteen. No stragglers, no children hiding under tables, and no one running past her trying to get a toy or blanket or favourite coat. She pulled the thick door closed, juggling one child against her hip while she tugged hard to latch it into place.
In the shelter, the children huddled in groups, barely talking. A few whispers, a quiet sob - or laugh, a snore here and there. They sat, and waited, and fell asleep in little piles, and some of the older children, from other classes, sang. It wasn't anything any child ever -decided- to do, it was just what they did to calm the youngers, to keep everyone's mind off the alarms and the thick walls and doors of the shelter, and to give them something to concentrate on.
Eyan, diya, no'assri ihr //
Fiel, e'falhayih, no'erhi, no'serit //
Eyan, diya, no'assri ihr obhri //
Fiel, e'falhayih, no'nahaena i'serit //
Queh, feir, solbera ihr //
Hain, e'falhayih, noani seia lairanti //
Queh, feir, solbera irh obhri //
Hain, e'falhayih, noariena i'serit //
--
When morning came, Marie-Ange pulled the pillow aside, looking around the room in confusion. An oddly vivid dream, without the accompanying insomnia. She shrugged, and pulled the spiral-bound notebook from her nightstand to record it. It hadn't felt quite like one of her normal dreams, but something seemed familar and important about it anyway. As she wrote, she hummed to herself quietly, the tune to a song she thought she half-remembered from childhood.
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