Tiny Story Time: The Minions' Ball

Ah, of course...from my favorite site...

Inspired by Christina Rosetti's poem, The Goblin Market (but nothing like it whatsoever)

The Minions' Ball

not quite after midnight
the robes dusted and preened
ruby-red lips drooling blood-stained juices
for kissing of the queen

the minions gather round the warren
beneath the Slaughtered Lamb
to dance against the sideboards
on rough beaten wood, with a sleight of hand

she will meet them in the market
she will meet them in the stalls
she will meet them on the gallows' drop
and meet them in kings' halls

they dance with her as she pleases,
and waltz while the cello moans
she calls the tune, they bow to her
resentful love grumbles, and groans

the imp skips a sprightly jig
the succubus feigns mild interest
the felguard acts the wallflower
the arabesque voidwalker, dishonest

the doomguard has a cameo
his appearance is short lived
but while he pirouettes
he's chopped off a few heads

she will meet them in the market
she will meet them in the stalls
she will meet them on the gallow's drop
and meet them in kings' halls

if you listen closely
you can hear squeals of pleasure
so many partners to choose from
and they serve her at her leisure

but none of them stay till dawn
they can't pay the piper's fee
they won't meet her in sunlight
and leave so quietly

the only place, and caution
of which you must beware
is the minions' ball round midnight
take heed, and take care

don't go to the dance if asked
for surely you won't want to leave
feet will bleed and backs will break
leeched souls are cleaved

she will meet them in the market
she will meet them in the stalls
she will meet them on the gallows' drop
and meet them in kings' halls

she's going to the dance tonight
dancing at the minions' ball

Day 7: Chronicles of the Glovebox Gnome: Home again

"Shhhh little one...go to sleep..."

"But I'm too excited! I want to talk about my trip! And see the guild! And get some more rep! And and and..."

"It'll be there for you tomorrow, and look, no one in the guild is on now...they're all asleep...like you should be..."

"No, I want to stay up! And play! And


zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....

Day 6: Chronicles of the Glovebox Gnome: The S-Penultimate Spelunker

Ooh boy, am I wrung OUT! That Irate Mage may start a vacation grumpy, but give her some Harvest Moon Pig Ass Porter, free Wi-Fi, and a soak in a hot tub, and man, that girl melts like a gumdrop in a bacon skillet. She needed that luxury though, let me tell you. Yesterday the druids and the rogue discussed how awesome everything had been going, and decided not to push their luck and start heading home a day early. Mage, though having a wonderful time, gussying up for geysers and frolicking with fumaroles, agreed it was time to head back to civilization. It was unanimous. Me? Well I didn't get a vote since no one else saw me but her. The only thing though...the only thing...she had one request, and that was to go to the Lewis & Clark Caverns.  There is something...kind of...gee, I don't know....I feel like...a long lost memory....

Anyway, she insisted they go, and since every one else had gotten what they had wanted out of the trip, they indulged her. Checking out of the lodge a day early drew a Norman Bate's-esque creep factor +30 response from the front desk clerk, however: "Onto bigger and better things, I suppose....." he said in a voice that would chill Y'Shaarj.  Something about him made her think: "Inside that little man is a warlock. And not a nice one." Creepy. Oh well--off to Lewis & Clark, then Missoula, then home the next day!

So away from the elk, the bison, and geysers, goodbye bears-not-seen, goodbye! Goodbye! By the time they reached the National Park site, they were all tired. They paid for their pass, went down the road where tours gathered, paid their fee, and got in on the next tour. Little did Irate Mage know that the caverns were basically a big, mile + long hole inside of a MOUNTAIN! One has to traverse-trek up a steep switchback trail in order to gain access to the entrance. And rip off alert! It was only named after Lewis & Clark because Teddy Roosevelt named everything after them.* The entrance to this magnificent experience was actually discovered by two farmers when they saw smoke coming out of the side of the mountain. Going to investigate, they found the entrance and told their buddy Dan Morrison about it.  Right about now I'm wishing I was Sarah Vowell and could write about history in an engaging and humorous way, but alas, I am not. But L&C don't get the credit for this one, not even Sacagawea. Dan is the man for keeping the caverns accessible.

Accessible? Maybe for a gnome-sized gnomey-gnome like me, but for big-tailed Mage, well...

The cynical tour guide (thank God for cynical tour guides) stopped the tour at one point and pointed to a big rock. The rock was named "Decision Rock" because if one goes forward, there is no turning back, and he informed the group that yes, there was ONE narrow passageway. I am calling the bison-shit card on this one. There were about ten: at one point there is what is known as the 'butt slide.' The limestone is so worn by the butt cheeks of 100+ years it is worn into two distinct sluices. She was happy to have a little tail cushioning because it prevented her from sliding down too fast. The tour was great, and she really enjoyed flexing, folding, moving, bending, and twisting around the nooks and crannies of the cave. And it was a long, long way down. It wouldn't have been so bad but there was a family in the group: mom, wearing a pretty jean dress, a toddler girl, and three other elementary school aged children, a grandpa, and grandma. Again, husband? Where is El Patron? The "Who's Your Daddy?" The Papa Bear of the brood to for the love of all that is holy take that toddler to the car! The Irate Mage had wanted to be last in the tour group, to allow for all children (and there were many) to go ahead, yet the young mother confesses at Decision Rock that not only does she have a cranky toddler in tow, but she is claustrophobic, and wants to be last. And my own sense of foreboding kept growing...

Sure enough, we go down, down, down, deeper and deeper, and we get to the showcase of the place, the Paradise Room. And there, to my horror:

CAVE GNOMES! Great-grandpa Americanus Lostus, is that you?!

I fear it may be my long-lost relatives, a few gnomes who went off to search for riches and glory in the Old West and ended up forever frozen in time, staring at legions of humid tourists who were told to take a sweater, bottle of water, and comfortable shoes. Bat guano a bonus. Oh well, nothing I can do for them now.

The Rogue, Druids, and Irate Mage will be home late tomorrow. Mage has a great idea for a Blog Azeroth topic about all the spelunking and caves in Azeroth -- think of how we all feel about them. The caverns not only are caves, but they felt very dungeon-like too. This formation reminded her of skeletal remains:

There's a story in there somewhere, she just knows it. She can feel it in her bones. Oh wait, maybe that was just a stuck stalagmite.

Homeward bound,
G

Editor's Note: CD Rogue told a tale before the caves of a family trip in his past where there were Ice Caves somewhere in Idaho. When he and his brother finally wore his dad down and they stopped, sure enough there were ice caves, and the good owners of the caves had the creativity and imagination to stash the entire place with garden gnomes. I remember as a very little girl going on some cavern tour that has fairyland creatures in it, and got very scared, and some nice man let me ride on his shoulders, and I think I ended up bumping my head. So, blood, darkness, and Little Bo Peep are somehow inescapably tied up in a knot for me. Not sure how to frame the Blog Azeroth idea -- if any of my blogging buddies want to give it shot, go for it.

PS I would still be in that hot tub too if the hotel didn't shut it off and turn off the lights. /sigh

*We could use a few more things named after Sacajawea, in my opinion. That girl rocked.

Day 5: Chronicles of Glovebox Gnome - Rainbow Acid Trip Extremophiles!

Day 5
Today started off soooooo much better: Irate Mage made a sugar-sweet request to all the big bad bears in the tiny tiny room to set up the extra cot and they all slept like Goldilocks drugged their porridge. Ah, heaven! Housekeeping ran out of pillows, however, (I suspect a lot of pillow-fort building in the lodge next door) but other than that - I mean really?! Who needs all those damn pillows?! All was well. CD Rogue and Youngest Master Druid got outside in the wee hours for astronomy*, and struck up a conversation with an Indian gentleman describing his childhood experience with a constellation that sounds like it may be our Westernized Orion. Ah, we all tell different stories and myths for the same stars, don't we? I was kind of wondering if Irate Mage skipped town and somehow pulled the Sugar-coated Shaman out of her hat, she was such a different woman! Sugar-Coated Shaman was all hey, Animal Cookies! And look, fresh green apples and cheese sticks! Oh wait, forgot my coffee....FORGOT HER COFFEE? I suspect the Mage did indeed pull a fast one here. Irate Mage never forgets her coffee. Meanwhile I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible and slipped a few postcards in my satchel and pick-pocketed a tourist or two, but all I gained were receipts for Slim-Jims, Sinclair gas, and a two-week old bowling shoe rental. These people need to put more money in their pockets and less testimonials to bad snack decisions. Bowling is fine though. I approve.

Oh, and:
Suck it, New Zealand and Dominican Republic. Yellowstone has the Grand Prismatic Spring, the third largest in the world! We're Number Three! We're Number Three! Okay okay, sorry, got carried away. But the photo above does not do it justice: the pool is made of different heat sources and the bacteria responds in kind--the steam turns from blue to orange. BLUE STEAM! Blue as a Draenei, blue as a dream...it was lovely. I am so happy Irate Mage shoved me in the glove compartment and let me tag along. The bacteria in the pool are known as 'extremophiles.' Isn't that a most excellent word?! I know that there is life on Mars now. There is no doubt.

And in all of this natural beauty and grandeur, an American tourist, an older man, very large, with a small fuzzy white dog on the end of his leash, squawked to his dry, prune-faced wife, loudly, "Is there anything worth seeing up there? Is it worth it?" She squawked an unintelligible reply.

Anything worth seeing? Yes. Open your eyes. There are extremophiles all around you.

Mage's Favorite Souvenir: Bison Beanie

*Yes, a large telescope made the journey along with stand and stool. Hmmmm. No wonder things were poking thighs...but Irate Mage understood. The stars are different up here.


Theme Song: Life On Mars - Seu Jorge version

Days 2, 3, and 4: The Chronicles of the Glovebox Gnome

(Remember Real Life Friends: What goes on the blog stays on the blog...or something like that. This is my story, and I'm sticking to it. Besides, this is all coming from the perspective of the Gnome with limited Internet access...whatever that means.)

Day 2: 
Travels got me a bit saddle-sore in my rumpus can: the trip went smoothly enough but there were a few speed bumps. Irate Mage complained about the pokey laptop in her thigh and the Rogue moved it to a better local, along with all the other whatnots and whoozits in the back. He did not do this without complaint, which splintered the Mage. Perhaps her Dwarf friend Kallixta is right: the herbs and other factors caused digestive ills and irritation no amount of grazing bison vignettes would soothe. Too much junk in that trunk if you ask me. But no one did.

Almost to our destination! Could see the glorious glories of nature right there in front of us, and then wouldn't you know it? HUMANS. Many stupid humans, rushing across traffic lanes, causing over an hour back-up to look at what? A collision? A peaceful resolution to peanut butter in chocolate bars?Zombie apocalypse swarm? No. A family of bison: daddy, mommy, and baby, strolling through the lodge pines. Okay so they were adorable, but the Harley riders got their 'staches in a stitch, and the trout fishers flummoxed: only the mini-van mommies seemed happy to witness the tableau, all the while dragging small children across the street, nearly causing many a nurse-maid shoulder injury. Not my problem. As long as they didn't mistake me for one popsicle-stained toddler with a leather jerkin I was safe.

But there is no rest for the wicked, or so they say. The night is dark and full of terrors: CD Rogue was concerned about a noise he heard outside the window, and until he could find out otherwise from Mr. Park Ranger, if the possibility existed it might be a bear, window would stay shut. I just went outside and found a bunch of partying raccoons to pass the night with, I was fine. But knew there'd be hell to pay for the Mage. That witch needs her beauty sleep. Man, do I miss the shaman.

Day 3: 
If I had known that yesterday was to be as glorious as it was and the worst thing I had to complain about was a ruckus in my rumpus, I would have shut my huckleberry pie-hole and considered myself lucky. Well, I'm being melodramatic, and hardly practical, especially for a gnome. Let's just say I'm glad I'm a gnome, and can stealth, and get out of messy domestic situations if need be.

And sweet baby murlocs, we all wished the Irate Mage had stayed at home and they had brought the shaman. Why the shaman stayed home I'll never know. The Mage is high-maintenance, moody, and needs sleep. Uninterrupted sleep. The shaman, though, that girl just throws out a totem or two, does her "oooooommmmm" thing and kisses elks and is right as rain. Kind of mellow, like a druid. One quick flash of heat and thunder and all is forgiven. That mage, man, she holds a grudge. We could have used more druids, I supposed, 'cept there were too many druids in the cave den, and it was getting a bit grousy. Her totems would have fit on top of the car along with every thing else, I'm sure of it! Heck, the Mage didn't even pack a blow dryer. No wonder she couldn't sleep. Ah, who am I kidding? Those totems would have been bouncing down I-90 and lost to the ages, along with that one shoe that's always on the road. Why is it only one shoe?

We all went to see Old Faithful and perhaps something triggered in the Mage, cause after the three-mile trek around the park smelling sulfur and volcanic gasses she had to go. She really had to go right then. It was the end of the walk around the park, and CD Rogue points out a building where the whole group will meet. She mistook the low brown building for the medium brown building, but not the tall brown building, and went in the wrong one. By the time her natural resources were depleted, she corrected course and met with the entourage. CD Rogue, who is a bit of a rule follower, was not pleased. His concern for her well being came out as chastisement, and then the shit really did hit the fan. Poor druid cubs wanted her to be quiet, CD Rogue had reached the end of his insulin rope, and everyone wanted to pretend they were Chevy Chase swimming with Christy Brinkley in a pool. Nothing like sleep deprivation and a twelve hour car ride as a combined combustible. She is a fire mage, after all. I get her, even if no one else does.

Day 4: 
Oh, oh dear. Oh dearie dear dear. The effects of close quarters on such a large bunch has taken its toll. Irate Mage was teary, Young Druid Masters not understanding that sometimes mages just cry because they're right...angry...but right...and the Rogue...poor man, low blood sugars and all, and nary a place or wedge to sleep, all dry, cranky, and somehow...somehow they all got it together. The Mage's eyes were red with exhaustion, as red as her one sunburned right arm, but they all did it. They all managed to get some decent breakfast and she her coffee (if these men would just bring her coffee! I would do it but I didn't bring any pocket change...) and they all hit the road again, and it was an amazing day...she took a lot of pictures but this one is my favorite: Dragon's Mouth Cave (I wanted to go in there and slay Onyxia but she said no...something about acidic, sulfuric boiling hot water and steam or some such nonsense...

Ah, I felt deceptively safe from the mini-van mommies. How foolish. During the jaunt to the waterfall there was a busload of homogeneous looking humans: all blonde or dark straight hair young women, between 21 and 27, either pregnant, or holding a small baby, and multiple tow-headed toddlers literally in tow! Yes, toddlers swarming sharp cliffs, some on leashes or being wrangled by frazzled grannies. Where are the men folk? I see one handsome young father, kissing one blonde-baby-slung-wife in Keds and blue jean peddle-pushers, but where were the other patrons of this brood? Oh, there's one. Okay. So a few young wives, two husbands, 2,341 toddlers, boys all, grabbing sticks and screaming KI-YA....hmmmm....I may have to do some more research into this clan. It was a clan too, because they were all wearing matching T-shirts. I was not safe. The only thing that rescued me before one of them strapped me into a car seat and took me home to convert me was my heroine, Irate Mage! She polymorphed me into penguin, *SHIT!* she exclaimed realizing her mistake...there are no penguins in Wyoming! Correcting her error changed me into a sheep hoping everyone would think I was a mountain sheep ewe...or something...but by then a group of Chinese tourists, at seeing a child turn into a penguin, thought they had heat stroke and paramedics were called.

It was a good day.

Day One: The Chronicles of the Glovebox Gnome

The journey, as most journeys do, began with small sprinklings of friction and stress. Crossing thresholds or Continental Divides takes Sacajawean level of diplomacy: CD Rogue intended to cart more whatnots, whoopidoos, gizmogs and wingding-a-trons than the Irate Mage anticipated. How do I know I was traveling with a mage you ask? Well at 3AM when she went to use the facilities upon return she blinked into a wall. Indeed. She did. Just like home. To be fair, the mage had traveled quite a fair poke without even a rocket booster! Oh how primitive! I can attest I gave them no trouble at all -- they barely noticed I was there! All right, there was the incident at the rest stop when the rattlesnake signs spooked me and I tossed out my fan of knives, poking a poodle in the eye and killing a valuable king snake (or two). The good people in Missoula, Montana may wonder why their vermin population has a slight increase over the next few weeks. My bad.

Regardless, the tiny vehicle, packed stem to stern left the Irate Mage feeling irritable, not to mention she ate some bad oysters...Rocky Mountain* were they?.....and was feeling quite ill. She ventured into a local apothecary shop and bought out the supply of Tums. No avail. Mages are known to have digestive issues -- must be the sampling of all the herbs and potions leaves them with very confused stomachs. At one point she ridiculously trusted a purveyor of fine cold beverages and portable snack food to buy Dorito chile/lime XTREME spicy chips --the good man behind the counter, complete with plaid flannel shirt, and a model of a schooner on the shelf, recommended those were his favorite. Life is about choices, dear mage...I tried to warn you, but was myself trying to procure a Cherry-Coke Slurpee. I was unsuccessful. Turns out Cherry Coke Slurpees with their red dye make gnomes hyper and well...there was an incident with the air pump hose that shall go unrecorded.

The trip is going fabulously, however; I know the mage is aware of my presence and it comforts her as the chili-lime XTREME chips settle and her thigh is bruised by a laptop and power cord. She was too pampered if you want my honest opinion, and this little trek into the wild will do her good --

Till tomorrow - G

Editor's Note: *No, I have never eaten Rocky Mountain oysters, and don't plan to. There was a billboard for a local "Testicle Festival" however. Dear god.

Teeny-tiny story time: Bored acts of kindness...

Ceniza had some important business with Landro in Booty Bay, and was perusing his many wares, seeking one particular treasure. a grim campfire. It would be a new trick in her bags, something to amuse her. The days needed some amusement, and if tossing skulls on blue flames like marshmallows on gruesome graham crackers, well, it was something at least to break the boredom. Mages should never be allowed boredom just as a courtesy. The day promised to be hot in the grasslands and cities of Eastern Kingdoms, but here in the southern-most tip, the water was warm, the breeze was gingery-and-lemon cool, and she had no where to go and nothing in particular to do. Landro allowed himself a quick glance, noting her lack of clothing, and appreciating the view, but only a quick one. He and his thugs were more interested in the vistas of gold, not the tall Draenei view. A little voice sent her one of those pink messages, "Can you help me please?"

"Not at the moment, I am sorry." Ceniza responded.

"Oh, okay, thanks anyway."

That little...tug.

Ceniza found her campfire, and lit a fire right there on the oily docks. If the whole bloody mess of pirates, parrots, and goblins went up in flames, well, it wasn't her fault. They should have had stricter fire codes. But no, nothing, just a heap of big-eyed skulls, strange sticks and crooked kindling, and swaying blue flames.

"Do you still need help?"

And sure enough, he did. The voice came from a Dwarf, who was disoriented on the Alliance side, trying to find his way to Booty Bay to the neutral auction house. And if you asked Ceniza now why she thought she would come to his aid, she would just look at you, shrug her pretty shoulders and go set something on fire. Maybe she wanted to discover her own abilities with portals and parties, and see how far and fast she could get this little man to where he wanted to be. Because...he was in Stormwind.  No where near Booty Bay.

After some discussion, she decided to at least bring him to where the Flight Master was. She remembered hearing a story of a cousin who woke up in Ogrimmar and was so disoriented by being on "the other side" she fell off of the zeppelin and was never heard from again.

When Ceniza found him, he was wearing only his skivvies, crouched in a corner near the wall to the harbor and the farmer's field. He seemed so...vulnerable. Ceniza's maternal instincts are shriveled on good days, and non-existent on bad. But little near-naked Dwarfs...poor guy.

"Why aren't you in Ironforge?" He never did give a very good or reasonable explanation for that question. If he was a Dwarf, he would have begun his journey in Coldridge Valley, and he said he walked all the way to Stormwind.

She escorted him all the way to the Flight Master, round and down the alleys and cobblestones, up the stairs, always checking to make sure he was keeping up on tree-stumps of legs. She didn't blink for speed, but kept a brisk pace. In any case, he could not fly to Booty Bay, as the Flight Master was not offering services to that area for someone so lowly. Ceniza realized she could help him no further. She called in the big aid...Matty's Stone Drake.

Mataoka was enjoying a nice cup of honeymint tea when Ceniza asked for her assistance. Ceniza never asks for help, so this was surprising. Matty was not alarmed to find him wearing only his boxer-shorts: Dwarfs tendency to drop trou around her was common knowledge. She found the young gent, and when he hopped on her dragon-form back, his little butt-cheeks made a sound that can only be described as plotz....Matty shuddered, hoping she could find a pool large enough to wash off her dragon form. Naked Dwarf cheeks can be felt through dragon armor, just letting one and all know.

As they flew to Booty Bay, he confessed to her in his usual form, he was something she might hate, and would regret helping him.

"A Troll."

"No worries, as long as you don't say Undead Rogue, we're fine."

"And what if I did?"

"Then I might have to give you a parachute and send you on your way!"

"Well, I was one many years ago, but now I am a Troll Warrior."

Matty wasn't sure that between Dwarf butts on her back or a Troll, which would need the most scrubbing, but good deeds usually come with germs. Goes with the territory.

He found his way to the auction house, and they said their thanks, welcomes, and farewells. All Matty hopes is that if this little Dwarf's friend, the Troll, finds a chance to do something nice or generous for someone else someday, that he does, remembering a kind Draenei girl on the Alliance side.

Matty saw some storm clouds to the west from the her vantage point near her secret waterfall, heading toward Theramore. It was still a beautiful day, though.

Tiny Story Time: Excavation Site

His hoof made a substantial, determined step onto the ship’s planks. The briny wood had been freshly scoured, and was as smooth as a woman’s touch, and just as stubbornly inflexible. The voyage promised to be long. As the crew raised the gangplank, the sails parried and dodged with the west wind, snapping under and over. He turned to the polished brass railing and waved goodbye to his young, pretty wife and baby son. In the two years since she became pregnant, married him, and gave him a son, it never ceased to astonish him that he would have this much happiness at his age. His own father had raised four children to grown by this time.  The young woman alternated between slicing the air with her hand in farewell, and wiping delicate, ladylike tears from her face. He took the silver locket out of his shirt, and patted it, hoping she would see the gesture from the distance. Her maids and the baby’s nanny stood solemnly nearby, at a respectful distance, ready to escort her back to the keep, and mind the baby. They were dour women, but he trusted them. The baby was his only child. She was his second wife; he had been married twice, and almost once.

Waving goodbye was tiresome, but damn, he thought to himself, she is beautiful. But his son: he only wanted to return from this dangerous journey soon. He didn’t want to miss too much. His business affairs, both civilian and military, took him all over the world for stretches at a time; in fact, it was through these important business contacts he met her. Their age difference never seemed to matter, although once in a while, he would say something he didn’t realize was nostalgic on his part and unknown, or worse antiquated, to her. They most likely would have married anyway, surprise baby or not.

The ship, unmoored, destination fixed, sailed with purpose; the mother’s arms of the dock set the child boat free.

After meeting with the captain in his quarters, by evening’s fall, he retired to his cabin. The yeoman had left fresh parchment and lion’s blood ink, as well as other fixtures and comforts warranted by a man of his stature. He was a tall one, hoof to horns, and in spite of the accommodations, he felt restless.

And although he kept no secrets, and told no lies, the almost-wife was the one he thought about.

He had heard tales of a volcano that blew up and covered the whole land, like a hundred dragon brothers who vomited mud-fire, simultaneously, and that the people and animals of the land had no time to react or seek safer ground. Their charred bodies instantly molded inside out, and left hollow shells where they once existed, and then, extinguished. Years later, one could see their shapes by statues molded from these hollowed-out cores, writhing in pain, chained, broken, and crying.

“Pfft…come on man. That’s a bit dramatic,” he thought; but the tiny hollow feeling: that could only be fixed with the almost-wife. He always wrote first, and she always responded. Political unrest, the King’s decisions, the events of the day, no matter. Her opinion was as different from his as the ocean between them. But at least she had one. She was unique in that she was the one whom had known him since he was a stupid, stupid young man, and still respected him. Or so she claimed. She had been the one to leave first, and was forever equally busy stepping hoof-to-earth and sea, having adventures of her own.

He wrote her a quick scroll, sketched an image copied from the portrait in the locket of his son, and sent it by sea bird. It would be sometime before she received it, and he was confident she would; what he wasn’t sure of was if he would receive a reply. He was traveling to the tips of the stars and the depths of the dragons’ toes.

She did receive it, as he knew. And in that letter, as she could see, the color of the eyes belonged to the young mother, deep brown, not green, but the shape of the eyes were his. All his.

Later in the fall, at an excavation site in Azuremyst, she dug up a silver locket, filled with sand. She cleaned it out, locked up some her own memories, and wore it with bittersweet pride. 

Splinter.

The sleep, dazed and interrupted, moving in the syrupy night room, consciousness taking no prisoners. As she reached her hand on the doorjamb, a tiny splinter rebelled against the old wood and pricked her finger. This simple, tiny obstruction broke her sleep-walking journey, destination: a glass of water, pure and clear. The sharp sting was the only honesty she found in her restlessness. She was thirsty. Greedy, parched, lips kept her from dreams, and in her dreams, they moved just...out...of...step. Sync. She realized, with a tiny, cold seed, he wasn't home. And in that ditch of doubt, the gully where faith and knowledge bottomed out, she needed to stay, until. Until she woke up.