When a humungous dragon flaps across in front of her it sinks in that she cannot trust what she is seeing. Somewhere, deep in a corner of her mind, there’s a part of her that wants to believe. Wants to just dive headfirst into this…hallucination? Vision? Dream?
She doesn’t know, if she’s being honest.
The dragon is beautiful, sparkling scales in blueish-purpleish-greenish hues as it soars majestically through the rain-laden sky.
She digs her nails into the palm of her hand and feels the pain; real, visceral pain. She’s not dreaming.
She is sat on a hillside, scratchy grass leaving marks on her skin, a breeze blowing her hair around. She has been sat on a hillside the whole time but at some point she slipped from reality to whatever this was.
The part of her that is desperate to believe wants to sink into the unreality like it’s a dream she could wake up from. The logical part of her tells her that even if this is a dream (but it feels so real!) that sleeping on a hillside is a stupid thing to do. At the very least, she’ll wake up with her bag gone, if not something worse.
She pinches an arm, slaps her face gently, anything to try and wake herself.
It doesn’t work.
The dragon circles above, drifting smoothly through the rain that has begun to pour. She can feel it hitting her skin, cold but refreshing. Half of her brain was expecting this to finally wake her up. Half of her brain was thinking of finding shelter in the ramshackle town at the base of the hill. A ramshackle town that had not been there until she had thought of home.
She was beginning to forget what had been at the bottom of the hill in the ‘real world’; her home town surely. But this collection of rundown houses was her home. She remembered it. Remembered the twisting streets and quaint little shops.
Somewhere, deep in a corner of her mind, there was a part of her screaming that it wasn’t real. That she needed to wake up.
She ignored it and plodded down the now familiar hillside.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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