Wednesday, 3 March 2010

To fight a wizard with cold steel

I sleep.

I dream.

Friends from years back, that now live in countries I have barely been in, appear, with families I haven't met at all.

It is raining. Raining alot. The roads are flooding. A former colleague is driving a small french car through the rain, through the water, he is part of the resistance movement.

People are running on skis through the rain, we climb through the fence, stuffing the backpack through the hole we tore ahead of us. The muffins in the backpack are crushed.

It will never end, the rain, the flight. We must confront the danger.

I take my kitchen knives - the biggest and the smallest - and go to war. They sent me to gunfight with a knife. The sorcerer does not fight back in any physical way. When I throw the small knife it almost hits my own foot. I chop with the big knife and the sorcerer gets a second gaping mouth. He laughs through it and lifts his hand.

I run through the rain, my friends hide in eggs, and the eggs are crushed in the crash when the car water-planed.

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