Sometimes the fantasy wants no grounding. Sometimes the fantasy is "what if...?"
What if there is a place, another place, a place that is different from this place?
What if I can meet whom I want to meet?
What if I can do what I want to do?
These stories are set in that place. In paradisum, perhaps.
I'm awake. Light beyond my eyelids; the sweet haze of just-awakened, still dozing, the cusp of the day. Dreams recede in my mind faster than I can review them. Strange dreams, unsettling, upsetting even, but diminishing, fading, falling away; soon just the delicious haze of not-quite-awake.
... What a beautiful place.
... Three children, two girls and a boy. The girls are both blonde, one almost-brown dark blonde with hair in a loose ponytail, one much paler, a tumble of ringlets falling past her shoulders. Ringlets is older, I judge, maybe eight or nine to ponytail's seven or so. The boy is younger, four or five, with a young boy's unruly mop of fair hair. He sits between the two girls and kicks at the sand.
... "Mister? S'cuse me, mister?"
The girl is thirteen, maybe fourteen, dressed for school in dark green zip-up track-top ringed in blue, collar of a white blouse peeking out. Her skirt is blue and green tartan and comes to mid-thigh; below this, white knee socks lead down to sensible dark blue shoes. In between lie pale, fleshily-rounded thighs.
... it's the pram I recognise first. Without a doubt it's the same pram I came across on my first day, and presumably it has the same lovely little lady in residence. It doesn't roll onto Jacky's terrace all by itself, of course; a young woman pushes it, and while she might conceivably be the little lady's big sister, I reckon she's mum. A slightly grungy, slightly chavvy mum, but young and very attractive. A mum I'd like to fuck, for sure.
All words (c) illg 2010-2015