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Dreaming about Dreamtime
Sometimes I swear my brain is watching alternate-universe TV when I'm asleep.
Scene: The walk in front of a school building, just at the foot of the stairs, with kids pouring out at the end of school; the first crush is past, it's now just a steady stream. Seen from just behind, a teenaged girl, thirteen or fourteen, still a bit short of her full growth. Blue-and-grey backpack, a generous brush of natural-style kinky black hair, jeans, white suspenders with onions printed on them, white long-sleeved knit shirt. It's hard to keep up with her as she strides across the front court toward the old-fashioned wrought-iron gates set in a brick wall.
Her voice is thick with scorn. "So you're whining because one of your agents ended up in a compromising position, and had to do some fast talking?" A snort and a toss of the head. "She should never have stuck her nose into my business. She got exactly what she deserved."
The agent with her glances forward to the gates, where there is a crowd of people and vehicles. Glancing across again, the teen is gone; a look back along the walkway. She is lying facedown, completely unconscious, flanked by three other kids. One struggles to regain awareness, moaning something like "she won't get me this time!" Everyone else gives them a wide berth.
The agent stiffens, and turns to hurry to the gates, where the people and vehicles resolve into a cluster of police cruisers, parked broadside. Lights flash silently from several of them. Dark uniforms are scattered between the SUVs -- prone and motionless. "Damn... she took the cops with her this time. That can't be good."
...
A close shot of a bugle bell, engraved with leaping stags.
Pull out; it is being held closely against a man's left side. He is uniformed in red and white, though somehow it seems like it should be navy blue. The face comes into view: it's the police lieutenant who was waiting outside the school gates. In his right hand he is holding a pointer stick. Just before him is the waist-high woven wicker of a hot air balloon gondola; his feet are braced against its sway. He looks down over it, and raises the trumpet to his lips. He sounds the call to muster.
Scene: The walk in front of a school building, just at the foot of the stairs, with kids pouring out at the end of school; the first crush is past, it's now just a steady stream. Seen from just behind, a teenaged girl, thirteen or fourteen, still a bit short of her full growth. Blue-and-grey backpack, a generous brush of natural-style kinky black hair, jeans, white suspenders with onions printed on them, white long-sleeved knit shirt. It's hard to keep up with her as she strides across the front court toward the old-fashioned wrought-iron gates set in a brick wall.
Her voice is thick with scorn. "So you're whining because one of your agents ended up in a compromising position, and had to do some fast talking?" A snort and a toss of the head. "She should never have stuck her nose into my business. She got exactly what she deserved."
The agent with her glances forward to the gates, where there is a crowd of people and vehicles. Glancing across again, the teen is gone; a look back along the walkway. She is lying facedown, completely unconscious, flanked by three other kids. One struggles to regain awareness, moaning something like "she won't get me this time!" Everyone else gives them a wide berth.
The agent stiffens, and turns to hurry to the gates, where the people and vehicles resolve into a cluster of police cruisers, parked broadside. Lights flash silently from several of them. Dark uniforms are scattered between the SUVs -- prone and motionless. "Damn... she took the cops with her this time. That can't be good."
...
A close shot of a bugle bell, engraved with leaping stags.
Pull out; it is being held closely against a man's left side. He is uniformed in red and white, though somehow it seems like it should be navy blue. The face comes into view: it's the police lieutenant who was waiting outside the school gates. In his right hand he is holding a pointer stick. Just before him is the waist-high woven wicker of a hot air balloon gondola; his feet are braced against its sway. He looks down over it, and raises the trumpet to his lips. He sounds the call to muster.