Grass-Turning

The girl sits at her desk, tapping a pencil on the mottled wooden surface.

Taptaptap

The motion is slightly frantic. Irritated.

Taptaptaptaptaptap

“I should damn well know what to write” she thinks to herself, frustration making her fist tight around the pencil, her shoulders clenched. The hard wooden chair makes her shift uncomfortably, muscles numbing in prolonged contact with the unforgiving seat.

She takes a deep breath, attempting to center herself, breathes in, holds it. The air is lightly scented with the dying flowers on her bed table, cloying sweetness just barely perceptible. Dust makes her nose tickle slightly, almost sneeze. She squeezes her eyes tight shut, feeling the tightness in every muscle, then, exhales. Everything loosens, and, just like that, she lets her soul take flight.

Flying, higher, further, lifting, up up up-

A soft meadow rolls. Literally. Circles of grass, clinging loosely together, wobble-run past. The small creatures, skin nearly the same colour as the grass they gather, racing in place in their grassy wheels, shoot quick, curious glances at the newcomer as they pass by. The newcomer sees nothing but flashes of deep blue pupils against stark white, and the flurry of green-yellow spinning.

The newcomer smiles in contentment, excitement close behind, and her interest piqued. What stories does this place hold?

The smooth air caresses her, and her nose tingles at the warm smell of dusty grasses. She wiggles her toes, now bare, in the cushioning grass. The prickly softness lifts her spirits even higher. Perhaps those creatures? She thinks. Perhaps they hold the tale I’m searching for.

Light patterned skirt, just now noticed (Did it exist before I noticed it? She wonders.), swirling gently around her legs, almost tangling. Every sense always seems more pronounced when I’m story-walking She thinks delightedly. Better for the stories. They like to be fully alive.

She walks downward on a gentle slope, following the way of the Grass-Turners, as she’s mentally started to call them. And, as soon as she thought it, that was their name anyway. Several more grass-wheels fly awkwardly past, seemingly barely managing to stay upright, held by the sheer willpower of the curious Grass-Turners. They must live in some type of hut. Or underground? No, they seem to be lovers of open air, open places. It must be huts.

And, of course, what does she see but huts as she gets to the bottom of the slope. She doesn’t really notice the fact that no huts were visible from the top of the rolling slope. As imagined (for imagination is always key), they are built of the same grasses as the grass wheels. The ground is drier here, rougher on the soles of her feet. The grasses already harvested. She sees the creatures tumble out of their grassy wheels as they’re carelessly stopped by simply leaning to the side. The small green bodies, huge eyes no longer interested in anything but the building of the lodgings. Chittering high, keening, exited voices, happiness clearly evident as they flit around, weaving and collecting. She watches in fascination. A pattern seems to be emerging in the outside decoration. Strange marks, figures, and somehow she knows that they are vastly important. Yes. She smiles in triumph.

Her hand grasps the pencil firmly, she shifts on her seat, and starts to write.