09-04-2016, 10:05 AM
now don’t you understand…that I’m never changing who I am?
There was no need to wait. She had seen others moving, as if slapped in the behind from the magic whip that propelled them forward. Like little mannequins—the lot of them, they moved as if they lacked the willpower to not do so. The promise of being closer to regaining her dignity, her love—her sense of self—drove her such that she allowed the mannequins to dangle their strings above her head. She would dance to the tune of the racing bugle, if that is what they wished.
She said her Hail Mary and pulled forward, racing at an incomparable speed to what she was familiar with—finding that the world was against her. She was running the track, dodging the potatoes that were being thrown at her head. She bobbed this way and that, positive that they were out to kill her, to keep her from her end goal—she crossed her heart and was determined not to let those salty spuds keep her from victory.
Now, to be fair, Reagan is hallucinating. Of course there are no potatoes. This is worse. These are phantom potatoes. The national food repellant of Ireland, Reagan’s homeland, and the bane of her absolute existence. These were the kinds of potatoes that come in all sorts of odd lumpy little shapes, their many eyes on her, keeping her from her end goal. They blink, all innocent looking, all sorts of colors; red, brown, white and yellow. But then the evil ones show up, blue and purple little things, flying through the air, their target sure, going at Reggie’s head with all the speed that magic can do—because in Reagan’s world, there is always magic.
They go marching in squadrons, their spears little forks standing and aiding their movement, entirely intent on blocking Reagan’s path, and she squeals and tries to jump over them, finding that landing in the middle of them creates nothing more than a weapon of mashed potatoes. Swimming in the brown gravy of her mind, she finds herself in a mess of her own making, tripped up by the evil little purple potato invasion, kicking, trying to get back up on her legs to continue the race (For in real Beqanna-land, she is merely stuck in some tar). Rolling around in this sludge, the potatoes hop on her belly and point their tiny fork-spears at her throat, and she knows, that this is the end. Their invasion is complete. She closes her eyes, waits for the end… and then…
Woosh
A sudden sense of faith and holiness has hit her once more, almost as if the purity of soured cream has swept away the little evil starches and their little evil plots, and Reagan is able to get up again, race towards the finish line, gasping and heaving as she does so… before yelling to all around her. “BEWARE THE INVASION OF THE POTATO! IT IS THEY WHO HAVE STOLEN THE MAGICKS!”
She said her Hail Mary and pulled forward, racing at an incomparable speed to what she was familiar with—finding that the world was against her. She was running the track, dodging the potatoes that were being thrown at her head. She bobbed this way and that, positive that they were out to kill her, to keep her from her end goal—she crossed her heart and was determined not to let those salty spuds keep her from victory.
Now, to be fair, Reagan is hallucinating. Of course there are no potatoes. This is worse. These are phantom potatoes. The national food repellant of Ireland, Reagan’s homeland, and the bane of her absolute existence. These were the kinds of potatoes that come in all sorts of odd lumpy little shapes, their many eyes on her, keeping her from her end goal. They blink, all innocent looking, all sorts of colors; red, brown, white and yellow. But then the evil ones show up, blue and purple little things, flying through the air, their target sure, going at Reggie’s head with all the speed that magic can do—because in Reagan’s world, there is always magic.
They go marching in squadrons, their spears little forks standing and aiding their movement, entirely intent on blocking Reagan’s path, and she squeals and tries to jump over them, finding that landing in the middle of them creates nothing more than a weapon of mashed potatoes. Swimming in the brown gravy of her mind, she finds herself in a mess of her own making, tripped up by the evil little purple potato invasion, kicking, trying to get back up on her legs to continue the race (For in real Beqanna-land, she is merely stuck in some tar). Rolling around in this sludge, the potatoes hop on her belly and point their tiny fork-spears at her throat, and she knows, that this is the end. Their invasion is complete. She closes her eyes, waits for the end… and then…
Woosh
A sudden sense of faith and holiness has hit her once more, almost as if the purity of soured cream has swept away the little evil starches and their little evil plots, and Reagan is able to get up again, race towards the finish line, gasping and heaving as she does so… before yelling to all around her. “BEWARE THE INVASION OF THE POTATO! IT IS THEY WHO HAVE STOLEN THE MAGICKS!”