Blue Sand 01 – Beach


from a DADUNGEON post
on the MYSTcommunity forum in the Players’ Journals subforum thread:
Tink’s Journey through Uru and Beyond, transcriptions of journal snippets

Note: I’ve smoothed it a bit with a pass of Ye Olde Mental English Wheel.

[clears throat…err, keyboard] Here it be, such as it is:

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The sand was blue, like those jewel-colored walls deep within thousand-year-old glaciers. Powdered glacier.

It stretched from the horizon on Tink’s left to the horizon on her right, and was of a texture so fine and regular that it flowed along with an iridiscent liquid that sheeted across the beach here and there.

The mixture of bright sand and pale liquid slithered down the smooth slope of blue sand, to join a huge body of what could have been Terran shelf waters — but for an odd phosphorescence skittering through the edges of its surf.

It was like breaking waves made of the same stuff that moved across the screens of that weird little machine she’d parked on her workbench in Dr Tinkyl’s LaBore-atory of Diet Doctor Pepper and Spanish Rice.

This whole horizon-to-horizon beach was a massive copy of a link field she often used on a huge T’nk System transporter she and TeBO had resurrected in D’ni.

Maybe that was why she ended up here.

However, as surrealistic as the light-woven edges of wave crests and bright blue beach was, the thing that stopped Tink’s brain in its tracks was the sky.

Her face fell into resigned exhaustion. She was back beneath a faceted dome, but she wasn’t sure if she back on Ma’Kluft at the right time. THAT howling thought was what was making her mind refuse to engage gears.

Then came that split second in which she felt the wheels of her mind do a sort of cerebral “Neutral Drop”, which in turn threatened the conversion of random neuron firings into her notorious stream of consciousness thought process.

It was a split second in which she had an overwhelming, formless terror engulf her normally resilient ability to adapt, to make use of what she had in hand in order to get to where she wanted to be. She stood there, headed tipped to the sky, and anxiously studied it.

There was a different pattern to its facets. A lack of certain colors, and the sky beyond the dome seemed “different”. The prism effects to which she had grown accustomed, the ones which traveled facet edges of the Ma’Kluft dome were dimmed, shifted.

It was like the giant star nursery which furnished the glows and pulsed light to color them no longer hung behind Ma’Kluft’s suns.

The landscape suddenly felt utterly alien to Tink’s consciousness, which already had a working relationship with the Twilight Zone. On autopilot she ran a hand back over her hair, a ritual effort to re-corral any gingery curls which had escaped her fat teal scrunchy.

She wanted to sink down to a cross-legged sitting position, but she was standing in one of the sheeting flows of pale liquid and glacier blue sand.

She wanted to scream out, at the top of her lungs, that she didn’t want to play any more, that she wanted to go home, but . . .

This wasn’t a game.

She was so tired. She had been jerked from strange place to strange place again and again, always being suddenly covered with those moving transporter light patterns, sealed into a time bubble, and then dumped out again in yet another odd place.

That incredibly elongated and sinuous alien she had seen studying her while lounging on a steam-riddled overhead pipe, and dragging one spaghetti-thin leg through “water” resembling the iridiscent water now filling her eyes, was long gone. She had been “greeted” by dozens of other “welcome committees”, since then. Some were sentient, others appeared not to be.

By the clock it had been only a few days since she had “lost” JR Red and The Bearded One in a thicket of orange-tipped indigo foliage. Since then, she had been skipped like a glowing paisley-covered Tink-shaped rock across time’s surfaces — so many times, that it felt like eons had passed.

Tiredness weakened her knees. Her thighs could no longer support her weight. Her head felt far too heavy for her neck to balance. She wilted, crumpled into a Tink-shaped lump which lay in the filmy flow of moving blue sand and pale liquid.

She felt so very good lying there, with one cheek against the silken coolness of blue sand and liquid. Its current gently nosed its way along contact points between Tink and the sand beneath her.

Her greeny-bluey gray eyes disappeared behind the overworked eyelids attached to a mind wishing for nothing more than a towel to wrap around its head.

In fact, Douglas Adams’ encyclopedia entry for using a towel to “… avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal …” was the last thing strung together before the welcome lack of everything sentient washed over everything.

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~ by tinkianmotion on May 25, 2010.

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