Dreams of a construct [Filtered reality] Artificial muse:

[Salvation]

Something wicked this way comes,
Sticks to stones can't break my imagined bones.
Skin shreds away to nothing but dreams and twilight mamories,
All my beauty is nothing but an artificial glamourie,
yet I am more real than you will ever be.

What you look in me, what do you see?




Winter was coming, and she could feel it in the turning of the leaves. The winds blew far colder as the warm summer months wore into the more dreary gray and blue shades of November to December. Even with the candy cane promise of Christmas looming over her shoulder, the woman could feel no joy with the bitter bite of snowflakes curling on her nose, and clouds to fill the sky. It all hid the bright yellow of the sun, and that was all that mattered.

It was perhaps strange that a being who had once been real, or perhaps that was also only a preciously held lie could mourn the passing of heat and joy, but she remembered.

One night the dreamer continued her imaginings, and this was her vision:


After a moment, which had seemed to span for the time of forever and a day, the cyborg waitress had returned with Ophelia's drink. Like a doe startled in the lights of an oncoming car, the dreamer jerked upwards in her seat, hands coming up quickly the pale blonde strands of hair from its shelter over even paler facial features. "Thank you." Her voice was low, a murmur meant only to be heard by the lady still holding the refreshment.

"Sure, sugar, no problem. You enjoy that. You look a bit peaked. Well, this will definitely put color in your cheeks .." Six just placed the glass upon the table's edge before flashing one last encouraging smile at the frightened looking customer.  The cyborg turned away and bustled back behind the bar.

Once left alone, Ophelia sagged into the chair with a sigh. Tension flowed from her ramrod stiff muscles to allow her body to become a puddle of jelly in motion. She stretched her hands outward to allow her fingertips to glide easily over the slightly chilled surface of the glass. The drink was lifted up to her parting lips, and she gladly took a deep swallow. The dreamer's nerves were jangling, open, raw, and she was on edge from the memories of the nightmare that insisted on freshly staining her mind still with its imprint. The rum and absinthe concoction flowed down her throat to end up in a sweet mass somewhere in the center of Ophelia's body. Partially soothed, she put the drink back on the table and resumed staring at the door.

Fate had drawn her here, and she knew that possibility still had to be answered. The one promised was yet to come.





The turnings of:

Ophelia
| No modern day tragedy |

Ophelia was the rebel girl,
A blue-stockinged suffragette
Who remedied society between her cigarettes
And Ophelia was the sweetheart to a nation overnight..

- Ophelia, Natalie Merchant