Trident
(the embarassingly short prologue)
"You're carrying a trident!"
Sally Jackson had no clear idea what had made her shout that out. Maybe it was little more than two decades of seeing things nobody else ever saw. Maybe it was uncle Edwards' death messing up her brain. Possibly, all her life she'd been living a hallucination, and this was another one of those.
As far as hallucinations went, this was one of the better ones. A handsome man holding a bronze shaft about as high as he was, a quizzical expression on his face as he studied her. Sally had once encountered a seven-headed dragonish thing which spat acid and smelled revolting, so even though the trident points looked like knife edges and green light eerily shimmered around them, she wasn't feeling particularly scared.
"Really?" He asked, sounding slightly amused. "I thought it was a surfboard."
"Um, no. It's a trident." Sally said, but the moment was gone. Her voice was hesitant, and somewhat further from the shout level than before. Someone around her said something about straitjackets. Someone else giggled.
And it happened again. Sally Jackson blushed, ducking her head. Momentary insanity created a lot of problems during its' brief existences. You'd think she'd at least have learnt to control it after all these years.
She took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry about that. I just- lost my mind for a moment." She made herself look at the man. "It's definitely a surfboard."
The points shimmered. Green tendrils arm-wrestling with the air around them.
"Definitely." She repeated weakly.
The man was grinning now, and obviously checking her out. Sally blushed again, made excuses and left. She didn't look back till she'd reached her cabin.
Calling it a cabin was euphemistic, even if the cabin you had in mind was a rusty shack in the middle of nowhere. The floorboards were nonexistent for the most part, and mouldy when they were there. Families of sea breezes dropped in through the half-broken window to say hello. The door could have, maybe, withstood a violent assault from a four year old, and creaked out innovative symphonies when left open. The bed joined its' concerto on occasion. Someone could have appreciated their efforts if they got past the dampness and the smell of salt hanging around stubbornly in the air.
It was affordable, though.
Sally carefully closed the door (creak) and sat on the bed (creeeak), which was slightly more comfortable than the chair. And that was about it for the furnishings. Her bag contained everything she owned in the world, apart from a few ancient pieces of furniture her uncle had left her. The only thing in it of any value was her pen, a birthday present from happier times. The only other thing she really cared about was her diary, and the papers stuffed into it.
Dreams shatter Sal, she told herself, suppressing whatever feelings of bitterness that cropped up on glancing at the diary. But they can be mended.
Or so she kept telling herself.
