The Inbetweens

Have you ever woken before the sun? Have you ever seen the world painted black, purple, blue—bruised? Have you seen the world asleep and, for once, you were not?

It’s a quiet world in those moments of almost-night. The crickets have been heard for so long that they make no sound. All the hunters are hidden. All the hunted are gone. You stand among swaying grass and dewy ground, watching the blue sky fade to grey. You watch it fade to grey in the east and gun-metal in the west.

I know many will tell you that the night is the time of greatest magic. The elves will smile and argue that it’s the day. But here, in this blank moment of time where no one sleeps but everyone is dreaming—this is the time of magic. It’s not your magic. But it’s magic, pure and simple.

Then the sun will begin to rise. For a moment, the world judders back into darkness, then like clawing fingers pink comes across the sky from the east. Purple bruises the west. The chill in the air is beginning to shift to something warmer. The wind is now breathing. You can hear the crickets again as the eastern horizon burns gold. You can hear your heart beating and, for a moment, you swear it had stopped.

The magic is gone. And you wonder, had I really felt it in the first place?


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