Early For Harvest

 My eyes ache in the sudden sunlight. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, only a bright abyss above me. I feel like I might fall, endlessly, up into nothing.

Only – I didn’t wake up, I think. I wasn’t sleeping before, was I? That’s odd - I can’t remember a thing. Just sitting here, in the closest nature can get to silence. The birdsong is nice. This place is nice, too. It’s a bit still – the yellowish grass blocking a little of my vision isn’t waving at all – but a bit too much sun is far from the worst thing to endure.

But that doesn’t change the fact that I have no clue where I am. Or who I am, although the name Anais come to mind? Is it mine?

I could sit here forever. I should get up.

My legs ache, too, as I stand and brush dirt from a dull, brown dress, with square buttons. I have to brush dirt off of the low hem, too. Maybe I’ve been here forever, and I just don’t know it.

The grass extends on, in a vast, still sea into the distance to my front, only stopping at a wall of twisting trees. Their leaves do not move. That must be where the birds are. I begin to walk, hitching up my skirt slightly to avoid brushing against more dirt. The grasses finally move, in response to me pushing my way through. I don’t even hear any flies or grasshoppers. There isn’t anything here at all.

Maybe I’m not here at all.

The grass itself feels strange – feathery and soft, it tickles my hands and looks almost more like plumes, but with tiny burrs studding the sides. It doesn’t look real. Is this real? Am I dreaming?

I look at my hands, count my fingers. Ten. A rabbit’s foot dangles from one wrist, tied there by a leather cord. It feels heavier than it should be. It’s supposed to be good luck. I just hope the rabbit wasn’t in pain.

The trees aren’t getting any closer, but something else is. A dim, lean figure, digging, working on something further down the field, a dark, wide brimmed hat obscuring their face.

The figure looks up, and my stomach drops. A crooked smile of too-white teeth, frayed light brown clothes, and – not a shovel. It was never a shovel. The rusted metal traces a crescent moon in the air.

A scythe.

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