teresebrannstrom

Nire opened her  eyes, squinting as the sun spots splashed across her face. The yellow light  filtered through the leaves of the large sycamore tree that stood in her front  yard, just outside her bedroom window. It was a quiet, peaceful morning, and  Nire took her time getting out of bed. Glancing at her night stand the time  read 10:30. Not too late, she  supposed. Her mother had probably already made breakfast, but Jane didn’t make  a habit of waking Nire on the days she slept in.  Sleeping, after  all, was not Nire’s strong suit. In fact she was hard pressed to do so most  nights, and her nightly routine of preparing for bed

It took the better part of the afternoon, but by the time the sun was starting to slip below the line of the western mountains, I was trudging back to the Hall with an armload of red and yellow clay tucked into the sopping wet ends of my loin cloth. I used it like a basket, cradling the supplies against my stomach. My arms and stomach were a brilliant orange nearly to my elbows, and my legs were equally pigmented up to my knees. I made plans to scrounge some animal fat and charcoal sticks from the dining hall to make some decent paints. I'd managed to find a few green branches left on a small sapling tucked high into the rocks on a particula

It took four more trips to finish carrying the rest of the laundry to the top of the plateau. There were still a few hours of daylight, and I hoped they'd finish drying before night fell or I'd have to bring them in and hang them around the remains of the bonfire. With the last load laid out flat on the warm rocks, I padded down the narrow steps leading away from the plateau, and stretched my arms high above my head to ease the pressure in my back. Usually it didn't bother me to sit hunched over for long hours at a time; I did plenty of that when I was painting. Maybe I was simply tired from the hike up the mountain. I ran a hand back throu