There was that smell in the air, the kind that makes you think, 'huh, I guess it must be getting close to summer, because I just smelled that one smell.'

The sun was hot, as per usual, and the African savanna was ablaze with those strange, rolling heat-waves that make the tips of the golden grass blur in the distance. In every direction there were spots of gazelles or antelopes or wildebeest, in no particular order. They were looking for water, tongues lolling out and tails slapping at flies that raged around their bodies in all directions.

Where was the water? Dried up.

Where was the shade? Pretty much no where.

Sure, there were lines of relief here and there beneath the Acacia trees, but their numbers were few and far between contrasted against the vast expanse of the savanna. The animals that wandered through the area were most likely cursing their luck, wondering if maybe they went in a bad direction--maybe there had been a better path that they had overlooked? Was this really the best way? Well, everyone else was going this way, so it must be right. There was instinct to consider, after all.

Then there was Durion.

Blue eyes dark in the shade of the rocks he was lying beneath, he watched all the dumb preybeasts continue onward--shoulders rotating in slow movements with their steps, heads down and ears never ceasing their constant circling. The dark-colored lion wasn't grinning, wasn't smirking--just watching. The animals went about their days, stupid thoughts swirling in their tiny brains, nostrils flaring as they looked back and forth at one another, wondering about their decisions, wondering about life, fearing thoughts of death...

Ahhh, to be a lion. He was lucky...

He looked to the sky up above, admiring it's blood-red and purple hue, swirling yellow clouds spinning in rapid spirals. Durion looked back to the animals in their muted procession, trailing his tongue over his lips, stomach growling. All the animals on the savanna were going to be killed and eaten by him, plain and simple. That was really only the natural thing to do in a situation like his. He was the only lion left, after all.

There was no more water, no more shade, no more jungle, no more night, only day.

"Excuse me, sir!" a tiny voice cried out behind him. The lion didn't turn around, for he could see her without looking. "Where are they going?" the tiny voice said. Durion laughed, not understanding her question, while simultaneously understanding exactly what she meant. 'She' as in the tiny thomson's gazelle standing on the rocks behind him.

"Why are you asking me that? They're going to find water. They're thirsty."

"We're all thirsty...!" the small gazelle murmured pitifully. "Where are we going?"

Durion turned to look over his shoulder at her. Her eyes were far too big for her head, and he wasn't sure why he couldn't see her legs properly. Why couldn't his eyes look down? "We're going no where, I'm staying here." he told her.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not going. Why are you talking to me?"

"What will happen to her, is she dead?" the gazelle questioned, seeming pained by the blood that was beginning to ooze from the inner corners of her round eyes. Durion stabbed his claws into the dirt and shook his head violently.

"NO, NO! SHUT UP! SHUT UP, GO AWAY!" the lion roared. The tiny gazelle screamed, her voice curdling and stretching and growing until it contorted into many voices at once, some deep, some small, some male, some female, until there was no gender at all--only screaming.

"SHE'S DEAD, SHE'S DEAD!" the screaming wailed. "YOU KILLED HER, BLEEDING CLAWS AND RIPS OF TERROR AND FLESH, SHE'S DEAD, SHE'S A CORPSE, WHY?!"

Durion collapsed in a heap, unable to stand for the sudden invisible weight placed on his body. Liquid spilled from his ears and he writhed in discomfort, paws sweeping roughly over his face and clutching until his claws pricked at his own flesh--though he couldn't feel pain. He felt earth on his back paws as he stretched them out; felt the blood from the rapidly-mutating gazelle fall onto his back--onto the once-ripped flesh from a fight a year ago. Only the flesh wasn't healed, it was open and raw suddenly, but it hadn't been before. Or maybe it had?

Was it daytime? How was daytime happening, where was time, how did it happen? Where was this? Where was happening?

It seemed like so long since he had seen her smiling face, strange voice cooing and explaining life to him, teachings of non-wisdom and false-prophecies, warm body against his as she pretended to know his pain.

Was she dead? He killed her. Was she dead? Did he kill her?

"Murder, murder, murder," he whispered over and over and over and over, withered and weary. But then it stopped. There was whiteness and blackness at once, and the screaming, oozing gazelle shrank instantly back to her 'normal' appearance and looked down innocently and blank-facedly at Durion. Durion stared back, lips parted in death, though he lived.

The face of the creature moved in, but she didn't move, and neither did he--only that her face grew close.

"Where's the line between a dream and reality?" it said.



There was a cracking and a roar of thunder and Durion woke with a start, lungs ripping open for a desperate gasp as his body seized, claws outstretching and slashing at some invisible foe. It took him a few panicked seconds of observation to realize where he was and what was happening. He was alone, entirely, body huddled up against rocks in the savanna. The sky was black with clouds, though it had been sunny before he went to sleep. Flashes of spider-leg lightning skittered across the sky consistantly, and thunder followed its ever step.

Durion sighed loudly, flopping once more onto his back and smearing his paws over his face. It has just been a nightmare, nothing more.

"Son of b***h..." he said on a breath, keeping his paws placed over his eyes. Mental images--memories of his dream came flashing back in waves as his mind automatically tried to piece it back together--so that he could remember, of course. But Durion stopped it, shutting it off with a shake of his mane.

He didn't WANT to remember.

He never wanted to remember.

He never wanted to think about it, or her, again.

But as the male stood on his four legs, body groggy and hair matted with sleep, feelings of false confidence filling and not filling his head, try as he might he could only think about one thing:


Where was the line between a dream and reality?