The last post I made was so long ago and I forgot to look at the date before beginning this post. However, if I'm right, it was either in 2012 or 2013- both years I had lived 3-4 months separated from my husband and son while I worked in another state, trying to find appropriate housing and schools for my family. Fast forward a few years and here I am: Working full time, going to school full time, and divorced. I still have my kid, though. There's something. I used to use this blog as an outlet for the dreams I would have, in the hopes of inspiring other writers. I was successful once in inspiring another fellow WF user to write a short Fiction that included all the major elements of one of my more bizarre dreams. It sparked a lot of discussion, it got attention, and I was beyond thrilled thhe guy had done so well with my dream details in his short story! I wish to achieve moments like that, repeatedly, again, and soon. Although I have to admit I'm no longer taking muscle relaxers for my shoulder (even though it still hurts like hell most days), and I've stopped abusing NyQuil even though it helped me dream in Cartoon. I also quit drinking alcoholic beverages, much to my roommate's dislike. Two single mothers who need their wine days and I just had to go and quit spending my money on that vice. I have a new addiction- online shopping. Watch out! Anyways, it's ridiculously late, I'm ridiculously tired, and I have a ridiculously overqualified employee to train tomorrow. Yey! I hope everyone is well, and I look forward to picking up where I left off in my dream blogs. xoxo
So on May 14th I accepted a job in San Diego, California. This job would in theory, make me happy enough with my choice in future career path(s) that I couldn’t resist. My husband and dear friend, Chris, is completely on board with the decision and backs me 100%. So I left my job in Austin, Texas, to take this job, 19 hours away and back in my own home town, leaving behind my son, my husband, all that I hold dear. In the time it took to drive to San Diego I recognized and rejected the taste of sacrifice. Sacrifice. Not every parent, but for the most part, most parents have to face sacrifice to some extent. This trip made me realize I didn’t know what Sacrifice was until this job opportunity. Sure my husband will be away from his family, out from under the control of his overbearing and controlling mother, and I would be back to my roots- inevitably making us happier in our circumstances to be allowed the freedom to appreciate our happiness in each other. Our problem, to date, has been focusing so much on our financial and physical issues that we lost sight of the fact that we are together, still, and in love with each other, still, and have a beautiful, happy and healthy son. There isn’t much more on this planet that could make us happier- except freedom from debt. And this job, served up on a silver platter, offers a portion of the debt-free feeling that would encourage our emotional health. Who am I to turn down such an opportunity? Being away from my 3 year old, away from my husband of 4 years- my lover of nearly 4.5- the guy I’ve had eyes on for 5 years now- creates in me a sadness I didn’t think would be tenable without the loss of a dearly loved family member. Each day I find myself thinking “Colton would love this!” or “Chris would laugh at this, too!” and it takes everything in me to not lose control, to not burst into tears and give in to the ever-increasing feelings of depression and loneliness. Being away from the source of your happiness and love, being away from those that make you feel whole though sometimes a bit crazy and eccentric, creates a chasm of the deepest loss, the deepest and most sincere ache in your heart it is difficult to just deal with it- let alone handle it. My son, our son, Colton is the light of my life. He is funny, he is social and curious. He finds joy in fast and adrenaline-inducing activities. He is a soccer champ, a lover of butterflies, and loves to play in the mud and water puddles after a good raining. He can joke with you just as fast as he can yell and get frustrated and throw a tantrum. He is a victim of his emotions and he is all the funnier for it. Chris is my exact opposite- a Type B to my Type A, and sometimes vice versa. When I am with Chris I feel a certain sense of responsibility mixed with a wholly encompassing sense of security and surety. With Chris I know where I stand: I know how he sees me and I know how much he loves me. There is little on this planet that could make me feel otherwise. I’ve officially been separated from Chris and Colton for 6 weeks and each day now my heart finds a way to be smaller, colder, harder and less capable of containing my agony. I miss waking up to the sounds of Colton getting dressed, to fixing him breakfast and talking to him over his favorite meals. I miss spinning him in circles and listening to him retell his days events in a rushed and stuttering baby-on-the-cusp-of-boy voice. I miss my husband; the way he’d kiss the back of my neck and massage my shoulders after a stressful day. The way he smells when he lays down to sleep; a special blend of cologne, deodorant, and cigarettes. And the way his hands feel when he seeks out my hip to hold and my back to cuddle. If there was anyone who ever said they didn’t miss their family has never known true love, or has ever felt the love that comes from being loved by your child and the person who helped you make them. To Chris, my love and the sole reason I have Colton: You are my universe, still, forever and always baby. To Colton, the light of my life and the reason I work so damned hard: I hope to goodness you stay sweet and generous with your love. To the men who make my life worth living: I miss you like crazy and I can’t wait for August 1st!
Like most of my previous blog posts, I have a dream to share. Only this time it is in snippets and glimpses of the whole. What the main storyline or theme is, I have no clue, but I hope that in my relation of my dream someone will be able to fill in the blanks. My dream went as follows: Harsh ragged breathing fills my ears, my sight is dim and yellowed. The hall before me is tiled, dingy, and houses hundreds of doors. All are locked, all are darkened, and as I pass each one, the breathing lessens and silence fills the void. A scream of terror rips through my mind and I am flung back against the wall. A door opens and darkness spills forth, oozing up and along the wall beside me. It begins to turn to mist and take shape; it is huge and dense and smells of sickly medicine. A door slams and I am once again walking down the empty hallway, my bare feet cold and dry on the tiled floor. My hands start to sweat as each door opens, yet silence still reigns. I call out a hollow echo, begging someone to be there, begging for security and reassurance. The doors all slam shut at once and I wake.
One thing I love about returning to old characters or old story ideas, is having the opportunity to see them with a fresher perspective. I've noticed that once I start writing something, I spend so much time on it I get caught up in the story's web and my own little world, that what I end up with is something only I enjoy reading. Last weekend I decided to revisit my first and favorite character, Sabrina. She's psychotic, suffers from manic mood swings, changes her hairstyle and color like other's change underwear, and thoroughly enjoys catting her mice before eating them. She's violent, sadistic, and sometimes borders on sociopathic. She is so clear in my mind it's like looking at my own memories instead of looking at a figment of my imagination. And I only take her out for a spin when my own life gets too hectic to deal with. 35 pages of 12-point font and that's not including the prologue or the outline. I'm so proud of myself for these small accomplishments I could just *squee. In an attempt to better my education and gain entrance into a University, I learned it would make things much easier to apply for an Undergrad in English with Emphasis on Creative Writing if I had my own portfolio established. With the smattering of short stories and imperfect poems I have to my name, I wanted to add something else to this as-yet developed portfolio that would blow the minds of those who read it. i wanted to add a little variety to my blah-bland portfolio with its romantic and eccentric short stories and poems. I wanted to share my flavor of crazy. I hope the creative juice still juices and I finish the first five chapters before it's time to apply. I'm so nervous about my habit of quitting half-way will rear its ugly malformed head and end my productivity. Ambition is a new taste to me, as Competitiveness had been only 7 short months ago. Hopefully it washes down well with Grit and Determination.
Every other two months, I work night shift for two months. It is a rotating shift of 12 hours, broken up by 2-3 days of time off. While I'm on night shift, I will keep night shift hours even on my days off, so that I reduce my chances of experiencing fatigue or frustration with my shedule. Because of this, I am the only person in the house that is awake at all wee hours of the night and morning. Because of this, I get incredibly bored and try to think of ways to inspire myself to write more, or write something new. A few nights ago I decided to try reading a free Kindle eBook from Amazon in the hopes of finding something so ridiculous or "Not worth my time" that it would spur me to write something I know I'd enjoy. Well, I didn't find something ridiculous, nor did I find anything that would make me want to write instead of read. Instead, I found something worth reading the next installation of. Imagine that. My unusually long run of Bad Picks from the Kindle eBook section had finally ended. I had found something worth my time. So last night, to the point of my blog post tonight, is I decided to go on a Free Kindle eBook rampage, starting with "Veiled Eyes (Lake People)". So far it has held my attention, but mostly because of the possibilities the story line and characters present rather than what the story actually provides. In this endeavor I ended up "buying" 12 free Kindle eBooks, 6 of them having no reviews whatsoever. I am hoping that my determination to give those unreviewed writers a review and the self-published authors a chance, I will someday have the favor returned by an equally industrious reader whenever it is I get around to writing something and publishing it. Also, with the creation of my free eBook book list, I have also created the opportunity to regain interest in my blog(s). Ha! Imagine that...
Yes, Larth, as in the Etruscan equivalent to the Scandinavian name Lars. I have been negligent of my blog here on WF for the past week or so because Tuesday I learned the writing project I thought was due on the 23rd, was actually due on the 16th. Surprise! So I have been writing feverishly, researching ravenously, and managed to pull a 15 page tragic love story out of my creative pool. But then, what's this? My professor only wanted the story to be 5-6 pages? What nonsense is this? No good story is less than 10 pages! (In my opinion, anyway, and that is with it being double spaced.) So I edit, rearrange, reword, and restructure segments, sentences, and paragraphs and succeed in making a lovely 9,000 word story into a sufficient 5,000. But oh- wait. It is still too long? By a thousand words, you say? Crap. Editing again and again, rewording and revising sentences and structure again and again until I am sick unto death of my own story and wish I had never hatched the idea in the first place- alas! 4,700 words and my story is within 9 pages, and 9, my friends, is wholly acceptable to my professor. Why, say you? When 5-6 pages was her first requirement? Because I complained I could not retain historical accuracy of the story, the characters, and the artifacts I incorporated into it, and keep it the shortened length she first required. No one appreciates an overachiever who, when turning in their work, falls short of the professors expectations for what an overachiever should submit. However, the last project I turned in was supposed to be a slide show containing 45-55 slides including works and sources cited and title page. What I turned in was 33 slides with two slides of sources and works cited, a title page, and a table of contents. So well was my research, she allowed it. And now, she expects greatness from any project I turn in. Am I flattered? Yes. Does it stress me out, to have the bar set so high, just for me, in a class where everyone else seems to do the bare minimum? No. Because I enjoy research. I enjoy reading. And because, simply, I like to hear myself talk via word documents if I can help it, and when the standard is set so high for word and power point documents, I get in my zone. But now my project is over; my research into the daily lives and religious practices of the Etruscan civilization is over, and my brief but lovely time with my characters Ramtha, Larth, and Caile, are over. I'm actually sad about this, despite my illness over editing the story so many times. What's next? British Literature! Huzzah!
A little expansion, a little more flair put into a dream I had a few months back. Enjoy =) The tang of salt is in the air, mixed with warmth on the breeze. An ocean comes up to my knees, and I am surrounded by swells and seagulls. Jagged coral encrusted rock peek up between the waves, and I am holding hands with a man I've never seen. The water is sapphire and emerald, the sand fine beneath my toes. My red dress, marked dark by the water splashing up my hips, dances in tune with the current. There's a presence here but no matter how fast I turn, he stays just out of sight. It makes me curious and queasy, not seeing this person who hides in the open ocean. There in a shabby bedroom, I start. Paint peels from the tops of the walls, and a shabby curtain hangs by threads in a small window. There is no box spring and the bed sits in the corner; the only other furniture is a night stand set by the door. I'm trying to read the writing scrawled on a note in my hand. The letters appear blurry and nonsensical, as if written by a lazy child. A man whispers in my ear but his words are nearly inaudible. The words I hear, "payback" and "strange", do not make any sense. I am confused beyond reason, and don't know who or where I am. The room is small, claustrophobic, and dingy. Spinning in a circle, it is clear there is nothing else to be seen here. In the ocean with a beautiful stranger, we sit on a large rock. We are surrounded by gentle waves and a sea lion swims by, chortling and snorting for air. The rock is rough beneath my fingers. My dress is teal and seaweed is tangled in my toes. The man tells me something but his words are caught by the wind. I stand and leap off the rock thinking to catch them- to grab the spoken words from the wind and hear them in my hands. I leap and frolic happily grasping at air. Splashing toward the shore I see a dinner party off in the sunset. Tables are covered in white and beautifully dressed women stand staring in my direction. There is fear, and then there is Fear, and I feel them both. These women mean harm on the world, my world, and I’m too scared to stop them. The door to the room bangs open and I struggle to get away from the note I can't read, the man I can't hear. I run through the apartment and out the front door, thinking I'm getting away. I make a turn and end up back in the bedroom holding the note, listening to words I can't understand. I look up into his dark eyes and suddenly he says, "Go back to the ocean. Don’t come back here.'' As if my ears had opened with my eyes and everything fell into place with diamond clarity. And yet, confusion still plagues me. The hard wood floors are scarred and bruised, stained by a life too hard to bear. The curtain fascinates me; pulling my attention from the note I now understand but don’t want to learn. “Keep her here,” it says. “Don’t let her back to the ocean,” it demands. There is something expected of me as this man stares into my eyes but it eludes me. Splashing in the shallow waters, not sure if I'm running from the rocks or running to the people on the shore, I gasp. My chest thumps with exhilarated adrenaline, fast and hard. Am I laughing or screaming? A man's arms wrap around my waist and pull me back into the water. There’s salt on my tongue and panic in my mind as I kick and thrash for freedom. I erupt from the dark teal waters, gasping and scared. The women on the beach have lined up in front, awaiting my arrival to the shore. There is nothing in this world that will make me go to them. The rocks behind me call out with comforting and soothing sounds. Falling back, I swim away, gazing at the cobalt sky. I blink in dazzled bliss. A hand descends upon my eyes, long fingered and terrifying. It’s a blackout. I scream.
Slowly but surely I seem to be building the confidence needed to post fragments of things I've written, to allow myself the criticism necessary to grow and further develop myself as a writer. Here is a poem I wrote a few months ago that is very near and dear to me. It underwent only one revision as the words my heart wanted to speak were not willing to be altered (much). As always, opinions and criticism, critiques and suggestions are welcome, and enjoy =) Push the Edge Standing toe to toe at the edge of the world So much in time was left raw and unfurled Broken dreams made uncertain sorrows Binding arms blocked heart aimed arrows Turning away only to get turned around The memories returned an echoing sound Simpler days spawned the hardest nights Shadowy skies tangling grounded kites Leaving the thickest scars I painfully trace Living that demands the sight of your face
A little exercise I made of writing out a portion of one my more recent dreams. I've presented my unedited version for public review here on the Forum Blog. Opinions and critiques are welcome as always =) “What you want, old woman? What’d you come’ere for?” Hattie leaned on the front door jamb, arms crossed with an old rag in hand. She stood casually, as if there wasn’t a pie set out to cool and wayward birds to keep from eating it. “You know what I came here for, you old negra. I ain’t the travelin’ type, and you live ‘bout as far on this side of town as no one else,” Bessie huffed as she pushed up the steps to greet Hattie. They reached out at the same time and hugged like old friends instead of old enemies. “Times was you’d never be seen near me, let alone touchin’,” Hattie said as she waved Bessie inside. “Go on, old woman. Tea’s on the table.” “Sugar?” “Always.” The two walked to the back of the house where it opened into a bright, airy kitchen. With the back door and curtains open, beams of sunshine highlighted the age-stained walls and hard wood counter tops. “You know,” started Bessie as she sat herself at the small wooden table beside the door. “My son in Georgia says kitchens have tile on their counter tops. Says wood tops have been out since the log cabin days.” Hattie set a saucer and small teacup in front of Bessie and poured tea for them both. “Mm-hmm. Next thing you tell me is water don’t need pumped from my well no more. That it? Them new inventions men make that s’posedly make women’s life easier?” she shook her head as if the way things were was too much for her to handle. “Times are changin’ Hattie. Things got to change to keep the world going. But I don’t like it. That’s why I’m out here.” Hattie gave her a look as she sat across from Bessie. “What you up to old woman?” “I’m not taking kindly to Jane’s boy movin’ in, buyin’ up land, and changin’ things around here,” she slapped her palm on the table. “It ain’t how Plainsville works. Ain’t how things are supposed to be. Plainsville ain’t goin’ to survive if there’s all this change so quick. It won’t be Plainsville after he’s through running his plans.” “What’s this got to do with me? Hmm? Me, an old negra, all the way out here, in the sticks? I ain’t got no say in what goes in town. I leave the town be, and the town leaves me be. That’s the way I like it.” She crossed her arms defensively. “I need you to keep your house, Hattie. Don’t sell to Jane’s boy if he comes sniffin’ ‘round your property.” “Sell my house? To Jane’s boy? Not in my lifetime, Bessie. I keeps my great-great-granddaddy’s land like all my kin before me. He’ll have to peel the deed from my dead fingers if he thinkin’ of takin’ my land. The likes of that mean little soul are why I live so far r’moved. Don’t cut no track with devil spawn.” Bessie sat back, the hate from Hattie too much to digest all at once. Mean little soul? Devil spawn? “What do you know ‘bout Jane’s boy that I don’t, Hattie?” Hattie pursed her lips, glaring out the window beside them. Bessie stood. “Hattie?” her tone dropped with shy concern. “What is it ‘bout Gerald I don’t know?” Shaking her head, Hattie stood and paced the kitchen, hands wringing behind her back. The tension wrinkled her forehead, pulled taut the skin over her cheekbones. “That boy is Ellis’s blood through and through. ‘Member his temper when Jane’d try and control those fits he’d get in church? It hadn’t gone away just ‘cause the child grew. It grew with the child.” She wrung her hands harder, her voice getting louder. “The man he is now ain’t just a mean child grown up. He’s conniving. He’s malicious. He’s-” “Hattie!” Bessie shouted to silence her. “What happened?” “No Bessie. It’s best you don’t know. Just know that if this town should ever fall apart, it’ll all be ‘cause of Gerald’s doin’. That boy was born wrong.” Bessie was quiet a moment, contemplating the unspoken accusation in Hattie’s tone. Had she not married the man she had married, her resultant child Ellis wouldn’t have been around to help produce Gerald. She shook her head. Sad as it was that her grandchild turned out the way he did, it was even sadder, she thought, that she couldn’t feel anything but dislike and unhappiness toward him. Never had she had maternal love or affection for her son’s offspring, and as the years passed, the maternal love for her son faded, too. Hattie took Bessie by the arm, jarring her from her depressive reverie. “You have my word, old woman,” she said as she directed Bessie to the front door. “I won’t sell my property. I’ll send Jane’s boy down to you for a good ear full should he come snoopin’ around these parts. My grandson’s will escort’m.” The door closed with a firm click behind her. She stood momentarily dumbfounded. Never had she had such a bizarre conversation. And never had she been shown out the door by anyone for anything. It just wasn’t polite! She hadn’t even tasted her tea! Walking down the graveled road back toward town, Bessie ruminated over all that her conversation with Hattie had implied. Gerald wasn’t a well-to-do man as he would have everyone believe. He was still a mean spirited child, and if anything Hattie said held water, he was worse than she thought. Should she believe the old negra? What to believe and what not to. As she approached the old cross road that led south out into town, a dusty black car rolled by, kicking up clouds of dirt and blowing it in Bessie’s direction. “Inconsiderate degenerates! Can’t see an old woman walking here!” she shouted at the empty, dusty road. With a sudden flash of nostalgia she thought of the days before cars, before she’d married, before school; when wagons were pulled by horses, not pushed by motors, and children were children, not devil spawn. “And it all started with my Abel,” she said quietly, speaking her deceased husband’s name for the first time in over twenty years. Regret tasted worse than road dust on her tongue.
Seriously, why procrastinate? As applied to on-line classes, procrastination not only hurts you, but your classmates as well. When a deadline for an interactive assignment is set for say, Sunday, and you wait until Sunday to post your original argument, you aren't giving any of the other class members enough time to form a proper rebuttal- in turn, causing everyone else to haunt the discussion boards up until the very last minute- causing everyone to lose precious hours of sleep when it boils down to this: DO YOUR WORK, and DO IT EARLY. Damnit. My apologies to anyone who reads this, who may also be a procrastinator. I'm not 100% motivated 100% of the time, and do enjoy putting things off until a day or so before it absolutely needs doing, but still. When it comes to class work, I like to get things done on time, or early if possible, because I have several other classes that require the same level of diligence and if I slack in one, I slack in all. And slacking is just not acceptable. From the previous three semesters I've learned and had to be reminded that not everyone holds themselves to the same standards I hold myself to. I get that. Doesn't mean I have to f*cking agree with it. Damnit. Sorry! #endrant
Skin removed, meat chopped to bite-size bits: preparation is key. In a bowl sits finely crumbled bread, savory seasonings, and a dash of salt. First dipped in whipped egg, then milk, then dry mix, the meat is gently placed in an inch of oil in a pan. Set to a temperature of a precise fever pitch, it cooks. Flipped and sauteed, the battered meat browns until the right coloring is achieved. Extracted and placed in a large ceramic bowl to cool, greedy and eager hands await, impatiently wringing and clapping in bouts of excitement. Cooled to a tolerable heat, crispy without being crunchy, and golden but not brown, the nuggets are ready to be eaten. Perfectly sized, perfectly battered, and perfectly fried, I wish I'd had those chicken nuggets of mine.
Adult Content: Some language and adult situations. You've been warned. This is a dream I had about a week ago, that I wrote about in another blog post titled "Dream Hoarding". I know few who wanted to know the dream and the process of how I developed it after dreaming it. To answer that, Jack Lee, I have no clue. I just dreamed of a beautiful woman being forced to be with a once-beautiful man, and their dire situations prompted drastic escape plans. The end of my dream was clear, and from an aerial view of a parade in a darkened city street with hoards of police and military lining the buildings. This is what I came up with post-sleep: The bottom twenty contest winners for Miss America, including Miss America’s third cousin herself are kept in a house decorated in an ostentatious theme that blended French Baroque with Hip-Hop Glam. Here they ate, slept, conducted their physical training, and generally kept to themselves. The house they lived in also moonlighted as a gentlemen's club, The House of Winners, where the right price can earn a man his own very private encounter with Miss America’s cousin Missa for a delightful 40 minutes; or an encounter with five Betty's for 20 minutes. Missa’s petite, average height, and gifted with gloriously thick golden hair. Her eyes are crystalline green and cant an innocent angle. To everyone she appears an Earthbound Angel. Most of the House of Winner's income came from Kirby, a middle-aged, ruthless man who got his money from making and distributing Crack. His body had been depleted of all vital nutrients from decades of drug use; his skin is sallow and hangs off his frame, large crags ravage his face, and all that remains of his hair are two fried, wispy tufts at his temples. When he isn't at The House, he is at his place of business: an old, timeworn industrial building where the walls are crumbling and the ceiling has caved, but the lower levels have reinforced concrete and top notch security systems. The first lower level, the Kitchen as Kirby calls it, has enormous vats of chemicals that when mixed, make his drug. The second lower level is just below the steel grated floor of the Kitchen, where anyone can look down and observe. The second level is Hell, and there Kirby keeps chained all the men who had done him wrong. When they angered him with their howls of starvation or despair, he poured those vats of liquid Crack over them for several hours. The exposure to such astringent and concentrated chems turned the men into something different. It made them more than Human. An ex-CIA operative, Garner, has been chained for months there in the bowels of the Crack factory, with men of various and dubious backgrounds. It was with his keen mind and ability to charm the pants off Saints that he managed to get a message out to a friend in the CIA via Kirby's watchmen- rent-a-cops with little else going for them. Garner waits, squatting naked in the darkness for when his message gets through, when his risks pay off. For now, he plays Keeper of the Guards' dirtiest secrets, and it is then he learns the exact moment his risks have paid off; it is then, he slits the guard's throat and earns himself a 12 hour dousing of the vile chems. Secrets die hard in that place, and Garner makes sure they don’t get out. Darrel is a friend of Garner's, still working for the CIA, still living a waking nightmare. Damned Psych's don't know mental disorders when they see them, just throw everyone who has been through trauma into the PTSD category and dust their hands off; job done, let's go home. Nothing to see here, just nightmares and violent behavior. Nothing to see but PTSD. Darrel gets Garner’s message from an overweight waste of space named Dennis, and he couldn’t get away from the man fast enough. Sitting in his car, voicemails and text messages flashing back and forth between Darrel and his superiors, trying to get an okay to make the case before the paperwork is generated and approved- or disapproved. Knowing his superior, the red tape would take so long to get cleared Garner would be dead before Darrel could help him. Parked in front of The House of Winners, the home for America’s bottom twenty most beautiful women, and he couldn’t even get past the front steps. Sitting there, the rain drizzling his windshield, he took out a notepad and wrote down the time. 9:52pm, Thursday night. “Let’s see who visits the house, shall we?” He slumped further into the seat and turned the radio on, preparing for a long night of watching and waiting. Missa hated this game. Hated everything about it; the other women, the men, the grittiness of Kirby’s hands on her body and gravel voice in her ear. The only thing she hated more than her lifestyle was Kirby, but since he paid the most to get the best, the best had to perform. A phrase from her childhood echoed in her mind’s ear, reminding her that only the best trained animals made the circus. “Arf arf,” she barked at the mirror. Her reflection frowned at her. “Oh whatever, shut up.” “Talking to yourself again?” Lilla asked as she sauntered into the dressing room. Tonight was Burlesque night and everyone was staking out their outfits before the night started. The hot pink boa had been claimed by Nina hours ago, much to Lilla’s frustration. Missa sighed, “No, just reasoning with myself.” “That’s talking to yourself.” “Whatever. Shut up.” The two finished their make-up and left to join the other women in the Meeting Room. Oh, the Meeting Room; the bane of Missa’s existence. The Meeting Room: where dreams were doused with shame and washed away with and degradation. “Good, glad both of you could join us tonight,” Paula glowered as Missa and Lilla entered, late for the meeting. “Now that all of you are here, I can share the good news. Kirby has decided to let his Minions a night out of their Hell, and for what he’s paid the House tonight. Everyone will be present, everyone will be Willing, and everyone will perform their best. Understood?” Paula’s large, toothy smile was more menacing than encouraging and all but a few Betty’s looked at the floor in quiet subservience. She continued, “Now, the Burlesque show is canceled for the night. I want you all to go take a good long soak to soften up those joints. I need you all flexible and pliable tonight.” With a snap of her fan, she turned and left. “Great, a night with Kirby’s ghouls. Just how I wanted to spend my Sunday night.” “Like you were going to spend it doing anything different.” The girls bantered back and forth as they made their way to their respective hot tubs. When Paula called for long soaks, they knew the night was going to be a long one. Darrel observed several buses coming and going throughout the night, but parked where he was, never saw who or what was being unloaded. Every hour a bus would drive up, park in front of the back service doors, sit idle for 10 minutes, and then leave. Every hour, on the hour, and Darrel couldn’t see shit. Annoyed, he turned his radio up a notch and marked the time: Midnight. “Hold your horses men, you’ll get your turn,” Kirby chuckled from the front seat of the bus. Untrusting of his Minions and their chemically altered bodies, he personally accompanied each busload to and from The House to reassure himself that his decision to get them laid was a good one. “Maybe it’ll teach you some fuckin’ manners, eh?!” He shouted at them as he passed. He glanced out the side window, noticing the same bland sedan parked where he’d seen it earlier in the night, when he’d arrived to make the monetary arrangements for his Minions’ hard earned night of delight. They shuffled by, pale, blue veined, hard lined and lean. The regular douses of chemicals had turned their skin pale, almost white. Their hair and fingernails were the first things to start turning blue-black. Then the veins appeared, thickened and stark against their skin. The last one to leave the 12 o’clock bus was Kirby’s least favorite Minion- like any of them could be classed as favorites. Taller than some, the man’s skin had failed to turn completely white, but had cooled to an unnatural light honey color. Garner, the CIA agent Kirby’d caught snooping into his business; the one he wished he could kill. As it stood, the latest arrangement with the Director of the CIA, Garner couldn’t be killed, but neither could he be returned to the CIA for all he knew about Kirby’s operations. A nasty little catch-22 that pissed Kirby off every time he laid eyes on the bastard. Shuffling into The House, Garner immediately took stock and inventory of all he could see and get within peripheral. Stairs to the right of the back door entrance, thirty foot hall straight into the center of the place; huge sweeping staircase to the left, three separate rooms splitting the end of the hallway into three different directions; all doors between the back and the center were locked and both stairways were guarded. Getting out will be trickier than he assumed it would. A house full of beauty pageant whores? How hard could escape be? But he had underestimated Kirby and the manager, Paula. Garner had assumed the manager was as stupid as the girls she managed, and that Kirby would be too side tracked by their prize Betty, Missa, to notice him walking right out of the place. Not the case. “Back in line, Ghoul,” a sharp featured woman said as he passed by the main staircase. She was tall, thin, and held a riding crop in her white knuckled fists. He felt her eyes on him the rest of the way to the Room. Ahead, he could see as each man entered the Room their hand being taken by a feminine one and led off to one side or the other. When Garner approached the threshold, a soft, warm hand slid into his as a soft curvy body pressed against him. “This way, good looking,” Missa said as she took her time gazing at the man...
It's silly, I know, but how can anyone who has ever loved Peter Pan, Tinker Bell , and Neverland, not enjoy a silly story from time to time? Read on my fellow readers! “Wake up! Twinkle, c’mon! Get up!” The demand echoed down a hallway and I struggled to stay asleep. I had been dreaming of my Prince again, the one with the golden egg. I loved that dream so much it was always depressing to wake up from it; to find myself alone in bed, alone in my apartment with nothing or no one to greet me. Maybe I should invest in a pet. A hand shoved my shoulder, “What’d you do, go on a honey binge last night? I need you to wake up, Twinkle! The Heiress is missing! A search’s been called and everyone from Masters and Reapers to Drones and Skates are out looking for her- TWINKLE!” “Screaming never worked before, Twister, what makes you think it’ll work now?” As slow as amber sap on a cold pine, I sat up. “Who’s missing?” I asked, not fully comprehending what my cousin was jabbering about. “Have you heard nothing? The Heiress! You know, the only daughter of the most influential Pixie since your great-grandmother, Tinker Bell,” Twister huffed, hands on hips, waiting for me to do something. Understanding trickled through and I came fully awake, realizing the repercussions if the little Heiress stayed missing. The fragile infrastructure of the Pixie race would begin to crumble, pollination would slow, and Pixies would no longer trust one another. It was what made them different from the Gnomes and Sprites of the Earth- Pixies acted like one big extended family, where everyone was welcomed with open arms and a smile. No one was a stranger and everyone treated each other fairly. One seedling of doubt or mistrust, and the community as I knew it would suffer greatly. I jumped from my bed toward my closet, in a sudden hurry to go find the little Heiress. “Fluffing dandelions, Twister, why didn’t you say something sooner?!” Running around my tiny apartment like an angry bee I dressed, put my hair up, and chugged a left over shot of honey. “How you can have honey so early in the day will never cease to amaze me,” Twister threw a coat at me. “C’mon Twink, we need to find that little girl before something awful happens to her.” I nodded in agreement and as I stepped onto the window ledge. With a deliriously happy giggle I leaped out into the open air. What I didn’t add to Twister’s comment is that I’m not worried about the heiress as much as I’m worried about what her disappearance could mean for the Pixie community. There weren’t many of us left since Man invented the car and dirtied up the atmosphere. All the fumes and gases those loud monstrous engines spewed were detrimental to Pixie life and survival. It forced the majority of us to move to smaller, more rural areas, if not right into the woods themselves. “Any idea who did it?” I asked as I leveled out forty feet from the ground and waited for Twister to close my window and catch up. “No, there was nothing left behind. Not a single speck of dust to implicate anyone. Are there are, are theories. No facts.” Our flight above the low roofed buildings and smoke belching chimneys was brisk. The salty air swept up from the ocean, refreshing and clean between the columns of soot billowing from the stacks below. I sneezed. “Here,” Twister handed me a hankie as we swung higher into the air to improve our vantage. “Thanks. Ugh. The peat smoke always gets me.” As I pocketed the hankie I noticed a Farris wheel on the other side of town, towering over the low houses. “Want to check it out?” Twister asked, cutting a hard right without a heads up to her change in direction. “Legend says anytime a band of travelers hit town, Pixies can access Neverland.” “Don’t be a fungus brain. Travelers in town don’t do anything but bring tourists. And besides, Pixies haven’t been in Neverland since before my great-grandmother’s time. Finding a doorway to it is futile and pointless.” “Pointless? To go back to our roots? To see the land we came from?” “There’s a reason Tinker Bell evacuated the Pixies,” I defended. Sensing our conversation was turning sour we stopped talking and focused on searching for signs of the Heiress as we made our way to what turned out to be a Carnival. As we crossed the threshold of the town, we split up. “You take north, I’ll take south. I’ll meet you on the other side.” In a blink, Twister was off and I was left to tread air beside the top baskets of the Ferris wheel. The Carnival was mostly inactive, with only the few early rising carnies up and moving around, setting up their displays and fine tuning the mechanical rides. As I made my way slowly around the north end I became aware of a blue orb floating in the air a few dozen yards from where I hovered. It was floating above a faded striped circus tent, mere feet above a yellow waving flag. The orb seemed to gain pigment the longer I looked at it. Something bumped into my backside and sent me tumbling head over feet. “Holy lily petals, Twinkle! Do you know what that is?” Twister pointed at the orb. “That’s the Neverland doorway I was talking about!” Excited, Twister dropped her hands from my shoulders and spun up and backward, spiraling toward the orb. “Wait!” I charged my wings to a sprint, struggling to catch my cousin before she did something stupid. “Twister! You don’t know what it’ll do to you!” I got a grip on her shirt sleeve just as she reached out and touched the luminous ball of blue. In slow motion a bright halo of white and yellow expanded out, up, and down to engulf us in warm ocean air. “You see that?” I heard Twister say in a dreamy voice. “Hell’s daisies,” I murmured as I stared out in awe at our surroundings. We were a mile above an ocean sparkling brightly in turquoise and aqua hues, looking at a tropical island shaped vaguely like a compass. Palm trees lined its golden shores, and a tree that looked older than time itself stood atop a hill in the very center. Its branches were lost amid vines and moss that clung and hung from every available branch. “Where are we?” It was a last ditch effort at denial, I know, but I couldn’t help asking. The warmth of the white sun mingled with the coolness of the ocean below, and I didn’t care if I never went home. It was the most beautiful, most alluring setting I had ever encountered. It was a color saturated, scent drenched paradise built just for Pixies. It was Paradise realized. “Something’s different,” Twister whispered as she turned to me. Her eyes widened and a grin split her cheeks. “We’re seeing a different color spectrum.” “What?” I blinked. “Your hair, it’s bright black like a crow’s feathers. And my skin,” she held up her forearm in example. “It’s tan. I’m never tan. I’m the most un-tanned Pixie I know.” I looked down at myself and noticed my skin looked luminous, appearing as if I moisturized twice a day. A tingling started at the base of my neck and spread rapidly through my limbs. “Twist!” We reached out to each other but not fast enough. Our finger tips grazed and she disappeared. Or rather, I disappeared. Before my vision cleared, I smelled wood smoke and hay. I was back hovering above the circus tent in the Carnival. The change was too much for me. Feeling faint, and unable to support my rapidly drained energy, my wings fluttered to a stop and I slowly sunk toward the ground. The last thing I saw was a pride of Sentinel Pixies nose diving to catch me. “You think she’ll come around soon?” It was a male voice I didn’t recognize. “You’ll get your answers soon enough. Let the poor girl rest.” A different male voice replied. This one sounded older and was flavored with a bit of gravel. “Rest? We need answers now, Graupel! She’s the only Pixie since Tinker Bell to come back from Neverland! She’s the only one who’s found its doorway!” I braved a peak through my lashes and found I was high off the floor in a dim room, and the two men were Reapers, the highest militant class of Pixie before royalty. They were easily identifiable by their ridiculously vibrant red wings. They were standing directly next to me; the older one beside my feet, the younger one beside my head. No wonder his shouting seemed so loud. “You know, shouting never works,” I said as I sat up and rubbed my temples. “Is there any honey here? My head feels like a dulled ax is cleaved between my ears.” The responding silence made me look up. The Reapers both wore expressions of alert fascination. The older one extended his hand in a universal shake of welcome. “Dear, I’m Graupel Hailer, fourth in the Hailer line, and this here is Shiner Hailer, my nephew.” He shook my hand and bowed, and then motioned to his nephew to come closer. “A name of Light and a name of Weather should never go together” I recited the childhood rhyme aloud, staring at Shiner. Where it was not uncommon for Pixie families to give their children a name from each side of the family, it was very rare for the Light families to breed with the Weather families. It had something to do with a legend so old no one could remember its origins. He simply nodded and crossed his arms. “Right,” I smiled brightly and turned back to Graupel. “I’m Twinkle Rose Bell, sixth in the Sound line, and daughter of the first in the Flower line.” It appeared my pedigree had surprised the two Reapers. I knew their first thought was what a demi-royal was doing running around dressed like a low-class Skate instead of wrapped in dazzling jewel toned flower petals like the rest of my Royal cousins. I executed a quick and sloppy curtsy. “Excuse me gentlemen, but I need to leave now.” “Oh no you don’t.” Shiner grabbed hold of my arm. “We need you to tell us how you found the doorway this morning. And how you came back.” I glared at his hand on my arm, yanking myself free. “I...
The other night I had a few gummy bears before going to bed, and this is what I earned: A dry, dusty road lined with trees on one side and wheat fields on the other leads into a town still steeped in late Victorian traditions even though it was 1939. The white families owned and operated the shops in Town Center, and the black families farmed the town's supply of chicken, wheat, corn, and beans. Everyone shared with everyone and the town kept to itself. Very rare was the child that would leave and return an adult, world weary and ready to settle their own farm, their own family. Maggie was sick of small town living and too smart for her own good. After graduation from high school, she left without saying goodbye, an ugly parting with her then-boyfriend Gerald reinforced her decision to run away to St. Mary's women's college. Becoming a veterinarian was her number one goal in life because she knew if she stayed in Plainsville, her goal in life would be to marry and pop out ten babies before she turned 30. Staying in Plainsville and having kids wouldn’t be so bad if it could be with Benjamin Mayfair, the older brother of her childhood friend Jimmy. When Ben's brother Jimmy died last summer, she thought her whole world had crashed down, had shrunk to a pinpoint of pain. Ben poured himself into whiskey bottles, and her boyfriend Gerald begun pushing for an engagement. The day she graduated, Maggie decided that was it: Time to leave. Young and miserable, Ben drank, a lot. So much so, that he didn’t notice a year had passed. His last year of high school took his brother Jimmy from him, and now? Maggie’s gone too. No Pa to look up to or seek advice from, no one to reassure him that life would get better. The only thing that seemed to improve was his capacity for liquor and his ability to keep it down. The only thing that would make him happy again was if his little brother was still alive, and if Maggie would come back. Being the role model to the younger classmen was like being a real live hero. They were always near, always ready to listen to his every word, and for Ben, they’d become a sort of comfort. Knowing just two steps behind him was his brother and the girl his brother loved was akin to knowing just where his Ma had stashed his old kiddie blanket; the childhood comfort was never too far away for him to reach out and be reassured. His brother was always just there, never too far away to play with. Losing his brother was just about the worst thing he had ever experienced. Losing Maggie to a college across the nation the next year was almost as painful. He never felt good enough to be near her, let alone talk to her. Even though she was one year younger, she was too far above him; too clean and innocent to deal with his darkness. What was the point of talking to a girl when you couldn't even face your own self in the mirror? 5 years later... The town Matriarch, Bessie, makes rounds with the farm folk in an attempt to keep them a community, to try and prevent the young Gerald from running (and winning) the town’s Mayoral position. Gerald's role as Mayor would be the downfall of the town. Gerald would bring in new companies, new commerce and new people to fill in the space between the farms; to take over their town. Bessie hadn’t survived two husbands and fifty years of shaping the place just for Jane’s boy to take over and upend everyone and everything. Visiting all the closer farms was easy for Bessie, being that most of them pointed in toward the center of town, cropping outward to make a flower design on the land. All she had to do was walk the ten-mile circle around to each farmhouse door. But to visit the outlaying farms was a bit more difficult. Bessie might have the constitution of someone half her age, but her knee joints weren’t in on that fact. Walking thirty some-odd miles was going to keep her in bed for a time. But if it meant keeping Gerald from buying up more land, and becoming Mayor, Bessie’d walk a hundred miles! For this day she had scheduled the furthest farmhouse, old Hattie’s farm, because the prospect of saving an encounter with Hattie for last left a bitter flavor on her tongue. Nothing in life would make Gerald happier than making Mayor and marrying Maggie; for her to forget her nonsensical dream of becoming an animal doctor and come back to Plainsville, to see he did make something of himself and to realize she'd loved him all along. Winning Mayor would just be the first step he'd take in securing a future for him and Maggie. Well, the only thing that’d make him happier is if he could out maneuver Benjamin Mayfair in land bids. How a drunkard could be so good at eyeing the perfect plots of land, he couldn’t figure. The next day he was scheduled to meet with the town Sheriff and talk future politics. Gerald and Sheriff Sonny grew up as neighbors and when Gerald went away to college, Sonny made sure to try and visit at least once a year. The two were like peas in a pod, and as far as the town was concerned, Sonny was in Gerald’s pocket- lint, tuck, and fold.
I know I said earlier that whatever dreams I post on here are open to interpretation and expansion by others, but for this dream, I'm keeping mum. It was as complex as my previous dream BritInFrance was so kind to apply his creativity to and turn into Escape from the Circus. There were about three story lines all interwoven to twist and turn and lead me in different directions until suddenly the dream was over, the end results were realized, and when I woke up I wished I could go back to sleep and learn more. All I have to say about it is that the same theme as the dream before remains (prostitutes), as well as the love interest threading throughout. But this one ended with triumphant despair, eloquent sadness, and I cannot WAIT to get it written out and posted! I've said it before and I'll say it again, I love my dreams =)