A War of Dreams

     Stones.  Stones and rocks and dirt.  This was all I could see from horizon to horizon.  Nothing but stones and dirt.  How did I get here?  What is this place?  I look around, confused.  Even the sky is the color of dirt.  There is light, but no sun.  What is a sun?  My feet are bare.  I can feel the dirt grinding into the bottom of my feet; sliding between my toes.  It feels like it is trying to work its way up into my skin, to turn me into dirt and rocks too.

     I can’t remember my name.  What I am doing here?  I realize distantly that this should concern me, but all I can feel is a fuzzy sort of numbness, dulling the edge of my panic.  Some part of my mind realizes that this is very wrong.  But I can’t seem to make the connection to why it is wrong.  How long have I been here?  Forever?  A moment?  I shift my feet in the dirt.  A cloud of dust rises.  It seems strange, how loudly it sounds in the silence surrounding me.  The crunch and rustle.  A slight whispering of my dress that sounds like a storm to my deprived ears.

     White fabric, reaches to my ankles, my throat, my wrists.  A white dress quickly turning dingy brown in the dust.  I look down at my feet, my dirty toes.  There is something different than dirt and rock lying next to my foot.  Its color not quite the same brown as the earth and the sky.  Round and small.  I pick it up, wondering.

     It is heavy and smooth in my hand.  Heavier than it should be, I think.  I hold it cupped in both hands, and gently breathe away the dust covering it.  It shines then, deep rich brown, and glossy. 

     As I watch, a tiny crack appears in its surface.  And then a color!  A sprout!  Green tendrils shoot forth.  I drop it in surprise.  A roaring noise fills my head, as the little sprout quickly takes root in the dust.  I stumble backwards as it grows.  Within seconds (or maybe it is longer?) there is a mass the size of a tree before me.  But with no trunk and no leaves.  Just a mass of deep green vines. 

      They start to move, waving towards me.  My fear and panic finally break through the numbness.  RUN! My thoughts scream at me.  I scramble, trying to find balance, to force my legs to move.  The gently waving vines begin to move faster; to whip and writhe with anger.  One brushes my foot as I struggle to move away.  Its touch revoltes me.

      The fear shoots through me like electricity, giving energy to my lethargic limbs.  I run, my feet punch clouds of dust into the air; my breath sticks in my lungs.  My heart feels like exploding!

I glance back only once, to see a forest of the vines behind me now, all waving madly, reaching forward toward me.  It seems to double in size in that instant, gaining ground as it puts down new roots.  I want to scream, but have no breath.

      My eyes blind with terror, I don’t realize what is in front of me at first.  Not until the shock of color nearly blinds me.  Light!  Light in as many colors as I know a name for.  Shimmering and beckoning. A seemingly impossible wall of colored light, only steps away.  I crash through the colors as if they are a wall of glass.  They shatter around me, like a fractured rainbow.  I can almost hear a sound as it breaks, a tinkling, chiming sound.  I feel relief, sure that somehow this point indicates safety from the massive thing growing behind me.  And then I feel the air crushed from my lungs.  I can’t breathe!  I gasp, but there is no air.  The cold hits me then, freezing my thoughts.  My fingers, toes, all feeling goes quickly into the cold.  As blackness envelopes my thoughts. I wonder… what is a body?

     Dirt.  Rich and dark.  Squirming with a million living things.  I can feel them stirring under my toes.  My toes?  My body?  I look at my hands, pale and small against the dark of the ground.  Trees surround me.  Roots growing deep into the loam, trunks towering above me.  The green leaves so far up that I can’t see them without craning my neck.  Warm light filters down, enough to cause a sort of pseudo twilight in the forest.  Where am I?  How did I get here?  Who am I?

     Numbness.  I can remember nothing.  Should I be panic?  Who could feel fear among the peace and stillness of these giants?  I put my hand on the trunk of the closest tree.  It hums slightly, like a heartbeat almost.  I sigh, and lean my ear against it, listening to the sound.  I could stay forever like that. 

      If not for the snap of a twig that startles me.  So small a sound, but so loud and out of place.  I instantly feel afraid.  Fear rushes through my blood, awaking a strange tingling in my feet and hands.  RUN!  I turn away from the tree, and stumble over the exposed roots on the ground.  A movement catches my eye.  Something dark, and fast, and nearly silent.

     I move then, as quickly as I can around the dense trees.  I dare not risk a glance behind me, afraid to fall over the roots that spread everywhere before me.  The cloth of my dress snags and catches.  The trees now hinder me.  I almost imagine them reaching their great limbs down, blocking my path.

     Is that the panting breath of my hunter behind me?  Or my own labored attempts echoing strangely off the trees?  Panic.  Fear.  Blindness.  Nothing but trees all around, and nowhere to go. 

     And then… a shimmering ahead.  Colors?  A rainbow stretching out like a wall.  I run faster, scraping my palms along the rough tree bark in my hurry to reach the promise of safety.  My heart pounds in my ears, making it difficult to hear anything but my own blood pumping.  Run, run, run.

     Two men stand in front of a glass wall.  One is short, but muscular, and wearing a dark suit.  He has carefully styled hair, and stands with authority.  The man next to him is nearly two heads taller, but slouched uncomfortably. The harsh lights glare off his nearly bald head. He wears a white lab coat, buttoned over a dark navy jumpsuit. 

     Behind the glass there is a hospital bed and a mess of machines.  It is almost impossible to make out the form of a young girl lying on the bed, for all the tubes and wires surrounding her.  The readout on the glass window shows her heart rate and various other important factors of her health.  It also shows a small close up of her pale face.  Her eyes are closed, but moving rapidly.  Long lashes are wet with tears.  A few strands of dark hair have escaped the plastic cap on her head, sticking to the sweat on her brow.  Her mouth and nose are covered with a plastic mask, keeping her breathing steady.  The heart rate monitor is  going wild, beeping at a rapid pace.

     The short man watchs the display with a detached expression, “How long has she been undergoing the treatment?”

     “27 hours and 14 minutes.  Her body will not be able to take much more.  But the treatment has never failed before.  We will get results.”  The tall man seems to be saying this to himself more than to his companion.

     “We’ve also never had to perform the treatment on a child before,” The shorter man says.

     “Age doesn’t really matter in this case.  I am certain that her resistance is because of the drugs she was given before we found her.  We found traces of magnatite in her bloodstream.  Crude, but it does interfere with the machines.  It’s making it difficult to hold her in one scene for very long.”  The doctor checked one of the readouts.  “See, she’s already moved on to another one.  This is the 434^th scene that she’s been through.”

     “Does she remember them?”

     “No.  Especially not with the magnatite in her blood still.  She’ll have trouble remember that she’s human in this state.”

     “Good.  I need you to speed this up.  We can’t waste any more time.” 

     He pinches his lips together, visibly upset.  “Look, this is a very difficult procedure!  Accessing the subconscious mind is extremely delicate, especially when the subject is unwilling!  I can’t just flip a switch and make it go faster!  It’s impossible to determine how long each subject will take!” 

     “You have two hours.  After that I’m bringing Doctor Mandel in.”  At that, he walks away, leaving the man in the lab coat sputtering his objections.

     The girl behind the glass cycles into her 435^th scene.

A New Nest

Like most kids I was repeatedly bombarded with the "And what do you want to be when you grow up?" question.  When I was three my answer was "A paleontologist."  Because I liked dinosaurs and thought digging in the ground would be fun.  And once people got past the shock that a three year old knew big words, this was a perfectly acceptable answer.  Because it was unrealistic.  Or at least in their minds it was.  And for some reason people expect children's answers to be based in whimsy and to be completely unattainable.  Which seems a little silly to me, because I could just have easily followed that career path as any other, had I wanted to.

But that desire quickly fled when I realized that you could get paid to write stories.  And from that point forward my answer was always "An author."  At first, it was "cute".  People thought this was also unrealistic, but perfectly acceptable for a child of four to dream of.  The problem came when I didn't grow out of it.  All throughout grade school that was my answer.  And I devoured books like they were vital sustenance.  I read, and read, and read.  It got to the point where I was repeatedly told to "Put that book away!"  I'd read during math class (my least favorite), or walking down the school hallways.  I'd hide a book under the dinner table and try to read while we ate, which led to many a library book stained with spaghetti sauce.

And then came middle school, where the questions were accompanied by career aptitude tests, and #2 pencils.  And my answer of "an author" became unacceptable.  At the least I was told that I needed a fall back plan.  At the worst I was told that this was a silly goal, and I needed to pick something else.  I had some really pessimistic guidance counselors.  But I also had some really great teachers who encouraged me.  And I continued this struggle between standardized testing results and my goals of literary achievement through high school.

I wrote scores and scores of horrible poetry.  And a few that weren't too bad.  I wrote dozens of short stories, and entered writing competitions.  I took every creative writing opportunity to overflow notebooks with, admittedly amateur, prose.  But out of the dozens of examples of bad writing, I can look back now and see something developing.  Sometimes you have to learn how to do something wrong before you can do it right.

And then... I graduated.  And where did I go from there?  No where really.  Maybe all the negative things the doubters said effected me more than I realized.  Because I never picked up the pen to write that novel.  I stopped writing all together for awhile.  And I'm not really sure why.  Maybe out of fear?  Or laziness?  For whatever reason, the words seemed to dry up.

Two years ago I wrote and self-published my first book.  Everyone seemed to see this as some sort of validation.  "Now you're a published author, like you always wanted!"  Only... that's not really what I meant. Sure, it was a huge accomplishment.  It's an instructional book about lace making.  I wrote it from cover to cover, and even handled all the lay out and graphics myself.  It's not that I'm not proud of it.  But it doesn't make me an author.  Not an author of stories.  And that is what I've always wanted.

I still have stories in my head.  They circle around in there, demanding to be let out.  And I think the time has come to pick up my pen again.  I feel a bit rusty; so I'll be starting out with a few short stories and such.  I figured that it would be better to bare my soul here, on the great wide world of the internet, where it is impossible to hide.  Where I shall be held accountable and hopefully receive some constructive criticism and support.  I certainly don't expect to become the next Stephanie Meyer. (oh please, no!)  But I hope my stories entertain, and more importantly, make you think.  Make you feel.

So here I go, dusting off my pen... Forgive me if I spill a little rust on the page?
-Sparrow