Lucid Waking

Archive for July, 2008

Dreams

        “I had the strangest dream last night,” Cecilia said to her sister, Phoebe, while they were walking through the park one afternoon. Cecilia had insisted they take their talk from the restaurant outside since it was, as she had pointed out, a very lovely day. Phoebe wasn’t one for the outdoors as much. She loved the flowers and the butterflies in the park, but she wasn’t fond of the people or the honking of cars just beyond the line of trees. Cecilia always had a knack for ignoring things she didn’t like, but Phoebe had a hard time ignoring such details.
        “Oh really,” Phoebe answered distractedly. She was gazing up at a gold finch, still brown although the trees had thick bunches of green leaves.
        “I was dressed up as a clown and trying to juggle when I felt afraid of something and dropped one. Suddenly the audience was gone and in its place was a door. So I went up and opened the door and behind it is a brick wall. For some reason I know that the wall isn’t real, but I’m scared all the same. I walk forward into the wall and it dissolves into a swirl of colors to the capital building. When I walk up the steps, though, it disappears into a wash of blue. I woke up at this point because the coffee was ready, but don’t you think that’s strange?”
        “I suppose so.”
        They had walked full circle around the park and Cecilia motioned for her sister to sit down on a bench facing a lake on the west edge of the lot. Phoebe sat down and remained quiet. Cecilia smiled at her sister and put her hand gently on her bulging stomach.
        “Have you had any dreams, lately?”
        “Only one that I can remember.”
        “What was it?”
        Phoebe gathered her thoughts. She watched a bumblebee rest on a flower and then crawl gently into the center. Two squirrels scampered up a tree across the field where a group of teenagers were finishing a game of soccer.
        “It’s night time usually and I find myself completely naked at the beach alone. Something inside of me keeps walking until I finally can’t and I sit down on the shore. Once I’m sitting down, I spot a pair of dark brown eyes peering out of the darkness by a cliff. I walk towards the space then a pair of hands grabs me. Then there are many of them and I feel warm and lost in the darkness. It goes on in that manner,” Phoebe added, blushing. “But I think you get the point.”
        Her sister smiled. “You’re still young; you’ll find someone.”
        “You think this is about finding a husband?”
        “Well, it’s certainly an erotic dream.”
        Phoebe couldn’t deny that fact. She glanced at her sister’s bulging belly and stood up.
        “I’m going to go to the lake. I’ll come back in a few moments.”
        Cecilia started to get up, but then remained where she was when Phoebe didn’t turn to acknowledge her following. Phoebe took a straight path like a ghost to the water. It thrashed against the shore in large foamy waves. She slowly sat down on the sand and stared at the lake. She felt numb and she didn’t know why. She blamed it on the outing since she had never particularly liked going out with her sister. They were always so different and as Cecilia was quite blunt in her analysis of dreams, Phoebe thought there was so much more hiding beneath the surface where she couldn’t see it.
        A soccer ball rolled into the sand and slowed to a stop a little ways in front of her. She glanced at it lying motionless on the ground as the water reached forward to wash it like a cat washes its kitten. She stood up and started back for her sister, but not before noticing the boy who ran past her to get the ball. He glanced at her as he ran back. He smiled and kicked the ball in a rather show-offish way through the boughs of the trees and back onto the field. He ran up to Phoebe, and though she wanted nothing to do with him, she slowed down her pace.
        “I hope that didn’t bother you,” he said.
        She shook her head. “It was nowhere near me.”
        “Name’s Keith,” he said. The boys from the field were yelling at him to quickly join back in while the other team darted between their opponents trying to take advantage of their missing player. She glanced at him but tried to seem uninterested. He was dripping with sweat, but he wasn’t breathing hard and he smiled at her as if he knew her for the longest time.
        Phoebe remained silent. Somewhere she knew she had seen Keith before, but she couldn’t place it. His eyes were dark, his skin was tan, and he looked like every other young adult who would play soccer in the park. She switched her focus to the game.
        “Perhaps you’d like to watch the game?” he offered.
        “No thank you,” she said. She smiled back at him and then returned to where Cecilia was sitting watching their exchange from the bench. Cecilia smiled in a very motherly way, but by the time Phoebe had reunited with her sister, Keith was taken up with the game.
        “Are you feeling all right?” Cecilia asked.
        “Yes, thank you.”
        “Who was that?”
        Phoebe knew she had watched his excited expression and hoped for the best.
        “No one,” she answered. Her sister’s expression fell.
        “Oh well. It’s getting late, we’d better go home.”
        Phoebe nodded and glanced back at the field. A pair of hands reached for the ball and then tossed it back onto the game. Perhaps, she mused, her dream was just a large game of soccer and she was the ball. She stopped as everything clicked into place. She smiled to herself and took Cecilia’s hand. Her sister was such a hopeless romantic at times.

Ask Abbey

Imagine, if you will, you find this letter in an advice column that you happen to be scanning. Then it will make sense.

Dear Ask Abby,
        I’m a writer who is working on several projects at once to no avail. My boss came up to me the other day and wanted me to add another short story to my pile of work. I wasn’t given much of an option to say no, so I’m stuck having to come up with another idea for a short story.
        I’m tired of writing in cryptic ways about our political situation in the United States and I’m tired of meditating on life’s lessons in order to come up with a fantastical statement on human nature. I can’t seem to come up with an idea that will stick in my head and interest. I’ve read just about every book for writers with prompts and advice and I’ve spent most of my time sitting in cafés and restaurants in order to pick up pieces of odd conversation or any ideas. My notebooks are filled with observations and I’m loosing sleep with the possibilities. But, I still cannot find anything to write a story about.
        I wish my boss would actually do some work instead of sticking it on his lackeys. I’m tired of having to come up with another idea so he can use it for his own. I’m not the only one having this problem and if I had less to lose from being fired, I would completely stand up to him. I think I’m the only one in my office who has the guts to do so. Perhaps I should write a story about the small and mighty going up against the establishment. And I might if I wasn’t positive it wouldn’t be mistakenly considered a statement on American society and politics.
Which is another thing I hate. I’m sick of the media taking over the position for a fiction writer. They always get more space than I do for marketing and sales. How many newspapers do you read versus how many books? For heaven’s sakes you are in a newspaper! And television is really taking over. I don’t even know if it’s worth my time to be perfecting my craft. I was lucky enough to get a job with this useless B.A. in English and Masters in Creative Writing. Now I’ve got a boss I’d rather kill!
        Which brings me to my problem. I need ideas fast. What should I do?

        Sincerely,
            Nonplussed Novelist

La Tâche

Happy Bastille Day! Viva la France, mais pas la Revolution!

        Olivie checked her watch and then compared it to the clock that protruded from the corner building on the intersection of the street. According to that clock, he had a couple minutes before he was late, but according to her watch, she had been waiting five minutes and she was on time. The waiter had asked her several times if she had wanted anything to drink until she finally broke down an ordered a croissant with coffee. When her drink finally arrived, she could see his bright yellow car turning the corner and parking in a little lot behind the café.
She sighed and took a sip of the bitter liquid in her cup. At least he wasn’t too late, she thought. She pulled out a cigarette and then decided against it when she saw he was smoking one as he came up to her table. He smiled as he sat down. He was young and attractive and dressed as an everyday young adult, contrasting with her starched business suit.
        “I didn’t think you drank le café,” he said grabbing her cup and taking a sip.
        “You were late enough I had to order something.”
        “Mais non, ma chère,” he said turning to look at the clock. “I’m right on time.”
        “Regardless, I’ve got an assignment for you.”
        “On Bastille Day?”
        “The festivities tonight will be enough of a distraction.”
        “What do you need?”
        “Not the usual, so don’t get too excited—”
        “Never.”
        “—but we have boat coming in on the Seine into Paris with some interesting cargo. You are to wait for the boat, take the package, and return to headquarters right away. Nothing showy. The boat is called La Voyageur de la Lune and her captain is M. Lorrain. He’s worked for us a long time. If he asks for money you have to tell him the monkeys have it on the other side of the river. In those exact words; it’s a code to make sure the right person is taking it.”
        “What is this package?” he asked tapping the loose ash of the end of his cigarette onto the ground.
        “Je ne sais pas et il n’est pas nessecaire que je sache.” ("I don’t know and it’s not necessary that I know.")
        “All right.”
        He picked up her coffee and took a large gulp. “Are you going to eat your croissant?”
        “No, have it,” she said pushing it towards him.
        “I haven’t eaten breakfast.”
        “You should have. Besides, it’s practically lunch.”
        “I was busy running errands.”
        “Political errands or grocery shopping?”
        He laughed. “Grocery shopping. I said I was loyal to the company and I’m not going to leave it now. Not when they pay me well and pay rent on a nice apartment. I couldn’t get a better job.”
        “You probably could.”
        “Believe me, you can’t. I haven’t lived this well in months.”
        “And yet, you still can’t eat breakfast in the morning.”
        “I know you’re suspicious, but I was out of everything.”
        “Suspicious? If I deny it you won’t believe me. But I’m not the one who first came up with the idea of dissuading you from bringing a gun tonight.”
        “Oh?”
        “You won’t need it. I told you it’s low risk.”
        He nodded, his mouth full of food and coffee. She rolled her eyes; at least he didn’t talk with his mouth full. She put some euros on the table and stood up.
        “See you tomorrow at Le Petit Couchon. Same time.”
        “Don’t be early,” he said as she started to leave. “And thanks for breakfast.”

The Music Box

It was a little box
With eight corners and six sides,
But when you turned the key in back
It sang out lullabies.

The tunes it played were so sweet
It was desired in all the land,
So the owner of the little box
Kept it in his hand.

The little box would sing all night
Until a string broke one day.
And then the little box
Simply refused to play.

But the owner of that little box
Loved it all the same
And fixed up his music box
So it would play again.

Bad Habit

        Spontaneity. That’s what he was good for. He would show up one day out of the blue with flowers and hours to spend talking. People didn’t mind if he was late or absent because he could always get away with sweet-talking his way into their good graces.
        Well, everyone but her. She was not ready to forgive him so easily. He had liked her volcanic temper and acidic spirit. He had liked her tentativeness when she first saw his motorcycle. Part of him had liked the fact that she didn’t melt with flowers or chocolate. He liked her because she wasn’t like everyone else.
        But he had forgotten that for a moment and slipped back into his bad habit of missing important events and apologizing largely later. He didn’t understand what was so important about birthdays anyway. So what if that was when he was meeting her parents. They’d still be around tomorrow and he’d meet them then. But she didn’t feel the same way and her temper could smother.
        He couldn’t promise he wouldn’t do it again and she couldn’t promise to remain faithful. She was subtle like that when she was angry. He liked that about her. But it didn’t matter much anymore.

Portrait with a Hat

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Lazy Summertime

Lazy summertime
Doing all the things I can’t
When I have no time.

The Key

        It was a plain wooden box with sturdy iron side straps. There was no handle, but there was an ornately decorated lock with a rather large keyhole in the middle of the seam. Or he assumed there was a seam. It was practically invisible if it was there at all. He had also assumed that the box would open with a simple persuasion but his broken thieves picks were evidence that wasn’t true. Some of them had just disappeared if they didn’t break first and that’s when he knew he had to ask the Wizards for help.
        It wasn’t that he stole the box; it was rightfully his. His grandmother had died of natural causes and gave him her hut in the woods along with everything in the attic. Unfortunately for his brother, most of her magical belongings were in the attic and he was just about done sifting through them when he came upon the box. Not being able to open it and ignoring his internal warnings that Pandora’s box shouldn’t be tampered with, he had sent a note to a local guild specializing in magical boxes in order to get someone to open it.
        So he wasn’t surprised when someone knocked on the door saying that she received his note and was willing to open up his box if he was willing to lend it to her for a little experimentation. What he wasn’t prepared for was her answer when he asked her for guild identification.
        “I don’t work with a guild,” she said. “But here’s my card. I’m certified with the government.”
        He checked it over and it looked authentic.
        “I’m Carolyn Gray (which you can see by my card) and I work with solving keeper boxes.”
        “How did you get my name?”
        “I volunteer to take some of the new referrals from a friend of mine. It’s difficult working on the referral receiving line as well. Mind if I come in?”
        “Not at all. I’m Luke Hunt, by the way.”
        “Nice to meet you.”
        The hut’s one room was sort of crowded, but Luke easily cleared off a chair for his guest and sat down in one adjacent to her.
        “So, what is the principle behind the locks?” he asked.
        “Every keeper box has a spell attached to it that has to do with the nature of the secret inside. The key is animated and created with the correct spell to open the lock. If the incorrect key is used it will dissolve and may damage the box, until the lock is so deformed no key will open it. Therefore, if you have something important to keep, a keeper box will maintain that not just anyone can get inside and if you find one or steal it, it’s to your best advantage to keep it locked until you find a key or your chances of getting inside are gone.”
        “What makes you think that you can do this for less than a standardized guild?”
        “I don’t work for anyone. Besides, what you’re paying for in the guild is a flat fee. You pay for about one hundred keys to dissolve and all the worst repairs to be fixed. You also provide food, shelter, firewood and any other supplies the business needs. Your box may not use one hundred keys and if your box is never broken, why should you pay for repairs of the worst kind? You pay for the worst-case scenario, even if that never happens to your box. Time is also an issue; I can also guarantee that this will be done in the least amount of time. Professional guilds have hundreds of people with boxes to be solved and if you go to one of them, they’ll just take your money and stick you to the back of the line. It can take a week to figure out a box, and that’s only the simplest ones with one spell. Imagine hundreds of people, each who’s box takes a month to figure out. You don’t have that time. I could start on it today.”
        “How much do you charge?”
        “Fifty gold per key. We’ve got to use star metal and it’s not cheap. We’re running out of metal before we run out of keys.”
        “Actually, that’s quite cheap.”
        “I’m the best in the business, too. I ran away from the guild because of the politics involved, not because they forced me out.”
        “How would you go about doing this?”
        “The first step is meditation. I’ve got to focus on the box and search it to find it’s fundamental theme. On a simple box, this could take two hours, complex, five days. Then, more meditation to figure out a gist of spells. Finally, key experimentation. Like an artist glances at their subject before painting and goes back and forth to see that they’re getting it right, I do that with the box as it whispers hints. Once the key is weaved, we test it out and if it doesn’t work, it dissolves and I try again. If it fails, I check the box to make sure it isn’t injured and go back to my tools to make another key. If we find the right key, both the key and the box are yours, as well as anything inside it. Most guilds don’t guarantee that everything inside box is returned to you. That’s another thing I didn’t like: thievery.”
        She raised her eyebrow at the broken thieves picks. He blushed.
        “Hey, I don’t ask questions,” she said after noting his expression.
        “I didn’t steal this box, if that’s what you’re implying.”
        “I’m not implying anything. You get income your way, I get it my way.”
        “Does this arrangement include food and board?”
        “No, I’ll camp outside. Or deduct that from what you’re paying me if you want.”
        “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you sleep outside.”
        She smiled. “Fair enough.”
        “Well, are you sure you want to start today?”
        “Sure, I’ll start now.”
        “That seems pretty soon.”
        “I told you I work fast. I’ve got nothing else to do but to go back and find another commission. It’s your choice, though.”
        He handed her a bag of money. “Fifty gold, then, and you can start right away.”

Lost: His Story

        Her name was Chelsea Gaber. I only met her pretty recently. A friend of mine knew her and introduced us one day. I didn’t have many classes with her, so I can’t tell you whether or not she was crazy, but it had my doubts when I ran into her that one rainy day and she was in her pajamas clutching a blanket.
        I mean, no one should have been out in that storm, but I was, so I couldn’t judge her. She looked pale and ill to me, but I asked her if she was all right. I thought it better to be polite than to assume anything. She coughed so hard she almost puked after that and I suppose instinct sort of kicked in; you know, damsel in distress. I’m not saying I like playing the hero, but I wasn’t really thinking about it at this point. She was obviously sick and I was sort of disturbed she wasn’t at home.
        She wasn’t quite with it as she sort of mumbled her address when I asked. About halfway there she starts panicking and becomes livid with fear. Before I can ask what’s wrong she tells me that she can’t go home through the door because her mother will kill her. Then she tells me that her mother got into the habit of beating her every so often after her grandmother and dad died. She didn’t say how, but she said that her mother was superstitious and wanted to go back to Romania, but without any money they were having trouble paying the mortgage, let alone for a house in another country. She also said that she didn’t tell anyone about this before because her mother threatened her if she told. She mentioned that she told a couple people, but they didn’t really help her very much. She didn’t want to report her mother because that was the only person she had left.
        She told me she was just going to walk around and get a hamburger because all she could feel was chicken noodle soup. I don’t think she heard me that a hamburger would not be in her best interest. She sort of went back to being limp on my shoulder after that. I didn’t know what to do, but by the time I reached her house, I had decided I would bring her home. If her mother was livid, I could always volunteer to stay and help. At least, I wouldn’t have a dying girl on my shoulders. Well, she wasn’t dying, but she might have been if she wasn’t home and dry.
        Mrs. Gaber seemed pretty upset Chelsea had left, but she wouldn’t let me stay and help. She just thanked me and said I had done enough. Besides, she made note, a gentleman should not be in the presence of a lady undressed. I remember blushing after that remark and then thinking that other girls wear less clothes on a regular basis, but I knew she was right so I bid them good bye and walked back home.
        My mother was just as upset, but I didn’t get sick because of the rain and when I explained I had to help someone home, she felt awful about yelling at me. I didn’t see Chelsea for a while after that point, but I didn’t really want to bother her about it. She probably had enough to worry about without my bothering her.

Lost: Chelsea’s Story

        I’d like to say I was walking down the street on a very sunny day when it happened. I’d also like to say that I was eating an ice cream cone and dressed in my new summer dress that I had gotten the other day for my birthday. But both statements would be complete fabrications.
        It was not sunny; it was raining. Hard. I was not in my summer dress, or any summer dress for that matter, I was in my pajamas. It wasn’t my birthday and I wasn’t eating ice cream. I was punished with the flu from the last time it had rained.
        My mother said it was my fault for opening up the umbrella in the house. I told her it had to dry. Then she noticed I was soaking wet and proceeded to mother me until I was in bed and tucked in so tight I couldn’t move. And I stayed that way for a while: ridden with a fever, drinking chicken noodle soup until all I could taste in my mouth was oily broth, and reading only when my mother thought I was asleep and left me alone.
        When I finally ran out of book to read, I peeled the sheets away and left out the window in the ironically falling rain. My mother, I thought, would probably think that I was asleep and not check my room until dinner time, which meant, after checking my watch, I had two hours to do whatever I wanted.
        But I didn’t get very far when I ran into him. You know, the kind of person you wish you could have; the one who you can’t say his name and instead put italics around a pronoun when you say it or think it? Yeah, him. (This is different from the italics you put around a pronoun of someone you can’t even use their name for it is not worthy to have been uttered from your lips. That one has more emphasis.)
        Anyway, he saw me wrapped up in a blanket and soaking in my pajamas, my hair an utter mess and dark circles under my eyes. I’m one hundred percent Romanian, so he might not have noticed the dark circles under my eyes, but he asked me politely what I was doing there without an umbrella and if I was ok.
I didn’t need to answer; I practically coughed out my lunch instead. Next thing I know, I’m being escorted under an umbrella (though it didn’t matter at that point) sweating like crazy, whether from the fever or blushing I’m not sure, as he had his arm carefully around my shoulders.
        And then it came out. No, I didn’t puke. It was worse. I told him everything. Most of what came out I didn’t want anyone to hear, let alone…you know. Some of it was just stuff I hid because I was so damn nervous around him. Anyway, it spewed out whether I liked it or not. When I was done (this is part of why I love him) he didn’t even look surprised. He just smiled and led me back to my house against my sorry will and apologized to my mother. I was too sick to be mad and the more I thought about what he did, the more I thought I would have done the same thing in that situation. So I wasn’t mad at him when I got better and saw him again. And yes, at that point it was sunny. But I still wasn’t in that summer dress eating ice cream. And it wasn’t my birthday. But that’s another story for another time.