Lucid Waking

Archive for the ‘End of Childhood’ Category

The Wanderers (5)

        Dorian awoke to a cold hand vigorously shaking his shoulder. He couldn’t feel his one arm underneath him, but he managed to push himself up to a sitting position.
        “I am sorry to wake you, but it is very important that you not stay here. My superiors will be here any moment to check on me and my work and you cannot stay. Fortunately, the individual who is in charge of the employment office has arrived early and agreed to perform a favor for me.”
        “I’m not sure this is what he meant,” Dorian began, but did not finish as Exec began to pick him up off the floor. After a frantic flailing of limbs, Dorian found his balance and was quickly escorted out of the small office down the opposite end of the hall from where Visitor Services was located. Exec seemed to be in a hurry though he took large, calm, and collected strides while Dorian felt foolish following in a frantic and hurried trot. Eventually they reached the door labeled “Employment Opportunities” and without a moment wasted, Dorian was pushed through the door.
        “Good morning, Exec,” the secretary said once they entered. “Shall I get Mr. Leblanc for you?”
        “Yes, Sylvia. Thank you.”
        The two waited in the rather large waiting area that reminded Dorian of the doctor’s offices he had been forced to attend. The pictures on the walls looked equally fake and the image seemed complete by the inclusion of magazines next to sets of chairs. He had no more time to think about the parallels as Sylvia called from her desk that Mr. Leblanc was available and Dorian found himself quickly following Exec to the frosted window door that led to Mr. Leblanc’s office.

Author’s comments on post 363: Apparently when I said I wasn’t going to write much more of The Wanderers, I was wrong. Right now, the plan is to alternate stories every other day, but I don’t think this will last once I get back to school. But enjoy what I have for you and I hope to have more tomorrow.

Bree MacGuinness

        Bree MacGuinness walked down her gravel driveway in high heels with a pile of books on her head just in time to catch her father’s truck park in front of their house. The books went crashing to the ground as she ran to greet him. He looked tired but he picked her up and spun her around in the air before setting her down to get a good look at her. His face got cloudy, but he smiled.
        “How’s my baby girl?” he asked.
        “Good, Papa,” she said.
        “Good,” he said and put his arm around her shoulder to lead her back to the house. When they came to her books she scooped them up hurriedly and held them against her chest.
        “How was work?”
        “Exhausting as usual,” he said sighing. “But I’m home now.”
        He opened the door for her and she walked into the living room where the smells of apple pie and fried chicken wafted through the house. Her father went straight to the kitchen where her mother was reading a book and waiting for dinner to finish cooking, but Bree went to her room and quickly kicked off her shoes. She leaned back in her bed and looked at all of the posters decorating her walls: Audrey Hepburn, Billie Holiday, Paloma Faith, Bernadette Peters, Michelle Pfeiffer, Rosy the Riveter. And she had a poster of Elvis after her mother let slip her concern for all the posters of women Bree had in her room and her grandmother dug it up from basement for Bree’s birthday. It was signed to her mother from the person who gave it to her, but Bree liked it all the same.
        She felt under her pillow for the letter from the Boston Theater Academy just to make sure it was still there. But before she could pull it out and read it again, she heard her mother call her from the kitchen and she bounded from her room to where dinner was waiting for her hungry stomach.

Author’s comments on post 362: Another character who lives in that yet undecided small town with Johnny. At another date you’ll find out more about her and her family, but for now, I hope you enjoy just the small introduction.

The Wanderers (4)

        All at once the room was flooded in light forcing Dorian to blink several times slowly until his eyes adjusted. When he finally could look up he was greeted by an artificial face, smiling slightly until it caught his attention.
        “Please, sit down,” the robot said extending its arm as a human might to the seat in front of its desk. Dorian could tell from the billboards lining the main street that it was a 3062 model—one that seemed to be built like a car: streamlined, attractive, practical, and expensive. It was a “working” robot, so the human-likeness didn’t matter; its chrome skin reflected some of the office light.
        The office itself was nothing to brag about; it was the size of a walk-in closet with a single desk and two chairs apart from the rolling desk chair. The leather covering on the chairs was ripped and mended with duct tape that tried to blend in. The walls were painted a drab tan and the furniture was scratched up; its one usual occupant was the newest looking object in the room. The name tag on the desk read “Executive 221” and in smaller letters underneath: “Robot Ambassador to U.S. Troops.”
        “Executive 2-2-1; is that you’re name?”
        “Name? Yes, I forgot that humans exchange names as a part of their bonding process. I am usually called Exec. What is your name?”
        Dorian smiled. “Dorian.”
        “I am sorry, Dorian, that you will have to sleep on the floor.”
        “That’s perfectly fine. It’s much better than sleeping in the hallway.”
        “I do not understand.”
        “Here, I won’t get caught.”
        Dorian sat down on the ground and tried to get comfortable.
        “By the way, Exec. Do you always sleep with the light on?”
        “The light is how I ensure that no one comes into my office. If the light is on, the security guard on rounds will assume I am working and leave me alone.”
        But Dorian barely caught the end of the explanation for after a long day of running, sleep was not going to let him escape.

Author’s comments on post 361: I’m probably going to stop here for a short while. I have the rest planned, but I am losing a bit of interest. Don’t be surprised if I adopt other stories to tell. I have one that will go unplanned (which we’ll see how long that lasts) with my friend, Johnny, and some other people in that town. A post for sure tomorrow and probably the next day as well. My apologies for yesterday, I got caught up in the Oscars.

The Wanderers (3)

        As he thought that last cynical thought, the doors to the elevator opened giving him no time to scramble out of the way of its light. He panicked and started before instinct made him freeze and stare at the figure exiting. The individual who stepped out was nothing but a silhouette as it walked straight out of the elevator. Dorian stayed still, but for all his praying to go unnoticed, the person looked at him right before the doors shut cutting of the light in the hall. Dorian could see two glowing blue lights where the eyes should have been facing him.
        “Hello,” a tenor voice echoed electronically. “What are you doing here?”
        Dorian started and then stood up. “Nothing.”
        The blue lights followed him as he stood. “Nothing? Yes, I can see that. Why are you here?”
        Dorian had no answer, but the individual he was speaking to did not seem to be in a hurry to move or respond. Nor did it seem to be accusing him of anything.
        “I was hoping to find a map around the city, but everything is now shut down.”
        “Why did you need a map?”
        “I wasn’t sure where to find a hotel.”
        “May I assume you need a place to stay?”
        Dorian looked at the figure skeptically. “Yes.”
        “Then perhaps I can help. Please follow me.”
        The blue eyes swiveled away from him and the soft pattering of feet seemed to continue away from him.
        “Wait,” Dorian yelled and then caught himself and said: “I’m sorry, I can’t see you.”
        “Of course. I am terribly sorry. I forget you humans do not have thermal identification cameras in your eyes. Just a moment.”
        Suddenly Dorian felt something cold grab his hand and continue to lead him forward. He relaxed slightly as the grip was neither very tight nor unwelcoming and he felt that it was not trying to lead him to any authority. At last they arrived at some sort of office and the electronic figure leading opened the door with a key and led him inside.

Author’s notes on post 359: After writing all day, I somehow managed to get a post out. Continuation of the story, which is slightly modified from the original. I’d like to think that this new character has more accurately written dialog from the original one but even if that’s not the case, I’d say, that so far, the story is going well. More tomorrow when I get a chance and get in town.

The Wanderers (2)

        Hundreds of names filled the black rectangular directory, which made scanning take more time than he had hoped. He could hear a clock somewhere beep a final warning before he found the name and ran towards the stairs. Taking two at a time, he bounded up to the sixth floor and ran to the door marked: Visitor Services. He lunged at the doorknob and tried to turn it, but the object wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, he tried turning it back and forth and put his weight against the door. Naturally, the door wouldn’t move and when he knocked a little too loudly, no one came to answer it.
        Dorian stepped back from the locked office and looked around him. Even where he stood he could hear the final alarm marking the city as completely shut down for the night. He started walking back down the hall to where the elevator waited, but thought better of it after remembering the guard in the lobby. He slumped down to the floor where and leaned back against the wall. The lights shut off and left the hall in darkness as he sat and weighed his options.
        Running away had seemed like such a good idea at the time, which, he supposed, was how most bad ideas started. Even though he was, technically, an escaped criminal who had now violated curfew laws, he felt no panic in getting caught or remorse as he shuddered at the memory of metal blue walls enclosing him and others within a monotonous routine. The sun lamps did nothing for his mood and neither did the extreme surveillance he was given for appearing “moody” and “disruptive.”
        He found out much too late, of course, that the real world was even worse: there was no sun or sky and for all that it seemed fantastic to have freedom, he didn’t have a job, food, shelter, or money and so he was bound to the life of a thief and sentenced to run for his life everywhere he went.

Author’s comments on post 358: So there were a lot of things I didn’t mention last time and now that I’m not in such a hurry, I feel like you should know. First, this story (especially now) might remind you of a certain other story that I had started. I decided to pick it up again, but this one will have completely different themes than what I had for the first version. I also would like to think it’s better written (after all, the first one was published in 2008). There’s more to my notes, but I think I will leave it right now where it’s at and let the story tell itself.

The Creature

        They found it in the middle of the woods one midnight that neither could sleep. Neither one knew each other before that night, but by necessity they became friends. She had been crying in her room and angrily snuck out the window; he had been fighting tears and took a walk to find a private place to cry. They ended up finding the exact same spot of the forest.
        It wasn’t chance, something had led them there. She was driven by the sound of a familiar voice and he had been driven by the sound of silence. They both saw light but it was only when they reached the clearing that the saw the creature.
        It looked like a small rock, but then it unfolded and became something between a dragon and a ki-rin. It turned its head and the glittering eyes on either side of its head happened to see them both at once. It thought that the two were its parents and tried to follow them both home. Confused when the two people bolted opposite ways it let out a heart-wrenching cry that brought both she and he back to the baby creature. The two met and arranged a plan for their newfound child, shook hands, and walked back to their respective houses.
        Leaves fell, snow drifted and melted, buds grew and blossomed and the cycle repeated for five years. They managed to keep it a secret until the creature got too big. Once it was the size of a pony and frustrated by keeping its wings too close to its body, they drove across the country to the desert. She was crying, but he held his resolve. The creature in the back was confused, but knew something was wrong.
        He stopped the car at the edge of a canyon. They wouldn’t be observed as they led the creature out of the car and let it flap its wings. Then once they were sure it had gotten the hang of that, they pushed it off the edge of the canyon.
        Angry squawking met their actions, but they both persevered, getting closer to each other than they had ever been in five years. Finally they won, the creature fell of the edge and by inherent survival instinct flew away.
        He started crying and she held his hand as she watched the creature keep flying away. Then they ran back to the car and drove back. After that, they never really saw each other again.

Author’s comments on post 354: I’m undecided about whether or not I like this one, but I’m going to publish it anyway. I’m not sure about the style and tone although I like the small details in character actions and growth, despite being matter-of-fact. Thoughts and critiques are appreciated. Hopefully another post tomorrow.

Reflections on a Girl

        Exactly a year ago, I had been sitting in my high school’s student commons when heard the news that a good friend of mine had passed away. She was seventeen years old and died from an ordinary flu. I was numb, although I didn’t know it. We had to perform—by obligation and personal necessity—at a vocal jazz festival in a city several hours south of us the next morning. I pushed away my tears to be stronger for the group, though I felt that I was the only one making a concerted effort to put forth as much positive energy to the audience. It’s hard to make an audience want to get up and dance when you’re noticing that hole in your heart and your midst.
        At the funeral, I cried. I didn’t want to cry as much as I did, but everything came tumbling out from places in my soul I didn’t know existed. Afterwards, I felt numb again. I don’t think this was all acceptance, a part of me still tears up when I think about all her opportunities lost. Occasionally I’ll find myself thinking existentially about life and death and whether or not I am doing justice in how I remember her.
        Today, I needed a moment of reflection. I cut a long piece of blue ribbon and set out for the gardens on campus. I reached the carillon and started down the hill behind it; I picked a tree that felt like the right one, and tied the ribbon around it. Then I slowly walked back to campus, in a roundabout fashion. My path took me down the canal in the back of campus and then up a set of stairs to where the academic buildings sat stoically. I watched the reflection in the canal and the sun between the trees. Part of me wished she could have the opportunity to enjoy her own experience in college—probably that same part that wondered whether or not I was doing enough to preserve the sanctity of her memory. As I watched the geese fly noisily from their perch on the water, past the bridge and into the sky, I resolved that it didn’t matter what I did as long as I was satisfied. She no longer cared and even if she did, would never know my thoughts. For however long that ribbon stays tied to the tree, I’ll be happy. Thinking back, I shouldn’t have tied it in a knot before the bow, so that the birds could easily untie it and use it in their nests, but letting go is really what this whole day is about.
        I don’t think we—myself and her other friends—could possibly forget what a beautiful, unique person she was, but I only let her guide me to do my best and to live each of my days up to my full potential instead of dwelling on the tragedy of her death. We never know what the future brings, but we can make the best of the present while we can. Even though I know she’ll never read this I have to say: Rest in peace, Marie. We all miss you.

Author’s comments on post 352: Obviously, self-explanatory since it is biographical. Originally I was going to write an ode, but I only got so far before I had to give up. This came out much more freely. I wish she could have gotten her wish of being an opera singer, but I suppose my bass and I will just have to do that for her. I have something more hopeful and interesting planned for tomorrow, but today, I had to get this off my chest.

Have You Seen…?

        “Hey look,” she said walking into the dining room with the carton of milk, “I didn’t think they put ‘missing persons’ on these things any more.” She shoved the carton in front of his face forcing him to look up from the paper work he was doing to read the container.
        He glanced at a very fuzzy picture of a young girl and next to it her name (Pauline Winters) how old she was when she was lost (16) and when she was last seen (December 16, 2005). He pushed the milk carton back her way and said angrily:
        “I thought she died.”
        “I thought so too,” she answered. “Apparently someone managed to identify the body. DNA testing and all that they have now-a-days.”
        “You told me you were careful.”
        “Josh…I was careful. Besides, it’s been four years, how much digging to you think the police will do?”
        “But what if they find out?”
        After she put the milk back in the fridge, she walked up behind him and started massaging his shoulders. “They won’t find out.” She leaned down and kissed him on the neck, but he didn’t respond.
        “Don’t be such a worry-wort,” she said and plopped down on the couch to watch television.
        “Pauline,” he said, exasperated.
        “What? You think I’ll just let some random person get a DNA sample from me? Besides they have to ask first.”
        “And if they do? What’s your excuse going to be to deny them?”
        She shrugged. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Wasn’t my quick thinking the reason why I was asked to join the team?”
        He involuntarily smiled and shook his head. “Don’t get too cocky, kid.”
        She laughed. “All right, oh wise and wonderful mentor. I’ll be careful.”

Author’s Comments on post 345: Sorry about not having a post yesterday. I was very busy and stressed and my ten minutes didn’t produce anything I wanted to show. But I’m making up for it now. Enjoy!

Numbered Memories (2)

        “So…seven. Seven was the pairs of pointe shoes I went through before I stopped dancing. At first I wanted to be a ballerina for a living, but I had some bad experiences with teachers and dancers and decided the pressure to be skinny, flexible, and daring was too much. I liked who I was and I felt like I was being pressed into a mold so that I could survive the ‘Professional World.’ It was too much trouble so I became an author instead. Go figure.
        “Six was the maximum number of eggs my cousin could juggle at one time. He was amazing at sleight of hand and juggling and acrobatics. I think he joined the circus, literally, but I haven’t heard from him in a long time. He had a tough childhood, but he kept contact with my brother for several years after he ran away from home and went to acrobatics school. He lied about his age and just…well, it’s cliché, but he kept traveling with Barnum and Bailey’s until we last heard from him.
        “Five was the number of wishing stones I had. My dad would take my brother and I to the beach fairly often in the summer and he and I would look for small pretty rocks and then take them home. We’d put them in a pile in the back of the garage. But occasionally we would find nice flat rocks that were good for skipping. My dad told me they were magic rocks because they could fly on the water. We’d take these home and I’d put them in a shoe box under my bed. I only collected five before he died and we didn’t go to the beach anymore.
        “Four was the total number of vacations we took as a family of three. My mother never had enough money to splurge on traveling and it was her one regret. So, we’d pretend that we were going different places and dress up the house like a hotel. We’d do research on different tourist spots; good restaurants to eat—sometimes we’d even make food like they might serve in the places we visited. It didn’t take long for my brother to get sick of the idea and shut himself in his room whenever we ‘took a vacation,’ but my mom and I continued this tradition for a long time. My brother was often cynical, but I always enjoyed those times with mom.
        “Three…you know. I really can’t think of anything for three. Going over memories…it’s hard for me because I have so many of them. And I don’t remember the memory so much as the emotion. It’s really hard to come up with this stuff out of the blue.”
        “I know. We can stop here if you want.”
        “I’m inclined to agree. But I want to say that my mom was excellent and supportive and it must have been hard raising two children who ended up being clinically depressed, especially when an equally loving parent and partner dies during the difficult years. I had a crazy large family, but they all made sure we ended up all right. And we did. I did. A lot of my triumph and success has been a large part my mother and then my brother. I don’t talk about her much, but she did more for me than I can express.”
        “Is that what you want to say to your children?”
        “I hope to teach my children a lot more than I can express, but I’m going to wish them the best and hope they remember that happiness is in their making.”
        The phonograph clicked to solid silence and the needle glided back to its resting spot next to the record. A young woman in her early twenties picked the record up by the edges and gently slipped it into its sleeve.
        “Was that my great-great aunt?” she asked solidly to the man waiting at the window.
        The man nodded. “Yes. My great-great grandmother.”
        “And the man—”
        “Her soon-to-be husband.” The man at the window walked over to the phonograph and picked up the record. “I thought you should listen to this since you’re so interested in researching your past.”
        “You don’t need to sound so cynical,” the woman said, smiling. “But thank you so much for letting me listen. I had no idea…”
        “You can take this if you want,” the man said, extending forth his arm with the record. “You might get more use out of it.”
        “Don’t you want to listen to her voice?”
        “Not really,” the man shook his head. “I never knew her. It doesn’t mean that much to me. Do take care of it, however.”
        “Of course,” the woman said and thanked him before exiting the apartment door.
_____________________________________________________________

Author’s Note on Post 332: It tried getting into a little bit of the human psyche here. That sounds a little too deep, but I wanted to "edge human experience" (whatever that means). With each increasing number I wanted each story to get more personal and the "coda" to kind of show a lasting legacy of the record. Stories are stories no matter when or why told.

I’m not sure how clear all of that was, but I needed to finish this story regardless. It was getting too heavy handed for me. And large.

Numbered Memories (1)

        The phonograph clicked lightly over the bumps in the record as the familiar crackling static filled the rest of the space. Finally, a male voice blasted through the room where the phonograph was situated.
        “All right,” he stammered, laughing, “just try to tell me something in your life that corresponds to a certain number, descending, starting with your age.”
        “So I tell you why the number twenty is significant in my life and then…” a woman’s voice answered, also bright from laughter.
        “You go on to nineteen and so on.”
        “Ok, I think I get this. So, twenty…Well, twenty dollars was how much I got when I babysat for our neighbors two doors down. God, those kids were brats,” she laughed. “But we certainly had some memories. I think I learned all about patience watching those boys.”
        “Anyway, nineteen. That was the number on the double decker bus a girl friend and I took to get back to our hotel when we were lost in London. It ended up being the wrong bus, but we got on it because it was dark and we were convinced some creep was following us. Anyway, the bus driver was really nice and after his rounds when we were the last two left, he took us back to the hotel. We tipped him, but he didn’t have to go out of his way. He was a very nice old man who had two daughters of his own, so he understood our predicament, as he put it. That was a really fun trip, I should tell you about it sometime.
        “Eighteen, huh? Let’s see…I was eighteen when I got my first car—”
        “Try not to mention ages. That would be too easy.”
        “All right, if you insist on making it harder. …I had eighteen dolls in my collection that my grandmother had been giving me at the holidays. She died before I got any more, but I loved every one that I got.
        “Seventeen is actually an easy one. My first boyfriend was number seventeen on the football team. I don’t know why I even dated him, we had nothing in common except that he was friends with my brother. Heh—I remember sitting in the stadium freezing cold and screaming my head off listening for any word about player seventeen. At least he was a good football player, he was always pretty popular, but modest. I guess I liked that he never took full credit for a good game, even though he made most of the offensive plays. He was always so quiet.
        “Enough rambling though, I’m on sixteen. Besides being an awful time in my life—no ages, I know—sixteen was the number of brownies my favorite brownie recipe made. Fun fact.
        “Fifteen…hmm…ten and five…Fifteen was…a book I vaguely remember reading. My brother kept it on his bookshelf high up, so I couldn’t reach it, and he told me not to touch it. So naturally, when he wasn’t home, I got the step stool and pulled down the book. I don’t remember how old I was when I read it—very young—and it was not a little kid’s book. No pictures, except for a few, and a lot of naughty words and ideas. I was actually scared of it, to tell you the truth. I never told anyone I read it, except for my mom a few years later. She just smiled at that point and said I should try reading it again when I was older. I haven’t gotten around to it, but I remember vividly the feeling of horror and strange fascination.
        “God it was strange. Well, fourteen: the number of pages my first story had. At the time, I thought it was a novel, but now—huh, it’s just a piddly little number.
        “Thirteen was…um…hmm…well, besides being my lucky number not very important. Although that was the number of days—I think—that I stayed away from home when I ran away. Yes, I actually ran away from home. Most kids talk about it or if they do it, they don’t get very far. I actually left my house and took the camping equipment and just walked. I camped out in the forest preserve and kept moving around all the time so no one could find me. I last almost two weeks before one of the police officers stumbled upon my camp in the wee hours of the morning. My parents were livid and I remember getting my brother to admit that he did cry over my absence. But even though I told myself that was a triumph, it just made me feel worse about it.
        “Twelve was the number of worms we convinced Billy Patrick to eat in a dare. Hah; that’s a really disgusting memory.
        “Eleven was the number of steps leading down to my basement. And I know because I had to carry the laundry up and down without being able to see. So, I’d count the steps so that I wouldn’t trip. It was a useful number to have memorized.
        “Ten…well, ten o’clock was about the time when I found out my dad had died. My mother called me out of school for the rest of the day and took me home and told me. I was stunned at first, but once I realized he was never coming home, I cried for several days. He was always at the hospital, so the fact that I could never see him again took a long time to reach me. A lot of bad stuff happened that year. That was the year I attempted suicide, too. My poor mother.”
        She took a deep breath. “But enough about that. Nine…three by three…oh, ‘I’ is the ninth letter in the alphabet, and also the calligraphic letter that my brother has tattooed on his forearm. There are a lot of reasons why he liked the letter ‘I.’ We both got depressed often and he liked to remind himself that he was in control of his life, not fate. He always liked feeling like there was a sense of power and he felt better about things knowing he was controlling them, or at least, his reaction to them. It was also the roman numeral for one, symbolizing uniqueness, which to him, reminded him to savor the little things in life because they might be a once-in-a-lifetime moment. In tarot cards, one was the magician, symbolizing creativity and self-reliance. One also symbolized the beginning of something. Anyway, I went with him when he got it, and he was in a particularly negative mood, but he explained all of this to me and it made so much sense. He wanted it on the inside of his forearm because he wanted to see it in the off chance he ever thought of slitting his wrists and being reminded of all that power and self possibility. My brother always was my beacon of strength and intelligence.”
        Another deep breath.“Wow, I’m really getting deep. Ok…Eight. Eight was the number of leather -bound notebooks that I owned. I love the smell of leather and every year I would save enough money to get one at a craft fair. I had eight of them, unadulterated and clean before I thought I had better ways of spending my money on things I didn’t need. I think I used one as a sketchbook, but the others are all empty.
        “There’s a certain magic about an empty notebook. It’s so neat and orderly and just full of possibility. It’s hard to explain, but I’d have more of them if they didn’t take up so much space."

Author’s Note on post 331: I’m glad I got this up before midnight because it is technically still July. Sorry that I haven’t gotten more posted, but I will put up the second part tomorrow. I thought it best only to give you a 1.5 page chunk at a time. Not much else to say about it.