Thursday, November 4, 2010

NaNoWriMo #2

Farrell rolled over and looked at his alarm clock: 2:43 am. For the life of him he couldn’t sleep, his mind was racing and yet his body was exhausted from working through the entire day making presentations for the firm’s last quarter sales. His dog, Radley, a golden retriever, lay lazily next to him and moaned as Farrell hopped out of bed and into the shower.  Quarterly sales were down, and the firm had him working overtime in hopes that the problem would be resolved by some sort of epiphany that would never come.
The hot water washed over his body and Farrell began to think of the obscure dream that had ultimately been the reason for his waking up this early. It had been awhile since Farrell remembered any dream, but this one was so vivid he could not get the images out of his head. Lines of a massive amount of people, all in rows, ahead and behind him. It seemed like he was in the middle of a revolt against some sort of authority, but he couldn’t tell. In the distance was a man on a hill leading the way toward a white city; they were in a valley. Behind him was a man looking on, outside of the revolt. The man looked lonely, and out of place, like a new kid coming to a new school with no friends; he stood out even in the distance.  The man leading them was empowered, courageous, and convincing; you couldn’t help but follow, but yet you felt sorry for the man behind, some sort of remorse filled your heart and mind.
Farrell didn’t dwell on this dream much, he had much more important things to worry about, and as the shower took a cold turn he turned off the water, got out of the shower revived and refreshed, and dried off his body. Radley was still in bed when he got back, and Farrell pulled up the covers, lay down, and put his arm around his dog and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t help but wonder if this dream of any importance. He thought not, but something about this dream seemed so real, that he felt as if he couldn’t avoid it or deny that it occurred.  The scenario seemed disastrous, invading a white city, trying to overthrow some authority that was plaguing the country; then again it was just a dream.

Monday, November 1, 2010

NaNoWriMo #1

Is time real? I mean, do you ever get that feeling that you have dreamed situations before; that maybe, just maybe, you are reliving your life a second time, that this has already happened? The crisp and clear images of forgotten dream flash before your very eyes and you wonder whether life is real, if the very fabric of time you think you reside in is real, or if you are in fact, dreaming. Time… is calling.  Time… is repeating, always. 

 Cynric woke with a start. The rampant beating of his heart woke him, and his mind raced with thoughts and images of the vivid nightmare that had startled him. Trying to remember every detail was like trying to hold water in a pitcher full of holes; and the harder he tried to remember, the faster the images of the dream seemed to flow out of those holes. Desperate, he grabbed his notebook he kept on his nightstand. Pen in place, he started scribbling furiously:

“Lines of people, all aligned in a military fashion. So many people… A vast country-side… Political or religious crusades? Both? Farrell is amongst the ones in the lines, I am looking out on a hill. Am I leading this, or am I looking from afar?”

The pitcher full of dreams was now empty and Cynric, befuddled, was left only with his thoughts and notebook full of scribbles from the recent reoccurring dream.  For weeks now, this dream had haunted his subconscious; Cynric was tired of it, but felt like this annoyance was somehow important. He had been writing down what he could remember for the last couple of days, and could never get past his vision of himself on the hill. He felt empowered every single time he woke from the dream; however it was a complex feeling, full of sadness and regret, but also of power and valor.