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.

NaNoWriMo #1

Epilogue:

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. 

 Novel:

 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.

Lemon Bars Intro

   Lemon bars make for an interesting topic of conversation in my friend group; whether that be politics, religion, or relationships they always seem to be at the center of every word, every argument, every action. Let me be clear, I love lemon bars.

    I was going over to a friend's house this one night, it was in between winter and spring, but closer to winter; it was cold. I hate cold weather. The way the wind cuts through your clothes like a knife through butter makes for a miserable day on the best of days. Though on this miserable day, it was poised to get much better as I was invited to MaryE's house for dinner. MaryE is a graceful, wonderful, understanding friend of mine. The first time we sat down for dinner we knew in our hearts that we had the other, and wouldn't let go for anything. We get each other, there's no better feeling. Now, three and a half years of friendship later, I'm driving to her apartment on the campus of Hardin-Simmons University expecting a warm meal and good company.
    The apartment complex MaryE lived at was one I actually lived in before moving to the Stabbin' Cabin in the ghetto of Abilene, Texas. It's a fairly nice apartment that Hardin-Simmons offers to students. She lived on the third floor, and so as I stepped out of my car, the wind cutting my face, I looked up at her window and smiled and walked up the stairs quickly as to avoid being in the cold as much as possible. MaryE had cooked for me before, and to clarify before I move on, she cooks very well; I thoroughly enjoy her cooking. And this meal was extremely satisfactory, as expected: a warm meal and good company. We ate, we laughed, we even danced; it was another great time to be had with a great friend.
    As the meal progressed it came time for dessert: lemon bars. MaryE told me that they might not be cooked all the way, or that she might have messed up the recipe, and that if I didn't like them I didn't have to eat them. Being the fatty that I am, I ate them, who's to deny free dessert? And as she prefaced, they weren't cooked all the way through, however, they were acceptable to eat. They weren't bad at all. I ate a few, and she asked my opinion on them, “Be honest! Do you like them?”; being the ignorant male that I am, I took the bait and answered truthfully. I said that they were good, but not the best I ever had, thinking that because she asked me to be honest I was entitled to express my honest opinion, whatever that may have been. Boy was I wrong.
    Being the graceful woman she is, she didn't say anything, but the mood changed for the rest of the evening; we were more reserved and I was still ignorant to the fact that my lack of tact led to the hurting of my friend. Later on she confided to me that it really did hurt her, that she wrote a poem expressing her anguish.
    Truth and honesty are a double edged sword that cuts to your core sometimes.
    MaryE and I look back and laugh at it now, but lemon bars could have hurt our relationship if we hadn't communicated efficiently. And it got me thinking, honesty sometimes isn't the best policy, and that raises an ethical concern: is it acceptable to lie or leave out information that would be pertinent to the situation? It's like the situation my ethics professor always brought up in class: if you're hiding Jews from the Nazis, and the Nazis come knock at your door and ask if you're hiding any Jews, would you be honest and say, yeah they're in the attic; or would you find valor in lying and say that you weren't hiding any Jews to save them from slavery, even death? I'm positive that all of us would answer that we weren't.
     Lemon bars, they make for an interesting topic of conversation.