memorable

Some years ago, when he was still very young, Bolt entered a rocket contest. Not long after launch, one of the engines failed causing the ship to fall from the sky, but the emergency parachute deployed at the last minute, saving his life. In the rocket with him at the time was a romantic interest of his, who was badly injured, and the man who designed the rocket, Bolt’s good friend Heinrich. Heinrich, unfortunately, perished in the accident.
After the incident, Bolt went underground for a while. A few years later, we’re hanging out at his mansion by the ocean:
We sit outside, Bolt and I lying on our bellies side by side in the long, manicured grass of his back lawn. Sitting criss-cross next to us is his little sister and one of Bolt’s friends. Bolt is young, yet, maybe 24, his disasterly rocket failing having occurred when he was not but 19. He’s always been a genius for rockets. His sister is younger yet, 14 or so. His friend also a bit younger, 19 or 20. Sitting in front of the four of us is Bolt and his sister’s private tutor. Tutor is trying unsuccessfully to give a lecture to the 4 of us. Bolt’s friend and little sister are dutifully paying attention, but Bolt and I keep getting distracted and giggling. At one point we even run off for about a half hour so he can fly me around in one of his smaller rockets. It’s an absolute blast. Pun completely intentional.
Coming back from our rocket foray, Bolt and I are giddy with laughter and adrenaline.
“That was crazy! I can’t believe you get paid to do that!” I say, panting from the exhilaration.
“Yeah, a butt ton too.” He says, still laughing.
“What do you do with all that money? You get paid—what—a million or so every time you go up in a rocket?”
“1.7 million, actually. And I honestly don’t know what to do with it all so I give most of it away to charities.” He says, shrugging as we settle back down before the Tutor.
Tutor snorts, “You don’t donate most of your money, you invest it.”
Bolt rolls his eyes, “fine, I do invest it, but a lot of those investments are into trust funds for charities. By the way, how are the investments doing?”
“All doing very well. You’ll be significantly richer before the day is out.”
Bolt nods, obviously pleased by this.
“Now,” says Tutor, “back to the lesson.”
The four of us nod and he continues talking, but I’m completely lost to Bolt, Beautiful Bolt. In the warm breeze his silken blond locks slip softly across his forehead. His strong jaw and supple skin beg to be caressed. His brown eyes are kind, and his body slim and shaped as though he were Adonis himself.
I interrupt the tutor. “Bolt, what’s your ideal kind of gal?”
He pauses to think a moment. “Hmm, I can’t say I have an ideal. I just want to find a girl who sees me for who I am. A girl who knows me and loves me anyway. A girl whom I could love and be happy with.”
I smile. “I could love you, Bolt. Could you love me?”
He looks at me then. Really looks at me. Then he smiles too. “Yeah, Ambrielle, I could love you.”
“I want to marry you.” I say, breathless at the thought that this beautiful, wonderful man might actually be mine.
“I would like that,” He says, still smiling. “I would like that very much.”
I’m totally overjoyed. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Bolt, the handsome, rich, kind, loving Bolt wants to marry me. Me!
“…Someday.” He says.
“What?” I say, not really sure I heard him right.
“I would like to marry you someday. But not yet. Right now I have a craving for something, so I think we should wait a while to get married. …You know,” He adds, almost as an afterthought, “if I were to give you a piece of advice it would be to become Mormon.”
I think my eyes are going to fall out of my head they’ve gone so wide. “What?”
“Yeah, I mean, Mormons have it figured out. They’re such nice people and girls should protect their virtue. That’s really important. It’s not right for a girl to have sex with a lot of different guys. She should just be with the one she loves.”
I honestly can’t believe what’s coming out of his mouth right now. Here, all this time, I thought he was the perfect man for me. And yet, it seems he has a craving for virgins. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that now. My virginity is long gone and I’m not planning to convert anytime soon. I could become a born again virgin, but somehow I get the feeling that’s not good enough for him.
Standing abruptly, I walk away from him. There’s no reason for me to ever come back to this place, come back to Bolt. He’s no different than any other, shallow man.
Making my way inside the mansion, I find myself in a huge, bustling building. I guess I hadn’t realized how popular Bolt really was. As I step into the middle of the four story glass structure and peer up to the balconies of the stories above, all also packed with young adults, it hits me just how famous Bolt might be.
I sense a presence behind me and turn to find Bolt’s friend standing there, looking sheepish.
“If you like, I can show you where to get a really good drink in here.” He keeps his eyes low as he talks to me, and fidgets with his hands. I get the feeling he’s used to being over looked in the shadow of Bolt.
“I don’t have any money,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “it’s free.”
He looks up at me then and it’s as though I’m seeing him for the first time. His shaggy, black hair shines brilliantly under the florescent lights. His eyes are the clearest blue I’ve ever seen. He’s not much taller than I am, maybe 5’10 or 6 foot. Not like Bolt who’s a towering 6’5. And he wears glasses, slim ones, but as I notice this he takes them off and slips them into his pocket. Reading glasses, evidently. Cute.
I smile and nod my head, “I would like that then, please, lead the way.”
His eyes meet mine and he smiles genuinely, something I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do before. My heart skips a beat.

Sometime later Bolt announces his return from retirement and enters another rocket contest. He wants to fly Heinrich’s rocket again, convinced they’ve been able to fix it since the accident. On the day of the competition, the rocket fails again, and this time when the rocket falls from the sky the parachute doesn’t deploy. Of the 50 or so people who went up with him, most of them are dead and the rest are significantly injured. Again, Bolt is the only one to make it out alive and unharmed.
His competitor in the challenge turns out to be the girl he almost killed in the last rocket crash, his old romantic interest. She’s risen in the ranks to seek vengeance. In the end, I wake up before I get to see her fly. But I have a feeling she would have won.

…Still in my hospital gown, I stand barefoot on the cold tiles of the nursery and stare down into the plastic box holding a new born baby—my new born baby girl. The longish hairs growing out of her legs don’t go unnoticed by myself or the nursemaid standing next to me.

“Oh…” Says the nursemaid, “I guess she’ll have really straight eyelashes…”

My only response is to pull out a set of tweezers and start plucking the hairs from the child’s body. The nursemaid is appalled.

“Stop! Stop it! What are you doing! You’re gonna hurt her!” She tries to grab the slender metal from my hand but I brush her aside.

“It’s fine,” I gesture to the child who hasn’t even fidgeted as a result of the grooming, “besides, what I think doesn’t matter. All that matters is what he thinks.”

The nursemaid looks stunned; there’s fear in her eyes. I pinch the tweezers a little harder and dutifully pluck another hair from my baby’s ankle…

Standing on the roof of an impossibly tall and beautiful glass building, a city of green and glass stretches around us in all directions as far as the eye can see. The sun is setting just slightly to the left, reflecting orange off the glass city and bathing everything in a surreal light.

I’ve recently started work as an assistant to a big shot CEO. My partner in the job is a young man with wavy auburn curls and a genuine smile. I like him already. Standing before the railing a few feet in front of us, Big Shot gives me and the young man a stern talk about maintaining a status quo of outstanding work, all the while, looking out at the city and the setting sun. The only view we get is of his back. He has a nice pinstriped suit, and his hair is well gelled. I don’t hear much of what he’s saying because I’m trying to remember what his name is; Steven? Stefan? I can’t remember.

Big Shot finishes his talk and takes his leave. The muted click of the door as he exits emphasizes the silence between the young man and me, now alone on the roof. Mason is his name, I think, and as I try to remember his surname said young man steps forward to look out at the city from the edge of the railing where Big Shot stood only moments before. Turning back to catch my attention, he gestures out toward the sea of orange glass.

“Isn’t it strange to think that we don’t know how old these buildings are, even though we use them every day?” he shakes his head in amazement and returns his gaze to the golden city.

I know how old these building are, but I choose to let his question hang in the air. All our history was lost when the internet crashed in the early 21st century, so no one can know I came from 2014 or I would never hear the end of it. Besides, life is better in this future. There’s no need to remember the damaged past.

Before he left, Big Shot told Mason and me we had some chores to take care of. After another few minutes on the roof, we figure it’s time to get started and make our way toward the stairs. Behind us, the sun disappears below the skyline and the roof access door slides shut with a muted click.

I’m living back at home. Douglas, my older brother, is too, for a short while at least. It’s late, like 2 or 3 or maybe even 4AM. I’m pacing the living room.
Someone comes to the back door. I don’t know who it could be so late at night, especially since our back door is pretty isolated from the main road. I open the curtains, it’s a man I don’t know, older. I let him in.
Douglas comes downstairs, probably to see what’s going on because the Man is attacking me now and looting the house. I don’t know why I let him in, maybe because he seemed so harmless...
Douglas bursts into action, taking the Man on, they struggle. I grab something heavy and hit the Man over the head with it. He crumples and dies.
Doug and I look at each other, eyes wide, then we both move in different directions looking for assorted items. I come back with a blanket, Doug has duct tape and cleaning supplies. We wrap up the body, and I clean up the blood.
The doorbell rings. It’s the police. Ma comes downstairs in her night gown, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“What are you both doing up? Who’s at the door?”
“It’s the police," I tell her.
“Why are the police here?” She asks, moving to clasp the doorknob.
“I don’t know,” I say, truthfully. They’re no way they know what just happened.
Douglas and I look at the body still lying in the middle of the floor along with all the supplies used to clean up his mess. Obviously he can’t stay there, but what do we do with him? I pose this question out loud to Douglas.
We both stare a moment longer, then he reaches down and lifts him up. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him. You hide everything else.”
I nod, and grab all the cleaning supplies, running up to my room. I know its dumb hiding evidence in my room because that’s just going to incriminate me. But I don’t want Ma to get in trouble, so I think really hard about where I should hide everything. The closet? Too obvious. Under the bed? The same. In the bed? Now that’s an idea. No one ever thinks to hid evidence IN their bed so the cops won’t look there. I scamper over to my pillows and stuff the assorted items in between the insane number of plush pillows that cover my bed. Then I move around my room and straighten up as much as I can--neat people are less suspicious.
I come back downstairs as mom finishes up talking with the police. They ask if they can come in do a routine sweep. Mom says ‘yes’ knowing that saying ‘no’ to a routine sweep would only bring more cops down on us, and as far as she knows, we have nothing to hide.
They move through the rooms, slowly, and they don’t search with any sort of immediacy so they aren’t making a mess of things which I really appreciate. There are two of them and they wear all black with black motorcycle helmets pulled down over their heads so I can’t tell anything about them except that they look like they’re in shape.
I have no idea what Douglas did with the body, only that he hid it somewhere in the garage. I probably would have tucked it up behind the water heater, but I suppose that's why Doug hid the body and I hid the cleaning supplies. The police move through the kitchen and through the garage and find nothing. For this, I am pleased.
Next they go upstairs. They open the spare bedroom, it’s a bit of a mess, so they don’t bother going in. Then they search Ma’s room, nothing. Then they come to mine. They open the closest, look under the bed, nothing. I’m in the clear.
They leave.
Douglas and I regroup in the living room.
“Now what do we do with the body?” I ask.
“What body?” Mom asks, joining us in the middle of the room.
“We get rid of it,” Doug says. “Go pop the trunk.”

I sit at a table on a covered, wooden, open-air deck somewhere in the mountains. I can see snow on the surrounding peaks, but it’s not cold. It feels more like the subtle warmth of spring. I’m here, in these mountains, at an elite boarding school for gifted students. But we’re not just gifted, we’re geniuses—the brightest of the bright, the top 1%.

There’s a game of Scrabble set up on the table before me, but the board is four times larger than normal. Wooden letters litter the table surface; some capitals, some lowercase, some cursive. It’s a puzzle of some kind and we’re supposed to solve it, but we haven’t made any progress. Usually we work in shifts, but the latest group of students gave up early and went inside to rest. I’m taking a turn alone at the board. I know we need gloves to touch the letters, so I slip on the last pair of latex gloves from the now empty glove box which I discard off to my right. In front of me is a large bowl, also wooden, filled with perfectly carved Scrabble letters. Slipping my gloved hands in the bowl, I sift through the smooth, wooden chips, but it feels like I can’t think with these ridiculous gloves on and I quickly become frustrated. Snapping the latex from my fingers, I toss them to the side and plunge my fingers back into the letters, relishing in the feeling of the soft, sanded letters along my fingertips. One of my peers walks up then, and gestures to the bowl my ungloved hands are sifting through.

“We’re supposed to wear gloves,” He says.

“I know,” I say, my attention never leaving the bowl.

He watches my fingers, as fascinated as I am, then sits quietly next to me at the table. I look at the surface in front of him which is covered with more letters. Abandoning the bowl, I turn my attention instead to the letters on the table. As I do, I notice that there are a bunch of A’s, a lot of N’s, some T’s, a few W’s, and all the other letters of the alphabet are sprinkled in. Reaching out, I begin to line the letters up and, as I do, I realize they’re not in alphabetical order which really bothers me because I know it will make sorting them take longer. The boy watches my growing frustration with surprised curiosity.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Sorting.” I say, continuing to shuffle letters around.

“Do you think that will help?” He asks.

I don’t respond; I don’t think it will help. I only hope it will let us see the problem more clearly.

“What can I get for you?” the fat man asks me. He sounds bored when he says it, and doesn’t even make eye contact. The pale brown hair on his head is thinning and the way his butt is leaking out of his metal folding chair cannot be comfortable. I guess I really can’t blame him for not loving what he does, it must be exhausting catering to the whims of cheerleaders and football players on their way to practice every day. I’m new to the team, and this is my first cheerleading practice, but eying the ingredients spread out across the fold-up table in front of him, I figure he could easily make my favorite breakfast treat.”
“Um, I’d like a bacon scramble, if that’s alright?” I look at him questioningly, just to be sure my request isn’t too outrageous.
“Sure,” He shakes his head and chuckles, then begins reaching for the plate of bacon that’s set out on the table, “I can make you a scramble, no problem.”
The way he says it, condescendingly and a tad bitter, has me worried and my worry quickly turns to apprehension when he proceeds to toss several pieces of bacon into the bright red blender sitting on the table before him. I don’t know why I didn’t see this coming. It’s the only piece of kitchenware amongst all the food items there on the plastic surface. I guess I just didn’t expect the blender to be applicable given my order. My mistake.
Cheddar cheese, egg, bell pepper, potato, green onion, salt, and pepper all follow the bacon into the blender. I’m relieved, at least, that he got all the right stuff in there, but then he hits the “blend” button and my relief turns quickly back to apprehension, then to horror as everything is slowly ground to a pale, pink mush. Thirty seconds later he stops the blender, pours the well-blended contents into a large cup, drops in a pink bendy straw, and offers me my drink with a satisfied smirk.
“Uh, thanks,” I say, gingerly taking the cup from his chubby hand and moving away from the table so the next girl can get her “drink.”
Peering into the cup I use the bendy straw to push the thick substance around and grimace at its paste-like texture. It looks terrible, but everything in it is delicious so maybe… I take a small sip, hoping it won’t taste as horrible as it looks and find myself somewhat surprised that it tastes only half as bad.
I must have been wearing my disappointment on my face because one of my teammates comes up and rubs my shoulder reassuringly.
“Do you not like your drink?” She asks gently.
I give the pink paste another push with my bendy straw, “I don’t know why he felt the need to ‘blend’ everything—all he had to do was push ‘pulse’ a few times and it would have been fine.”

(9/4/14)

I'm standing in an old fashioned kitchen that looks like it was build in the 20s. In front of me on the counter are two knives lying side by side; one fat like a butcher knife, the other thin and small like a vegetable knife. I'm dressed in a pale, floral print dress as if I'm from the 20s too and all the colors in the room are washed out under the weak overhead light. Everything except the knives which glean bright and metallic from their spots on the counter. Slowly, I reach forward to pick up the butcher knife as though I'm not sure what I'm doing or why I'm here. And really, I'm not. But before I can grasp the cool metal in my palm a noise from my right distracts me.

I spin quickly to face the sound and find Colin Ferguson (Eureka 2006) standing in my dining room on the far side of the table. Normally, I'm sure I would be absolutely stoked to have Colin Ferguson alone in my home, but the expression he's wearing says he's not here for coffee and sex. Rather, the look he's giving me says he has every intention to kill.

He steps quickly, around the table, and directly toward me but I counter by scuttling sideways in an effort to keep the table between us, the knives now completely forgotten where they lay. He pauses, and his anger deepens as he realizes that I'm avoiding him. Then he tries, once more, to step around the table and I, once more, move to keep it between us. We continue this charade, back and forth, several times, and I know that this will never end. Frantically, I try to think of what I did to get Colin Ferguson so mad at me and I can't, for the life of me, think of what I could have done. Just yesterday my life was so boring, so normal, so...

I freeze and on the other side of the table, Colin Ferguson does too. He doesn't understand what I'm doing and I think he's worried I've got some sort of plan. I don't have a plan, but it's just occurred to me that my life is never this exciting. My life is mundane, normal, and never in a million years would I be in a situation where a celebrity is trying to kill me. There's no other explanation--this must be a dream.

As soon as the thought hits me, I'm lucid. I can hardly believe it! I take a deep breath and look around the room in wonder. It's taken me so long and, finally, here I am! I want to jump up and down for joy but from across the table Colin Ferguson has figured out that I've forgotten he's even there and that doesn't please him. With new gusto he makes to move around the table, his anger radiating from him like some sort of aura of death.

In a panic, my dream looses some clarity and dims back to the muted colors it was before, but I'm still lucid and I remember something that Canis Lupis and Ophelia Blue mentioned in the podcast about what to do when your dream characters are trying to kill you. Concentrating as hard as I can, I tell myself the Colin Ferguson is only rushing around the table so that he can give me the best hug of my life because he's my best friend and I love him. It takes a moment, but I manage to turn my feelings of absolute terror into feelings of tentative love and I open my arms wide to him as he rounds the final corner of the table and powers straight into my embrace. The hug is weak, and Colin Ferguson's expression is still one of complete and utter hatred and death, but he's hugging me and I'm not dead! But then I think about how just a moment before, he was wearing that same expression and trying to ensure my certain demise and I wonder if this hug wasn't a bad idea after all. It's only a flicker, but in the millisecond that that thought occurs, the fear is back and I know Colin Ferguson felt it and I spoiled everything.

He pulls away from our embrace at the same time I do, but I'm slightly faster and, with all the strength I can muster, I plant my palms on his chest and shove. He stumbles backwards giving me a few precious seconds, and I spin around to face the giant, pane glass window that's in the wall behind me. It's a nice window, probably my favorite one in the hole of my imaginary home, but I know I have no other choice as I sprint as fast as I can over the ten feet to that window, Colin Ferguson less than two steps behind me. I've never flown in my dreams before, but I hope I'm a natural because once I hit that glass, the ground is long way down. Pushing through the last few steps, I lift my forearm to protect my face and throw myself through the delicate panes...
and wake up in bed.

(2/24/14)

I don’t remember how I got here, and I’m pretty sure that 5 seconds ago I was somewhere else. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, in my room. But it’s not my room. The walls are brick and covered with various posters, the room small but cozy. Strings of round lights hang from the ceiling,, bathing the room in a soft yellow glow, and the bed is low to the ground and layered with blankets. Just how I like it. Something about beds reminds me once again that I don’t remember how I got here when suddenly my mom bursts into the room, startling me out of my confusion. I look at her, bewildered.
“It was a placebo.”
“…what?”
“You weren’t actually high. It was a placebo effect,” She says it matter of factly, like you might tell a friend you answered their phone for them. “I answered your phone.” “What?” “You’re mom called while you were in the bathroom. I answered your phone.”
“…Oh…” I say. And remember something about weak pot, but just as quickly as the thought has come it’s gone again and I realize I need to get going to class.

I stand and rush past her, just now noticing the sounds of car horns and busy streets filtering in form my window. I understand now that my room is made of brick because we live in the city. Walking down the crowded sidewalk I pass the remains of an old brick building maybe a little bigger than the size of a port-o-potty. Curious, I poke my head around the edge of one of the crumbling walls and see a man who looks an awful lot like Desmond form Lost sitting hunched over in the dirt, leaning against the wall.
Stepping forward cautiously I try to make out if he’s hurt.
“Hey,” I say softly “are you alright?”
He lifts his head abruptly as if surprised I stopped to talk to him. He looks a mess, hair tangled, face and clothes covered in dirt. His feet are bare too, and I frown as take in his disheveled appearance. He sees me examining his situation and holds his hands out revealing that he is chained to the wall where he sits. I’m appalled and I guess it was evident on my face because he shakes his head and smiles at me. And just as I’m about to tell him that I can’t get those chains off, he stands up and the chains just fall off. I’m staring in disbelief but the next thing I know he’s hoped up onto the crumbling wall and is looking down at where I stand awe struck.
As he stands there I realize he’s no longer covered in mud in dirt. His hair is fixed and his dirty clothes have turned to pure white, loose-fitting garb. He has an aura now too; shimmers around him like liquid gold and shines like the light of a sunset on water. I’m instantly calmed by his presence and know that I can trust him unconditionally. Part of me wonders if he is Jesus, standing before me here in all his glory. But then I remember this is Desmond I’m looking at and Desmond isn’t Jesus.
He smiles at me again, this time as if I am a child and he is showing me the world for the first time. I guess the open-mouthed expression of awe I was wearing gave him this impression. He beckons to me, then jumps off the wall. I step around the structure and follow him.

As we pass people walking down street, they don’t seem to see us. I’m not sure if it’s because this is the city and the people are used to seeing things as weird as glowing Jesus figures leading dazed college girls to unknown locations, or if Desmond’s aura is just acting as some sort of magic to mask our presence. Ultimately I decide I don’t really care either way.
I follow him until we reach a secluded boat house on a private dock on the water. He leans casually against the wall of the shed, then gestures out toward the ocean before him. On the Horizon, the sun looks hours form setting. I look at him again, he’s smiling that same knowing smile, so I look back out toward the water thinking there must be something here I’m missing. A strong breeze picks up, caressing my face and playing with my hair. Lifting my arms, I suddenly feel the desire to fly. I can feel the wind surging past me, and I imagine what it would be like to run and leap off the railing of the dock, taking flight against the breeze and soaring into the bronze sky. So soft I’m almost not sure I hear it at first, but then louder, a choir is singing a triumphant melody. Their voices are so strong and beautiful that my heart beats faster in my chest and my soul feels like its singing with them. It occurs to me in this moment that I have no idea where this beautiful and inspiring song is coming from and with a start, it hits me. Spinning around I turn back to the man. His eyes are twinkling now and I know it’s because he knows I’ve figured it out.
Turning back toward the swollen eye of the sun, I lift my arms and it feels like they’ve soundly sprouted feathers. Like Icarus. I know I want to fly, I CAN fly, because this is a dream, and in dreams you can do anything you imagine. So I imagine myself running straight off the dock and leaping into flight but then something Canus Lupis said in the pod cast comes back to me. “Before you go leaping off balconies and buildings trying to fly,” he said, “you should be absolutely SURE you are in a dream.” I falter. I know I am in a dream. I KNOW it. But if I leap out there and this isn’t a dream, then I’ll land in the freezing ocean and hitting that frigid water might just be enough to wake me up.
I chew on my bottom lip as I think. I know this is a dream, but better to be safe than sorry. The choir is singing so loud now that I begin to wonder if this inspiring melody isn’t coming from inside my soul. I feel powerful, indestructible, capable of anything. But decide that it wouldn’t hurt to do a breath check. So, taking a deep breath, I reach up to pinch my nose

And wake up in my bed.

(2/24/14)

I don't remember how I got here, and I'm pretty sure that 5 seconds ago I was somewhere else... But this doesn't seem to matter to my dream self—staring out the car window as we drive past farm after farm after farm...
"Where are we going?" I ask, eying my mother as she practically vibrates in her seat from excitement.
"You'll see," she says, and upon seeing the skepticism apparent in my frown, adds, "don't worry, you'll like it."
I'm not convinced.
We drive past another three farms.

About a minute later mom pulls into a dirt driveway for a rather rundown, two story farm house composed of rotted grey wood and just about nothing else. Sitting on the porch steps is my cousin Courtney. I'm surprised but pleased despite myself. Which is also surprising. I get out of the car and run toward Courtney who stands to catch my hug. She looks genuinely surprised as well, but also pleased.
"What are you guys doing here?"
"I heard you were having an event today so I thought we'd come support you," Mom says from behind me.
I take Courtney's hands in my own and whisper excitedly to her, "Will I be able to see all the pets that I've been liking photos of on Facebook?"
She smiles sweetly at me and squeezes my hands, "Definitely, they're all here, hanging around." She lets go of a hand to motion around her arbitrarily.
I smile back but can't help myself and my smile turns into a grin as I think that within the next hour I'll be frolicking with Daisy the deer and her two new foals. Courtney squeezes my hand once more then lets it go, successfully distracting me from my day dream...in my dream...
"If you'll excuse me," she says, "I have to go grab the things for the event."
She retreats up the steps and I turn to Mother expectantly.
"Courtney has been talking about this for months, whining and griping, trying to get everything set for it. I thought we should come and support her," She explains. I shrug. I'm fine with it. After all, if we make good use of our time I may have time to wrestle with Ringo the raccoon before nightfall. Though, somewhere in the back of my mind I know that there is a reason we don't visit Courtney more often. I just can't seem to remember what it is...
Courtney comes back with a box of dried leaves and tobacco paper, two other guys tailing her down the steps. One, I know, is her boyfriend. The other I come to understand as one of those sidekick type friends who is always hanging around but never really says much.
They sit down together on the steps and I sit down on the lower step in front of them, peering curiously into the box. Mother chooses to stay standing. Courtney takes some of the dried leaves from the box, rolls them into the tobacco paper, then hands to me what appears to be the last 1/5th of a self-rolled cigarette. It is... so tiny... I wonder to myself if I will actually be able to smoke it without burning my lips.
"...What is it?" I ask.
"Pot, " Mother says.
I look up at her, eyebrow raised. Her response is to gesture to the mini-joint pinched between my fingers. I shrug, put it to my lips, and Boyfriend gives me a light. I give the joint a pull and in a bright puff of smoke and light it disappears into oblivion. I blink my eyes, then exhale the smoke I did manage to take in.
Nothing happens.
"I've never smoked pot before. This is... weaker than I thought it would be." I frown at my empty hand, still confused as to what the hell just happened.
Courtney just smiles, then hands me another one-hit-wonder joint.

We all smoke and talk together, and after a while I feel a slight wooz coming on and my head feels light like its being filled with helium. I can't decide if I like the feeling. I realize I have to pee and Sidekick offers to show me to the restroom. He leads me to the second story of the rundown farm house, which is apparently a loft, and points to the restroom across the room on the far side of the bed. I use it, and when I'm done I exit to find Sidekick tapping away on the computer, obviously doing something that requires a reasonable amount of focus. Not wanting to distract him, and not really wanting to go back down to the others yet, I take instead to jumping on the bed. The bed is soft and springy and with each jump I am launched ever farther into the air. At first I think it's just the drug, making me feel light like a balloon, which is causing me to believe that I am jumping higher and higher. But when my hands brush against the peak of the A-frame ceiling I realize with a start that I really am 20 feet up in the air. As I fall I honestly believe that I won’t live to see another day. But with an, “oomph!” and the squeak of springs I hit the mattress and sit up, bewildered.
“Note to self, never do that again.”
“Probably for the best,” Sidekick says.
He stands from his spot in front of the computer and starts to make his way toward the door. I swing my feet off the bed to follow him but before I can stand up the scene suddenly changes and I find myself in another room, my own room, by myself, sitting on the bed. I don’t remember how I got here, and I’m pretty sure that 5 seconds ago I was somewhere else… But before I can pursue the thought further my mom bursts in the door and I’m pulled back into the dream moment as I turn to her, startled, and wait for her explanation.

(2/18/14)

The woods are quiet this deep in and the log cabin we've set up to film in couldn't be any more tiny and rickety. I think its mildly cliche, but what's a good horror movie without its cliches? The director shouts "Action!" and I'm about to deliver my first line when an ear-piercing scream interrupts me. As cliche as that is, it wasn't written in. The next thing I know, Zombies are flooding the set and Chris Pine and I are struggling to escape the tiny, rickety, death trap in an effort to preserve our lives. Chris Pine sprints toward his motorcycle and I sprint after him because he's Chris Pine and if I'm going to die I want it to be in his arms. We reach the bike, he pulls on his helmet and hands me another which I hastily strap under my chin as he starts the bike. I manage to grab his leather jacket just as he takes off and we're speeding down the road. Behind us, a few of the set crew have made it to their cars as well and I notice a blue mini-van and a black SUV following us down the curvy forest road.

We drive for no more than 3 minutes before we come to a downed tree in the road. There's no way around. Chris Pine leaps off the bike, throws off his helmet and disappears into the tree line. I know where he's going because I can hear it too and I'm right on his heels as we surge toward the sound of water in hopes that its something we can swim across (because everyone knows Zombies can't swim). Breaking through the tree line we both stop short as a vast expanse of ocean stares back at us from the edge of a rocky beach. The rocks on this beach are huge, like boulders, and the water halfway up on all sides. We can't swim across the ocean, but we can't stay here either because the Zombies are right behind us, so as the others from the set crew stumble out of the trees, Chris Pine and I start leaping across rocks.

Being much taller and in much better shape than all of us, Chris Pine spurs into the boulder-leaping lead and we all follow suit. Young and agile, Chris Pine and I manage to make good time, but some of the older folks in the group start to fall behind. I don't want to leave them, it seems too heartless, and Chris Pine is too far ahead to notice whats happening so I call out to him, "Chris!" He stops and turns around, to my relief, and his eyes widen as he sees how much the others are struggling. I can see him trying to come up with a plan then and there and, in that moment I wonder if, when he plays Captain Kirk, he is actually acting or just being Chris Pine. Then he's leaping back across boulders to help a heavier woman scramble up the slick rock face and farther back I can see the Zombies begin flooding from the treeline not 500 meters away. "Amy!" Chris Pine is trying to get my attention and, as I turn back to look at him again, I wonder to myself why he his calling me Amy instead of by my name. Maybe he misheard me when I said it. I occurs to me that Amy is the name of my ostracized Aunt and I hope to myself this isn't Fate's way of being symbolic. Then I remember he's calling me Amy because that was my character's name in the movie we were shooting before this all went down.

My name was Amy, and his name was Vlad. I consider for a moment calling him Vlad, as he is calling me Amy, but discard the idea as it seems more natural to call him Chris because he really does look like a Chris. This, of course, all passes through my mind in a matter of seconds, and just as I am about to leap back to help Chris Pine help the woman, I freeze, Chris Pine stiffens, and the woman's eyes go wide in horror as a man farther up the beach bank and closer to the tree line gets devoured by a Zombie.

(2/12/14)

Sitting on my bathroom floor, I stare down the toilet and wonder idly to myself if it has always been this shiny. There is a bound notebook perched on the back part as if I had set it there just before taking my position in front of the bowl. Ellie, my roommate, walks in, probably to pee, but stops short when she sees I'm already occupying the premise, the surprise apparent in her expression.
"Oh, don't worry," I say. "You didn't walk in on anything."
"Oh...kay..." she says, but its clear from her tone that she doesn't believe me. From the way things look, I don't blame her.
There's sunlight streaming in from the window behind me which is in a wall that, in the waking world, is connected to my bedroom. In the dream world I don't find this the least bit suspicious, however, as I revel in the feel of gentle warmth on my back. Ellie is still there, I can tell she wants to know what I'm doing but isn't sure if she should ask so instead just hovers awkwardly.
"Have you ever tried to lucid dream?" I ask her.
"...no...?"
"Well, it's impossible. I've tried everything and I still can't do it." I pick up my dream journal, evidently the bound notebook, and shake it at her to emphasize my point.
She lifts an eyebrow in response.
Seeing that she doesn't understand my frustration and feeling to exasperated to explain things to her, I stand and make my way toward the door, figuring I can leave the bright, shiny toilet flusher to be examined at another time. As I do, I can't help but think that Jesse will be disappointed with me--a thought that lingers in my mind as I pass through the door and into the waking world.

The questions is, who the hell is Jesse?

I first began to experiment with lucid dreaming after mentioning to a counselor that in almost all of my dreams I am with a boy. The same boy. My counselor was so intrigued that she explained the basics of how to achieve lucidity to me and two weeks later I was lucid. At the time I had paired my RCs with my watch, so that whenever I checked the time, I would be reminded to perform a RC and every time I performed an RC I checked my watch. When I was in my dream, I felt the need to check the time (because when you're robbing banks generally you have to move on a schedule). Looking at my watch, I suddenly had an inkling that there was something else I was supposed to remember. "What was it again?" I pondered. Then it came to me, "oh, that I'm dreaming." Then, BAM! It was like the whole world rippled and suddenly I found myself standing, lucid, in the middle of a ghost town tucked away in the desert. I could feel the heat of the sand heating the soles of my feet through my shoes. I lifted my face to the sky and held a hand up to block the sun from my eyes, relishing in the feel of it on my skin. It felt so real. I couldn't believe it. There was a gentle breeze, and then I remembered why it was I was here in the first place. Turning in a half circle, I located the boy about 30 feet away leaning against the railing on the deck of what I assumed used to be the general store. I walked over and up the steps, amazed at the creak of the wood beneath my feet, and rested my elbows on the railing next to him. It was quiet between us, but comfortable. Because that was how it'd always been. In my dreams, we never spoke to each other. Instead, we communicated with a sort of thought/emotion transfer where, whatever he felt, I knew and if he needed to tell me something, I already knew what it was he wanted to tell me. So in that moment, silence was...right. I ran my hands over the rough texture of the wood banister, feeling it splinter beneath my ridges of my fingers, fascinated that I could feel it at all. I felt his eyes on me then, and looked over. I could tell that he knew something was different. It was in the way he was watching me. Something between curiosity and amusement. I guess normally, in my dreams, I'm not so captivated by wood. His eyes met mine and I knew then; it was time to do what I'd come for. "What is your name?" I asked, my eyes searching his for answers. He smiled small and sweet, and the gesture surprised me because it spoke volumes of a character who I'd only ever thought of as a shadow in the waking world. "My name is--"

Next thing I knew I was opening my eyes to the pale blue of my ceiling and the monotonous screeching of my alarm clock.