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    About Bambrielle

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    About Bambrielle
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    Avid reader of books; raised partly by an older brother; lover of cats; always been a child of the dream world.
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    Reading, Writing, Gaming, Dreaming
    University Student
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    11-24-2014 02:53 AM
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    06-21-2015 07:33 PM
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    Recent Entries

    Entry #11: Bolt the Rocket Racer

    by Bambrielle on 04-30-2015 at 05:46 AM
    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.
    non-lucid , memorable

    Entry #10 Dream Fragment: Baby Hairs

    by Bambrielle on 11-11-2014 at 07:11 AM
    …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…

    Entry #9: That Time I Dreamt I had to Take Care of Future Business

    by Bambrielle on 11-05-2014 at 08:27 AM
    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.
    non-lucid , memorable

    Entry #8 That Time I Dreamt I Killed a Man

    by Bambrielle on 09-18-2014 at 06:29 AM
    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.”
    non-lucid , memorable

    Entry #7: That Time I Dreamt I Was a Prodigy

    by Bambrielle on 09-11-2014 at 04:36 PM
    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.
    non-lucid , memorable