Thoughts of a Dreamer

A Vicious Mid-Summer Night's Dream

 

 

The moon casts an ethereal glow through the tower attic window. The curtains flutter in the night winds as they whisper softly through the room. Pages of the many notebooks, dictionaries, thesauruses and language books cluttering the small space crackle as they flip with each passing wave.

              No one comes up to this small room. It had been abandoned in the original mansion- covered with webs and pieces of literary material no longer needed- and even in this new oasis, seldom does it receive visitors. I creak open the wooden door, slipping inside and close it softly behind me. This has become my spot in the mansion, my own personal workshop. The computer hums in the far back corner, hidden by shadows. I only use it once the ideas form and words have been half written.

              The masterpiece of the room, the item I secreted from another forgotten room far below the mansions main floors, is the old wooden writer’s desk, complete with spots for a candle or two. The old ink wells and matching pens lay nestled in the safety of its drawers. A smile curves my lips as I watch the moon’s glow drift over the shiny mahogany surface. Yes, this is my home at the mansion, my spot for gathering ideas and creating masterpieces.

              On this night, however, I have no time for reminiscing. Workshops and idea sparks call on my talents and the inspiration of the room to produce working pieces to inspire critique and maybe someone else’s muse. As I shift through the scattered books and pages, my mind flits with unformed plans. How am I ever going to be able to focus on just one piece?

              

             As I sit down at the antique and open various drawers to find the lavender/rose candle, the leather bound writing tablet and my trusty pencil, music from centuries ago curls around my eardrums. A secret lover of classical music, my senses immediately tune into the notes circling about my head. I must find this artist and hear just one tune before my writing endeavors can begin.

              Shaking off the shackles of my craft, I slip back out into the darkened halls. The music seems close and far all at once and I am pulled down into the levels of the mansion where the other writers and their muses dwell. As my slippered feet touch down on the wooden floors of the upper rooms, the music halts. In its place, voices echo eerily along the hall. I glance at the Grandfather clock ticking silently beside me. It is well past midnight; most of the others are either safely tucked away in dreams or shut securely in their writing holes plotting out the next work of art. Who could be walking these halls besides me?

              Curiosity, my curse and blessing in life, propels me along the shadows to the balcony overlooking the garden. Figures bounce around the darkened green of our maze and flowers. A midnight game of hide and seek? I am driven farther down the winding staircase to join these frolickers for a small break. Mist swirls around my ankles as I step lightly on the dewy grass. I cross to the gated entrance of the maze and stall as a familiar shape steps into my path. Joe, the maintenance man of the Mansion and Grounds, holds a key in his right hand.

              “Tonight is not safe for the masters to be up and about. I suggest a quiet slumber back in the halls.”

              “Surely, a writer is allowed to wander wherever their feet lead them.” I move closer as laughter pours from beyond the metal door.

              Joe glances back at the gate. When he turns back to me, something crosses his eyes too quick for me to understand. Slowly, he holds out the key. A warning passes over his lips as my fingers touch the cool metal and his soft flesh.

              “There are stories abounding in the forest beyond. You may follow where your feet do wish to tread. But beware fair writer of intent, some stories are hard to remember and others even harder to forget.”

              Before I can ask what he means, Joe disappears from my sight. The key glows brightly in my hand. The laughter echoes again and I step forward- more than ready to explore. The key grows heavy in my palm as I move towards the entrance. I am barely an inch away when the key flies to the lock and a click booms through the suddenly quiet air. The gate squeaks open. I peer into the mist and darkness- dread suddenly squeezing my heart. Maybe I should have listened and gone back inside. I did have other stories, other lives to write this night.

              A soft glow at the end of the shrouded tunnel recaptures my curiosity. I float inside, ignoring whispers to turn back. The door slams shut and I am once again surrounded by the night. The bushes nearest the door have formed a canopy above and not even the moon’s glow can penetrate the linked arms of the leaves and branches. A chill passes along my spine and I shiver in the balmy night air.

              “No sense just standing here,” I mutter to myself. “Let’s see what stories Joe was growling about.”

              As I start along the path, my fingers brushing gently across the flower petals on either side, voices return in whispers. Lovers on a secret tryst so close I could reach through the gaps and touch a bare velvet shoulder or a length of silken hair. But, alas, they move onward and I am pulled along behind, always just out of reach to catch the story on their lips.

              Paths cross, the canopy above my head drops back and moonlight once again lights my way. Which way do I dare to journey? Which road should I travel down? Before I can make my choice, Filip appears at my right. The dismal ghost of the old chat room, he seems more regal, more in control. Pointing towards the center, he whispers, “Do not be swallowed by false promises. Only heartache awaits those who enter ahead.”

              “Oh stuff yourself!”

I turn to the left. Randall from the diner, her new tattoo displayed quite proudly, sits astride her motorcycle. “She’s a writer you dunce. Don’t you know there ain’t nothing stopping a writer from going in the direction she wants.”

“Not all writers trend of their own desires.” A voice rumbles behind me. I smile as I recognize the voice, lost for far too long.

“Genie, it is good to hear you once again.”

I turn back the way I came, my eyes smiling as I take in his large form, the new pants fitting him much better. He turns a tender smile to me.

“You are here for a story. Let the characters direct you.”

It takes a moment before I realize that these characters are directing me. They have each blocked a route I could have chosen. The only way forward is forward. I glance at the other two. Filip is shaking his head, a mournful look in his pale ghost eyes. Randall shrugs as if to tell me it was my choice after all.

Straightening my shoulders, I give them all a smile as I continue the walk forward. I can hear them arguing behind me as I glide away. A strange glow blinds my sight. A groaning noise sounds behind me and the glow fades. As I blink the spots from my eyes, I turn around. The path crossing has vanished. I am blocked by a sudden hedge. Laughter vibrates around me. I turn back to the front and run into a hard block. Two warm hands steady me and I lift my head to stare up into two gray sparkling eyes. The mage that haunts the Parlour in Genie’s absence chuckles down at me.

“So you came for a story, little one. A story about romance perhaps or maybe one for a bit of fun.”

I pull back from his grasp. “All of you are here? Do you meet for conversation and maybe some sort of treat while we toil away at all hours?”

“Well, there are usually brownies and an alcoholic beverage of some kind left out at the front desk. Filip is always kind enough to remember to bring them along. Randall does have that motorcycle giving the Genie and I an easier way to escape the confines of the Parlour for a bit every night by sneaking out the lamp and the crystal ball. And of course, Joe has the keys to everywhere, giving us such a perfect escape.

“But you don’t want to hear about any of this. You aren’t here for our stories. We’re the ones hard to remember.”

He starts to fade from sight. I reach out to hold even a bit of his cape to keep him a little longer as I ask, “So which story won’t I be able to forget?”

He doesn’t answer. His cape slips through my fingers and he is gone.

 

Alone once more, I start down the moonlit path. Wind sweeps through my hair, tearing tendrils from the ponytail until it falls down my back in waves. Soft cloth brushes against my legs. The jeans and t-shirt- my normal writing outfit- have been replaced by a cream blouse and a rich blue-purple skirt. The ivory ballet slippers are all that remain of my original attire.

              The end of the path opens to a lake with trees scattered here and there. A truly poetic perch for art inspired of nature or love. I sidestep the marked distance to wander along on my own towards the black-blue depths before me. Above the moon and her stars continue to shine- lending magick to the September breath. Autumn is almost upon us.

              “Funny how it is the time near death that holds the richest colors when the birth of spring is the more rejoiced.”

              The deep voice sends another chill up my spine. Hope flutters the beating of my heart. I spin in a circle still not sighting the figure that belongs with the voice.

              “Don’t you agree?” The voice whispers close to my ears, but I still cannot see his face.

              “Spring brings the fever of the blood, of life renewing and being cleansed of death.” I barely breathe as I continue my way slowly. My eyes dart across the open plain, searching the shadows of the trees and the ground for another shape. “But it is the colors of autumn that have always captured my heart.”

              “Why?” The voice taunts me with its seductive caress.

              “How can pale beginnings compare to the rich ends of a life?" I whisper, "All the pain and suffering of starting something when you can rejoice in all you have learned and shared as it falls to an end.”

              “But aren’t endings weary and covered in death?”

              He is there at the bank before me. His dark form lies flat on the grass staring up at the stars. In my heart, I know him. I have seen him before; have felt his breath beating in time with mine. He lifts to his elbows as I slip down beside him.

              “An end is just an excuse to have another beginning.”

              He smiles up at me. His blue-gray-green eyes shimmer with promise and heartache as the moon catches their light. As always, I melt in that look, his fingers slipping into my hair as he pushes up from the ground closer to my face.

              Our lips connect. A soft greeting that turns stronger as the wind stops and the air turns muggy. Clothes have no purpose between us and soon it is only our faces hidden from the moon and the night.

              His fingers slip from my hair and he pulls back from me to search his clothes. I watch the perfection of his tanned skin sparkling with the sweat of our love as his muscles bunch and stretch in his search. My fingers lazily trail along the muscles in his thighs sending the dark hair on his legs to stand. He turns back to me, catching my fingers in a calloused palm. He brings them to his lips and kisses the inside of my wrist. With his other hand, he brushes ever so lightly along my stomach the petals of a lavender colored rose. A breath catches in my throat at the beauty of the flower and the man who captured it.

              “You remembered.”

              He leans down closer, the rose now buried in my hair strewn across the bed of grass. “I always remember.”

             His fingers slip down my face, memorizing every curve as his lips follow their tracks. My fingers reach towards his hair, brushing the locks of chocolate as his hands begin to sizzle along the contours of my naked form. He inches his body lower- hesitating as his fingers brush along my side.

             I wiggle in protest, pulling his face closer to mine and wrapping my legs around his hips. A chuckle separates our lips for but a moment as he enters a place only he has ever explored. Heat builds in my stomach and I can feel my toes curling with delight as he pushes farther in. Our cries of passion mingle in each other’s breath as his fingers continue their memorizing and our bodies rock in time with the waves of the pond.

Too soon, the moonlight begins to fade and the air around us cools. We are again clothed- staring up at the sky, curled in each other’s embrace. A star streaks across our vision.

             “Make a wish, my darling.” He murmurs into my hair. “A wish for an eternal autumn so we can never part.”

              I close my eyes, reaching deep within my soul to make this wish come true.

 

              A door slams and I bolt straight into the air. Sunlight fills the wooden floorboards of the small attic tower room in the Mansion. A room I have claimed away from all the others to give me less of a distraction. I look around, the antique wooden desk I stole from one of the dungeon rooms, the notebooks and papers I’ve written thousands of stories into and the computer in the corner are all in their places.

              It was a dream. Only a dream.  I slowly slide back into my chair. I can still feel the petals of the rose along my skin and the whisper of his voice echoes in my head.

              With a sigh, I turn back to the desk ready to pack up my nights work. A gasp parts my lips as I reach a shaky hand to the stand where the night candles keep their vigilance of my work. In the place of wax and paper, lies the very real image of a lavender colored rose.

 

              But it was only just a dream....

 

 

 

Renee 2009