Time To Write
So I'm incredibly behind on NaNo. Incredibly so. You probably guessed that. I really haven't "started" aside from the "cheating" of using what I did manage to write (which was very little) last year.
Anyway.
Had a crazy dream last night. Crazy dream spawned writing today. Got a paragraph of... nonsense. Just stream of conscious, whatever. Then I've got me trying to tell the story of the dream, which is patchy, but eh. I'm trying to remember as much as I can, and I know I'm not remembering everything. So yea, both behind the cut. And I had to stop short. There was more to the dream, but work (overtime) kind of came up, so I couldn't continue.
Enjoy. Warning, I proofed nothing. Not even a spell check has hit this bugger yet.
~*~*~*~*~
Sometimes, when you dream, it doesn't matter that everything is unreal. It seems so real, so true, that you wonder just what it means. Is it a past life? Is it some distant memory of a time long forgotten, passed through the collective unconscious just to reach you? Or maybe it means something even more important than one could ever imagine. Something real, and now. Few people recall their dreams with any certainty, and even fewer think they are worth even passing notice.
*****************
I was young, too young to be in the position I found myself. Sole heir to a corporation, running a highrise, luxury apartment building. I had to be in my teens, sixteen or seventeen at best. I had somewhat shaggy, dark hair. Nothing long, but just barely keeping the business-like appearance I was trying to gather. I knew my parents were dead, but I had no memories of them. They died when I was younger, probably six or eight at best. My godfather had raised me and taken care of the business until recently, where he was showing me the ropes and getting me more involved. I felt like a little tycoon: overwhelmed, but determined to do my best to keep the image of pompus, demanding businessman.
I had one friend, and only because we had known one another since childhood. She was my godfather's daughter. Her mother was dead, so we shared at least that much in common. We got along splendidly, and I treated her a lot like "one of the boys".
Today, something went wrong. There was an earthquake, or something. The whole building shook, and while I was in the elevator with my godfather, we both knew something was wrong. Rather than getting out at the next floor and taking the stairs to be safe, he hit the button that sent us to the penthouse. I used to live in the penthouse, supposedly, before my parents died. I really don't remember it there.
[his daughter] is waiting for us when the doors open, looking like she just got off an elevator herself. They both bolt to the penthouse door. I haven't been up here since the funeral. The floor is just as immaculate as all the others, but it feels deserted. There really isn't much of a hall leading from the elevators, and as I turn the corner, I see them standing in the doorway, the door flung wide. I don't know what has them so shocked.
I wiggle my way between them, trying to see what it is that they expected to see up here. Nobody has lived here since I moved in with my godfather. He said my parents would have wanted it that way, and that when I was old enough to live on my own, I could move back in. I tried not to press the subject, because it always made him uncomfortable.
They stood deadly still, and it took some effort to force my way between them. When I finally managed--they acted like I wasn't even there, pushing at them--I wound up on the floor in the foyer. Though I was more intent to pick myself up and dust myself off first, rearrange my hair and the like, I could already tell that there was nothing special to note: no broken furniture, no toppled vases, no signs that the quake had disturbed the penthouse.
I faced my 'family' with an affronted, quizical look, not really sure what we were doing here. I hadn't been allowed up here in years. Not even the cleaners actually came IN to the penthouse. It was just a dusty, abandoned...
No, scratch that. When they didn't even return my glare, I scowled and spun on my heel. If they weren't going to pay any attention to me, I might as well use the opportunity to examine my once-home at leisure. There wasn't a spec of dust. It seemed almost warm, inviting in the entryway.
And then I stepped forward. As if the wind had been knocked out of them, they let out a collective sigh, loudly enough to cause my step to falter. It wasn't enough, though, to keep me from noticing the rest of the penthouse. While the foyer had been perfectly normal, the actual living spaces were anything but. I knew that I was rich, and that my parents must have been to have given me this much money when they died, but I had never remembered enough to realize just how EXTRAVAGANTLY we had lived. I'm not just saying over-spending, lavish surroundings. I'm talking seriously eccentric.
I stared, uncomprehending, at my surroundings. Behind me, the others leapt into motion. [godfather's daughter] ran to my right, where a bunch of curious and shelves and such lined a wall, covered in vials and bottles of oddly labeled substances. Her father was right behind her. She nearly jumped onto the hutch of a curio and climbed to the top shelf, snatching at a large, clear glass vial with a sparkling blue liquid sloshing inside. "I think this is what they'd used!" With a muffled thump, she was next to my godfather, pulling up the elaborate glass stopper. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a drop flying towards a nearby piece of furnature. As quickly as that, the item had turned to glass. Or was it ice? I simply couldn't take it in. There was no way.
I left them to their frenzied work, as they talked in hushed whispers. Whatever she had done, it must have been a trick of my mind. I tried to forget about it, and instead entered the first room I found.
A wave of nostalgia hit me, the likes of which I'd never felt before. How could this room be so familiar to me, and yet so foreign? There was a big square desk in the center, looking like some strange mix between a green-topped pool or poker table and an incredibly elaborate carved executive desk. It had a gap at the center, as if a person was supposed to stand there while working. There didn't seem to be any sort of opening to get there, though. Who would want to jump over the top of their desk just to stand and work at its center? There was nothing on it, though. Maybe it wasn't really a desk.
On one wall, there were cds, dvds, and books. All neatly stacked in perfectly sized shelves that were built into the wall, they towered literally to the vaulted ceiling. A little sliding ladder made it possible to reach anything off of those shelves, no matter how high.
That was the wall to my right, the one with the door I had entered through. To my left, the electronics of the wall amazed me. This seemed like a more intricate hub than the security cameras of the highrise, and I had just as little of an idea as to what they did. There were a few rows of television screens at the top, and below that dials, knobs, bells and whistles. I even recognized some things that looked like DVD players, cd players, A-track players, and similar. The size of the room was starting to astound me. The amount of STUFF it contained was even more amazing.
Right across from me, only a few feet away now that I had wandered forward without even noticing, the feel of the room changed. From library, workspace, nearly spaceship technology, this wall was filled with toys, toys, and more toys. There were shelves upon shelves with blocks, children's books, bears and dolls, statues, action figures. Everything seemed centered around a toddler, but there were a few older-child items. In the center of the wall, there was even a play house jutting out, nearly reaching the square desk in the center of the room, all made of the big plastic one sees in toddler toys.
I passed my fingers over a plexiglass door, staring at the little plates neatly stacked on their shelves behind it. I remembered this. I remembered playing here, with Father. I remembered these toys, the strange and silly things that I couldn't even begin to fathom what they were for. There were sections of toys I couldn't begin to explain, with bright colors and exaggerated shapes. They were nothing like the toys I watched some of our tennants play with in the downstairs daycare. And yet, I knew I had played with them.
My hands reached for one of these objects, and I unconsciously worked at the buttons and twisty bits of the toy as I gazed around the room. It was almost a nervous habit, except that I was not nervous. Not here. It was just all so... familiar.
The room was so large that it took a while for my eyes to fall upon the last wall. When they did, I did a double take. Familiarity can only get one so far, when a place confuses them so. There was nothing on this wall. It was bare. And yet, at the same time, it wasn't. I could see outside. The wall was glass, entirely, with the french doors and fine woodwork of an elegant patio or similar. Outside those doors... well, it was outside. I didn't know there was a terrace on penthouse floor. Nobody ever told me of it. I had flown over the building countless times, and I don't recall ever seeing it. So how was it there?
I still had the strange toy in my hand as I reached for the door handle. With a frown, I pulled the door open, stepping into the crisp night air. In retrospect, I should have told someone where I was going. I probably should have closed the door, too.
Anyway.
Had a crazy dream last night. Crazy dream spawned writing today. Got a paragraph of... nonsense. Just stream of conscious, whatever. Then I've got me trying to tell the story of the dream, which is patchy, but eh. I'm trying to remember as much as I can, and I know I'm not remembering everything. So yea, both behind the cut. And I had to stop short. There was more to the dream, but work (overtime) kind of came up, so I couldn't continue.
Enjoy. Warning, I proofed nothing. Not even a spell check has hit this bugger yet.
~*~*~*~*~
Sometimes, when you dream, it doesn't matter that everything is unreal. It seems so real, so true, that you wonder just what it means. Is it a past life? Is it some distant memory of a time long forgotten, passed through the collective unconscious just to reach you? Or maybe it means something even more important than one could ever imagine. Something real, and now. Few people recall their dreams with any certainty, and even fewer think they are worth even passing notice.
*****************
I was young, too young to be in the position I found myself. Sole heir to a corporation, running a highrise, luxury apartment building. I had to be in my teens, sixteen or seventeen at best. I had somewhat shaggy, dark hair. Nothing long, but just barely keeping the business-like appearance I was trying to gather. I knew my parents were dead, but I had no memories of them. They died when I was younger, probably six or eight at best. My godfather had raised me and taken care of the business until recently, where he was showing me the ropes and getting me more involved. I felt like a little tycoon: overwhelmed, but determined to do my best to keep the image of pompus, demanding businessman.
I had one friend, and only because we had known one another since childhood. She was my godfather's daughter. Her mother was dead, so we shared at least that much in common. We got along splendidly, and I treated her a lot like "one of the boys".
Today, something went wrong. There was an earthquake, or something. The whole building shook, and while I was in the elevator with my godfather, we both knew something was wrong. Rather than getting out at the next floor and taking the stairs to be safe, he hit the button that sent us to the penthouse. I used to live in the penthouse, supposedly, before my parents died. I really don't remember it there.
[his daughter] is waiting for us when the doors open, looking like she just got off an elevator herself. They both bolt to the penthouse door. I haven't been up here since the funeral. The floor is just as immaculate as all the others, but it feels deserted. There really isn't much of a hall leading from the elevators, and as I turn the corner, I see them standing in the doorway, the door flung wide. I don't know what has them so shocked.
I wiggle my way between them, trying to see what it is that they expected to see up here. Nobody has lived here since I moved in with my godfather. He said my parents would have wanted it that way, and that when I was old enough to live on my own, I could move back in. I tried not to press the subject, because it always made him uncomfortable.
They stood deadly still, and it took some effort to force my way between them. When I finally managed--they acted like I wasn't even there, pushing at them--I wound up on the floor in the foyer. Though I was more intent to pick myself up and dust myself off first, rearrange my hair and the like, I could already tell that there was nothing special to note: no broken furniture, no toppled vases, no signs that the quake had disturbed the penthouse.
I faced my 'family' with an affronted, quizical look, not really sure what we were doing here. I hadn't been allowed up here in years. Not even the cleaners actually came IN to the penthouse. It was just a dusty, abandoned...
No, scratch that. When they didn't even return my glare, I scowled and spun on my heel. If they weren't going to pay any attention to me, I might as well use the opportunity to examine my once-home at leisure. There wasn't a spec of dust. It seemed almost warm, inviting in the entryway.
And then I stepped forward. As if the wind had been knocked out of them, they let out a collective sigh, loudly enough to cause my step to falter. It wasn't enough, though, to keep me from noticing the rest of the penthouse. While the foyer had been perfectly normal, the actual living spaces were anything but. I knew that I was rich, and that my parents must have been to have given me this much money when they died, but I had never remembered enough to realize just how EXTRAVAGANTLY we had lived. I'm not just saying over-spending, lavish surroundings. I'm talking seriously eccentric.
I stared, uncomprehending, at my surroundings. Behind me, the others leapt into motion. [godfather's daughter] ran to my right, where a bunch of curious and shelves and such lined a wall, covered in vials and bottles of oddly labeled substances. Her father was right behind her. She nearly jumped onto the hutch of a curio and climbed to the top shelf, snatching at a large, clear glass vial with a sparkling blue liquid sloshing inside. "I think this is what they'd used!" With a muffled thump, she was next to my godfather, pulling up the elaborate glass stopper. With a flick of her wrist, she sent a drop flying towards a nearby piece of furnature. As quickly as that, the item had turned to glass. Or was it ice? I simply couldn't take it in. There was no way.
I left them to their frenzied work, as they talked in hushed whispers. Whatever she had done, it must have been a trick of my mind. I tried to forget about it, and instead entered the first room I found.
A wave of nostalgia hit me, the likes of which I'd never felt before. How could this room be so familiar to me, and yet so foreign? There was a big square desk in the center, looking like some strange mix between a green-topped pool or poker table and an incredibly elaborate carved executive desk. It had a gap at the center, as if a person was supposed to stand there while working. There didn't seem to be any sort of opening to get there, though. Who would want to jump over the top of their desk just to stand and work at its center? There was nothing on it, though. Maybe it wasn't really a desk.
On one wall, there were cds, dvds, and books. All neatly stacked in perfectly sized shelves that were built into the wall, they towered literally to the vaulted ceiling. A little sliding ladder made it possible to reach anything off of those shelves, no matter how high.
That was the wall to my right, the one with the door I had entered through. To my left, the electronics of the wall amazed me. This seemed like a more intricate hub than the security cameras of the highrise, and I had just as little of an idea as to what they did. There were a few rows of television screens at the top, and below that dials, knobs, bells and whistles. I even recognized some things that looked like DVD players, cd players, A-track players, and similar. The size of the room was starting to astound me. The amount of STUFF it contained was even more amazing.
Right across from me, only a few feet away now that I had wandered forward without even noticing, the feel of the room changed. From library, workspace, nearly spaceship technology, this wall was filled with toys, toys, and more toys. There were shelves upon shelves with blocks, children's books, bears and dolls, statues, action figures. Everything seemed centered around a toddler, but there were a few older-child items. In the center of the wall, there was even a play house jutting out, nearly reaching the square desk in the center of the room, all made of the big plastic one sees in toddler toys.
I passed my fingers over a plexiglass door, staring at the little plates neatly stacked on their shelves behind it. I remembered this. I remembered playing here, with Father. I remembered these toys, the strange and silly things that I couldn't even begin to fathom what they were for. There were sections of toys I couldn't begin to explain, with bright colors and exaggerated shapes. They were nothing like the toys I watched some of our tennants play with in the downstairs daycare. And yet, I knew I had played with them.
My hands reached for one of these objects, and I unconsciously worked at the buttons and twisty bits of the toy as I gazed around the room. It was almost a nervous habit, except that I was not nervous. Not here. It was just all so... familiar.
The room was so large that it took a while for my eyes to fall upon the last wall. When they did, I did a double take. Familiarity can only get one so far, when a place confuses them so. There was nothing on this wall. It was bare. And yet, at the same time, it wasn't. I could see outside. The wall was glass, entirely, with the french doors and fine woodwork of an elegant patio or similar. Outside those doors... well, it was outside. I didn't know there was a terrace on penthouse floor. Nobody ever told me of it. I had flown over the building countless times, and I don't recall ever seeing it. So how was it there?
I still had the strange toy in my hand as I reached for the door handle. With a frown, I pulled the door open, stepping into the crisp night air. In retrospect, I should have told someone where I was going. I probably should have closed the door, too.