The Dreamer

I felt it. The dream. It burned my eyes with pictures of trees as large as hills, dancing with the flames. 

I smelled it. The smoke. The acrid fingers rolling down my throat and squeezing my lungs. 

I heard it. The cries. The trees' branches waved violently, clawing at the stifling air, desperate to escape their shriveling skin. 

I saw it. The instigator. Who is it? 

I wake.

Pale sunlight streams through the wheat threaded curtains, stretching across my face. I listen to the sighs of the bleached wooden floorboards, as the world awakes. I always wake first.

I step out of the small, white house called Home. The warm breeze cuts through my white shirt and skirt, sown from the cotton fields. My fingers caress the embroidered "B" on my skirt's lacy trim. I make my way to the Plain.

I sit, amid the short browned grasses, and shut my eyes. I think. Who am I?

I am Bliss. Daughter of the Seeing. I am Dreamer.

I open my eyes. I relax my hand from the tight grip on my skirt. I breathe. I have remembered.

The wind whips my long, brown hair, begging me to play. I stand. My bare feet follow the earthy trail towards the Forest. I stop at the Forest's entrance. The leaves whisper tales of wonder and amazement. I reach out a hand. I touch the cool bark, feeling the buzz of life within. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

"Bliss." 

I focus on the chair I am painting. 

"Bliss. Look at me." 

I dip the damp paint brush back into the pale pink paint. 

"Bliss! Don't ignore me!" 

The brush is snatched from my hand. Pink paint splatters my skirt. 

"Why won't you look at me?" 

I rub at the "B", trying to get the light stain off.

"Rory! Come over here!" exclaim the flirty girls my age.

Rory gives me one last glance, and trudges over to the group of powdered faces. His longing gaze follows my back as I head away from the commotion. Rory Sherwood. He's three years younger than me, yet he's at least a foot taller than me. We used to play in the Forest together when we were children. Then he grew up. That dream ended, and so did our friendship. We still talk from time to time, but I try to stay out of his way. I don't want attention. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

I felt it. The dream. Shards of glass pierced my vulnerable consciousness. 

I smelled it. The potions. The suffocating aroma of powder and lip paint, entered my nostrils. 

I heard it. The clinking of glass. A bottle of paint tips over, bleeding onto the snow. 

I saw it. Those eyes. Reflections of fire and turmoil enter my own. 

I wake. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  

"Bliss, what do you see when you dream?" Rory's forlorn gaze reaches my own.

I think. I say, "I see Images. Pictures of life. Senses. Sometimes People."

We are sitting at the entrance to the Forest. The wind tousles Rory's auburn hair. He closes his eyes.

"I wish I could dream," he says.

He opens his eyes. He looks directly into my gray ones and, for a moment, I meet his gaze. I See him. He stands from the patch of green grass we found. He walks toward the Forest entrance. For a moment, I am transported back to my childhood. He doesn't turn around to spare one last glance at me. 

I close my eyes. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  

Well that's it! Technically that IS an ending. Comments and advice are welcome! Thanks for reading(=