When I was a kid, I didn’t play much with my friends because I wasn’t any good at physical activities. I hated going to gym because the kids made fun of me. Then, one night I dreamt that I was an amateur athlete eligible for the Olympics. That dream came true.
51 Words
This was written for the Weekend Writing Prompt by Sammi Cox. For instructions, click Here.
I had the dream again last night. I was lying on a bed of pink roses and other flowers, my eyes were closed as I inhaled their sweet fragrance. I was wearing a pink tee shirt. It actually looked good on me although pink isn’t my color. In fact, I don’t own anything pink. I think the tee shirt blended in very nicely with the bed of flowers, though.
As I lay there, not thinking about anything in particular, I feel your hand touch my face ever so gently. I don’t open my eyes. I just want enjoy the feel of your soft fingers against my skin. They awaken feelings in me that flow from my neck down all the way to my toes. As you caress my face, you recite a poem. I smile when I recognize that it is one of mine. The words flow over me like a gentle river, submerging me in its prose and imagery.
When you’re finished, I lay there, eyes still closed, waiting to hear your lovely, melodious voice again but my eager ears are met with silence. My face suddenly feels cold because the warmth of your hand is no longer there. Reluctantly, I open my eyes but all I see is the ceiling of my bedroom. And I’m lying on my bed. And you. You’re not there. You exist only in my dreams and imagination.
Suddenly, I feel cold and empty. I pulled the cover up to my chin and try to go back to sleep but it eludes me. I throw the cover and climb out of the bed. Moonlight streams into the room, giving it a ghostly ambience. I go over to the desk and turn on the lamp. I grab a sheet of paper and a pen. The words fill the page and when I’m finished I switch off the lamp and return to bed. As soon as my head hits the pillow I’m out like a light. On the desk, basking in the moonlight, sits my new poem, The Flower Bed. And it’s dedicated to you, the girl of my dreams and imagination.
This was written for the Ragtag Daily Prompt for today’s prompt, Pink. If you’re interested in participating, click HERE for more information.
You’re a figment of my imagination and yet I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re my dream man. You with your long, flowing hair as black as a raven, your strong handsome features with the square jaw and incredible eyes that make my knees go weak everything you look at me.
I stare at the artist’s depiction of you on the cover of my latest novel. The image came to me in a dream. And it seemed so real. You were alone, as usual, gazing up at the sky, your amazing dark brown eyes bright as the light hits your face. Your expression is serene as if you’re communing with God. Behind you are the clouds unfurling like thick mist above the mountains and blotting out the sky. Everything pales in comparison with you. Sometimes, I imagine you transforming into a hawk or eagle, stretch your wings and take to the sky because you don’t want to be confined to the pages of a book–correction, books.
Am I fool for falling in love with my own creation–a figment of my imagination? You 
exist in my mind but how I wish you were real. I find myself getting jealous of the women I have as your love interests. I want to be them. I want to be Josie, the wife you lost or Alicia, the one night stand or Lisa, the one you love to hate. I envy them. I wish I could trade places with them. Maybe I will write myself into the next novel. On paper, I will be free to articulate at length, the thoughts and fantasies I have been having about you. No holds barred.
I’m being foolish, aren’t I? I can’t help it. You are my greatest creation. Women adore you. They want their boyfriends and husbands to be you. I don’t have a man and if I did, I wouldn’t be faithful to him–at least not in my thoughts. And I would unfairly compare him to you. I’m single. And it’s better that way.
“A penny for your thoughts,” my friend Jackie’s amused voice interrupts my musings and I look up.
My eyes widen and my heart begins to pound like crazy while my mouth turns dry. Standing behind her is…you. I try to rise to my feet. Shock, excitement overwhelm me and I feel faint. You move forward like lightning and steady me. Your eyes meet mine and your warm breath brushes against my forehead. I feel as if I’m drowning in your eyes. You ask me something but I can’t make it out. I could only sit there and stare at you. If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.
“Are you all right?” Jackie asked. I look up at her. I’d forgotten she was even there.
I nodded. A glass of water is handed to me and I sip it. You’re still holding my shoulders. The deep concern on your face warms my heart. I manage a smile. “I’m fine, now.”
“That’s a relief,” Jackie said. “You look like you were ready to pass out.”
“I guess it’s because I haven’t eaten since this morning,” I lied.
“Before we order, I’d like you to meet Jolon.”
Jolon held out his large hand. “Pleased to meet you, Thandi.”
I put my hand in his, thinking how tiny it looked. “You look familiar.”
“Of course, he looks familiar,” Jackie exclaimed. “He’s the model I used for your sexy Cree character. When you described him to me, it sounded exactly like Jolon so I got in touch with him and asked him if he would be willing to be the face that would grace the covers of your books. He agreed. He wanted to meet the writer who’s made him famous. You wouldn’t believe how many women asked him for his autograph on our way over here.”
So, you are real. I smile. You’re no longer a figment of my imagination nor confined tot the pages of a book nor my mind. I hope that this is the first of many meetings. I don’t want you to be my dream man. I just want you to be my man. And the way you are looking at me now and how you’re holding my hand longer than is necessary, makes my heart dance with hope.
This was written for the Ragtag Daily Prompt for Monday’s prompt, fool, Tuesday’s prompt, stretch and today’s prompt, articulate. If you’re interested in participating, click HERE for more information.
PHOTO PROMPT © J.S. Brand
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Last night, I dreamed about a tree with beautiful carvings on its trunk. Carvings were used to preserve the heritage and identity of the indigenous people. The dream showed me that I need embrace my culture again.”
“So, you’re leaving me because of the dream?”
“No, I’m leaving because I’m tired of your family treating me like an outcast because I’m an Indigenous woman.”
“They don’t mean to. They just haven’t gotten used to you.”
“They never will.”
“Give them more time.”
“I’ve given them three years. Goodbye, Dylan.”
“You’ll be back.”
“Not this time.”
99 Words
This was written for Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. For more details, visit Here. To read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.
Photo by Sue Vincent
I stood gazing up at the tree. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was twisted with a gaping hole through which the sun streamed through and its limbs looked like tentacles. Of course, it got my imagination running wild. I imagined that it was an alien tree planted among normal trees. It fascinated and repulsed me at the same time. At any moment, I expected it to come alive like the trees in Lord of the Rings.
I sat down in the grass beside it and opened my notebook. It never occurred to me to write a story about a tree but this one begged to be my next subject. I pondered for a long moment, wondering what could one possibly say about a tree? Then, I began to write. The words began to pour out, filling an entire page.
Suddenly, I became very drowsy. My eyes felt so heavy. I fought to keep them open but I couldn’t…
I had no idea how long I had dozed off for but when I opened my eyes, it was getting dark. The sun was setting. It’s bright orange glow blazed across the sky and engulfing the trees in its fiery splendor. The trees. With a start I realized that they weren’t regular trees anymore and they were talking among themselves. Shaking with fear, I tried to figure out how I could slip away unnoticed.
I closed my notebook and began to creep away, hoping to put as much distance between them and me as possible. Then, I felt something on my leg and I turned around. The alien tree was bending towards me and I could see that it had a face where the hole used to be. It didn’t look like an Ent. What was it?
As if it read my mind, it said in a low, deep voice, “I am Gargantwart. The Ents, I and others like myself protect humans from the tree trolls which invade the forest as soon as night falls. Quick, climb onto my branch and I will take you to the edge of the forest where you will be safe. No time to delay. The sun will soon depart and darkness will come.”
I had two choices, make a dash for it and risk running into the tree trolls or climb on this monstrous tree and have it take me to safety. The sound of what sounded like thunder, the shaking of the ground and the other trees, yelling, “Hurry, they are coming,” made my mind up for me and in one leap, I was in the tree and clinging for dear life to its branches.
When it stood up, I had to close my eyes because I’m acrophobic. I felt the breeze on my face, heard the swooshing sound of the wind in the leaves and the sensation of moving through the forest. It was a weird experience–one that no one would believe. Then, we stopped moving. And I felt myself being lowered.
When I opened my eyes I realized that I was lying on the sofa in the living-room and my brother was staring at me. Startled, I sat up. The television was on and the closing credits for Lord of the Rings were rolling. Dazed, I looked around me, trying to figure out what had happened. My opened notebook lay beside me and written in it were paragraphs of my story.
“You slept through the rest of the movie,” my brother informed me.
I stared at him. “Movie?”
“Yes, sleepyhead. We were supposed to be watching Lord of the Rings but, you fell asleep right when they were showing the Ents, the coolest part of the movie.” He shook his head. “Sisters, I’ll never understand them.”
I sat there, thinking, this had all been a fanciful dream. Smiling, I picked up my pen and began to write.
This is written in response to the Thursday Photo Prompt – Caught for Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.
Sources: Wikipedia; Masterpiece Generator
She stared at the photo, her face turning white as a sheet. It looked exactly like the place in her dream. The eerie woods with its tall trees and overgrown grass that looked like hay scattered on the ground and the strange stones arranged in a circle. She was afraid to tell John for fear that he would think that she having a relapse.
Three years ago, she had suffered a nervous breakdown after and it had taken a long time for her to recover. She was fine until she started having the same dream shortly after she celebrated her fortieth birthday.
It began with her walking through the woods and it appeared to her that it was in the early 1900s for she wore a gown which swept the ground as she walked. Why she would venture into the woods unaccompanied, she had no idea. Perhaps it was the adventurous spirit in her. She would walk and walk, until she came to the stones. Curious, she would approach them. They held a strange fascination for her.
There was something unearthly about them. She went to the largest one and after a moment’s hesitation, she reached down and touched it. Suddenly, she was lying on her back, looking up at a man, dressed as a priest dressed in blue and saffron robes and the crackling sound of flames followed by unbearable heat. And then she would wake up, feeling as if her body was on fire.
What did this dream mean? Was she losing her mind again? She was afraid to tell anyone. She didn’t want to go back to the psychiatric ward.
Her hand trembled as she held the photo. She would show it to John and ask him about it and she had to be perfectly calm about it.
After dinner that night when they were relaxing on the sofa, she showed the photo to him. “John, I saw this in the desk drawer,” she said. “When was it taken?”
“I was working on a story about Temple Wood and I found this photo in the archives. I think it was taken in the early 1900s. It was in these woods where it is believed that a missing adolescent girl was burned alive on this large stone–known as the Druid altar.” He pointed to the same stone she had touched in her dream. “Her name was Alice Frawley. She would have been forty if she were still alive today.”
She felt a cold fear clutch at her heart. “Do–do you have a photo of her?”
“I believe so. I’ll go and get it.”
He returned a while later and handed it to her. “Sorry, it took me so long to find it. I’m not sure why it wasn’t with the other photo.”
She took one look at it and fainted.
Startled, he took the photo out of her hand and examined it closely. He scrambled to his feet and ran for the photo album. He flipped through the pages until he came to the photo of Annie when she was a teenager. His face went white when he saw the uncanny resemblance between her and Alice.
This was written in response to the Thursday Photo Prompt – Circle by Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo. Click on the link to read other stories inspired by the image.
Source: Voices From the Dawn
She was once a famous actress.
Sought by everyone. Accolades
of awards adorned her lavish
home. Photos of her with other
A list stars lined the walls. She
was voted People’s Most Beautiful
and graced the covers of TIME
Magazine as person of the year.
And it seemed almost overnight…
the roles became few and far in
between and smaller. She had
heard of Hollywood’s problem
with women over 40 but she
never imagined it would happen to
her. She believed that they would
always want someone with her talent
and looks. Writers and producers no
longer saw her as appealing because
she was pushing fifty.
Ageism had become her enemy.
The roles she wanted were going
to younger actresses and there
was nothing she could do about
it, except speak about it every
opportunity she got. Acting was
in her blood. She loved it and
the thought of retiring terrified
her. She found herself settling
for roles she would never have
considered in the past. But,
desperate times called for
desperate measures.
Yet, there was a glimmer of hope.
She saw it when she saw Octavia
Spencer catapult to fame at the age
of 41 in The Help and 50 year old
Melissa Leo win an Oscar. Perhaps
one day, she would again become a
sought after star. Perhaps she would
have her Hollywood ending.
Source: Huff Post
