A week and a half ago, I noted that I'd dreamed a full blown movie in one night... as it turns out, I only saw a portion of what is shaping up to be my THE STAND--a war that is coming between entities for the control of the world. I've blasted out about 10,000 words this past week and have a billion notes that are at the beginning and end and inbetween. Seems I dreamed a healthy chunk of the middle of the movie, but not how we get there, nor where we are going. Fortunately, as I write, it reveals itself.
Here is a (rough draft) snippet:
“Double yellow lines?” My fingers scraped the pavement to confirm what my eyes saw on the road and found the coarse texture turn smooth as the color changed from gray to gold to gray, and then quickly back to gold. I repeated, “Double yellow lines.” There was only one place where I knew double yellow lines to exist, and it was a place that I was quite familiar with, the road. What the fuck am I doing in the middle of the road? With one hand spread across my eyes, I simultaneously ran a thumb across the right and an index finger across my right eye in another attempt at visual clarity, exhaling in the process. Unsuccessful, I used the same right hand to lay a hard, open-handed lick on my right cheek. “SHIT!” I shouted in response to the stinging sensation that racked my body and, finally, brought me to full awareness.
“Okay, up. We. GO!” on the last word, I pushed myself up to a standing position. “WHAT THE FUCK!” I yelled as I noticed the people standing around, encircled me. In one smooth motion, despite my grogginess, my feet split, readied for action from a balanced pose, and my hand reached for a firearm that was most always below my left armpit, but was not to be found. With a quick glance, I confirmed that there was no weapon, not even the shoulder holster that I wore as if it was attached to my body. “Dammit,” escaped my lips in a fashion less like utter disappointment and more like that which would be synonymous with the situational irony of such a quirky word as “zoinks.”
Have I been here before? There was a familiarity, yes, a definite déjà vu. The bullring. Ole! If not for the burden of the unknown, I might have laughed, even entered into such a fit of laughter that I’d end up on the ground that I’d just found a way off of. Fortunately, my survival mode was stronger than my funny bone.
With no advancement, which didn’t necessarily mean there was no threat, I focused less on defense of my ground and more on understanding my plot, though I didn’t approach without my dukes up. It was five standard steps to the closest person, a distance that I crossed with caution; as if I expected to find a sinkhole each time I planted my foot. Within three feet, a distance that most Western persons would consider to be within their “personal space,” and I’d seen nor sensed any change in the person I approached. For a full minute, I stared no where other than into the eyes of the man in front of me, and in those eyes, I saw nothing; nothing whatsoever, and sensed exactly the same nothingness.
“Oh well then, fuck it,” I said as I raised my hand to my chin and proceeded to wiggle my fingers in front of his face and emit a childish sound from my lips. I walked the circumference, looking at each person. “Fuck you. And you. And you. And you, too,” I said, pointing at individuals. My words did nothing to change their emotionless expressions. I had the urge to dance, bounce like a kid on a trampoline, feigning a jab, two jabs, three jabs, spinning around, and acting like I was ready for them—all of them—should they want to throw down. “Let’s go, Fuckers. Let’s do the Funky Chicken. No? Roger Rabbit?” I broke into a dance from my past, one leg swinging behind the other, and then alternating. “No? How about some Running Man?” Running in place, sliding my feet on the ground, breaking it out sideways, and pumping my arms horizontally. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the ticket. You can’t hold me,” I proclaimed, followed by grunt of accomplishment. “You can only hope to contain me. Yeah, Fuckers.” But, none of my gyrations raised a stir in them. “Y’all are about as fun as a stump,” I said and stopped dancing.
The sun rose, bathing the dark sky in a wash of light. It prompted me to stop, look, and catch my breath. Furthermore, when I looked back at the crowd, I realized that I no longer saw the differences among them. I pulled my invisible six-shooters, one on each thigh-holster, and proceeded to feign the act of pumping lead into each chest—not with rapidity, but with deliberation. My mouth provided the soundtrack, and the only audible effects in the silence of the world. As I dead-eyed each target and squeezed off an unrealistic number of rounds without reloading my guns, I imagined them falling to their knees, chins bouncing off their chests, lids slamming like heavy, windblown doors. Each one that dropped gave me a clear line of sight to a brand new chest-target. I laughed with the hope that I wouldn’t run out of ammunition.
Mom says I get the strange side of my creativity from my Pops, ay-yup. You can see my mood from the past two weeks in here--a seedling of frustration in a world that I can't yet predict, a defense mechanism found by being humorous. What you don't yet see in the character is his penchant for optimism; in a world of the unknown, believe that it will work out.
More to come!