Dreams are so totally wonderful. I love dreams, especially when they give me ideas for stories!!
Dedicated to whomever doesn't want to grow up, and/or get a mustache!
Disclaimer- I do claim that my dream gave me the idea, but I do not claim that I own Peter Pan, the Lost Boys, Neverland or anything else that is already copy-righted and/or already belonging to someone.
At night...I dream. I know, I know, it's sounds weird to start off my story with. But I know a lot of people that don't dream. I feel so sad for them, and yet a bit jealous. Sad because they don't let their imaginations take the reigns at night. Jealous because they are not subject to nightmares that seem to plague my dreams lately. My mother says that dreams are stories that our brains make-up at night. I like to take my dreams and make them real for my sisters and brothers.
Okay, wait a minute. I'm getting ahead of myself. I am Tinuviel. My parents were literature majors in college and they use names that they haven't forgotten or that they loved to pieces on us. For example, my oldest brother (1 1/2 years older than me) is named Romeo. What were my parents thinking? My youngest brother is D'Artagnan. My second oldest sister (two years younger than me) is Odetta. My youngest sister actually has a semi-normal name, Wendy. Anyway...
We live in the US of A, and are quite happy living in the suburbs. My mother is a professor at the local university and my father writes novels and short stories. I'm the only one that has my own room. Odetta and Wendy share a large room on the second story, while my brothers share a room on the ground floor, next to the kitchen. (Bad idea.) My room is in the attic. It's kinda nice actually. I have two windows that I can sit at. One is my book window, the other I paint at. Most of the time, I paint realism, but sometimes a fairy or elf will creep into my paintings, lighting them up with a surreal presence.
Every night, no matter what's happening, my brothers and sisters all come to my room, dragging blankets, sipping juice boxes and munching popcorn. They sit around my bed as I tell a story to them. I mostly use dreams that I had the night before, or sometimes I'll put a spin on fairy tales that I've read. No matter, they love it. Sometimes they even get up and act it out as I tell it. Mom and Dad will sometimes show up to take them back downstairs, but will be drug into the stories, taking on the personalities of giants, gentle fairies or kindly royalty. They protest at first, but are soon cavorting about the room, carrying the questing princes and princesses across deserts, waving a magic wand to turn oceans into soda pop or leading the army in raiding the witch's castle. Soon, the story has ended and my room is soon empty, echoing with the light laughter.
I love these warm nights, full of light and laughter. They make me feel so warm and safe. But even I know that not everything is forever. Sometimes, I can see the spark of longing that everything would stay the same in my parent's eyes. Sometimes, if I'm not careful, I can see the men and women that my siblings will become, echoed in their shadows. It's these nights that everything doesn't seem so safe and secure. These nights, I climb through one of my windows and sit on the roof, looking up at the moon and stars.
Some nights, I can see things in the trees. My overactive imagination sees them as elves, monkeys, fairies or pirates. Some nights I fall asleep and I fall through a sky of blackness and of demons. I wake up and crawl back into my room. Then, it's just a few hours to sunrise and I can see security in my parent's thoughtful gestures of blueberry pancakes with sausage. I see security in my brothers' dirty faces and in my sisters' carefully done hair.
My school is no different from yours. Underpaid teachers in small, cramped classrooms trying to rouse enthusiasium in students that would rather be outside running around and doing things. Normal grades and normal life. The only extraordinary thing about me is I read. I mean I read. I read anything and everything. Heck, I read The Hound of the Baskervilles when I was in second grade. I was an acomplished Conan Doyle fan by the time I was ten. J.K Rowling? Nothing compared to Shakesphere. "A Midsummer Night's Dream", "Othello", "12th Night"...I could go on and on. I blame my parents. They were reading Walt Whitman instead of Winne the Pooh, and the Blustery Day.
As I said before, when I sleep, I dream. This in itself is true. Sometimes, my dreams are light and airy and all is good in the world. Other times, they are dark, scary and I'm all alone. Lately, in these dreams, a boy appears in my darkest hour. A warm smile, and gorgeous eyes that I would gladly drown in. He dives in out of the black sky, a dagger in his hands, and fends off my nightmares. He fights the black shapes that seconds earlier seemed so large and consuming. He darts and dives, crowing with each nightmare vanquished.
They disappear, retreating into the dark corners of my imagination, waiting for just the right second to pounce once more. When they are gone, the scene slowly fades and shifts to a warm tropical beach. A forest lays to my back and mermaids singing offshore. He then kneels next to me, and looks at me with those beautiful eyes. His smile is full of self-pride and admiration. He is egotistical and it is so cute. A little light bulb flashes around his shoulders, twittering with bell sounds. He lifts a finger and touches my face to make sure that I'm all right. I smile reassuringly.
Just when he opens his mouth to speak, my alarm clock goes off, I wake up and it is morning. I mourn for a fraction of a second, then I remember my life. I leave my dreams behind...placed under my pillow. After all, it's not like they matter. They're just stories...right?
Does it sound good? Shall I continue?