Emmie Mears
SFF. Queer AF.

Don’t Dream It, Be It

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Don’t Dream It, Be It

Thorsday!

What’s Thundering Through Emmie’s Mind?

Behold: a heading. If you recall, a few weeks ago, I set out a few programmed posts to hitch my blog to on certain days. Thursday (Thorsday! Feel free to stomp about roaring) is the day for me to pick my own brain and dredge up whatever has been milling about and share it with you! Thus, I give you…my dredged up brain bits.

I have enrolled in the lovely Kristen Lamb’s Blogging to Build Brand class for the next two months. Part of that is that I want to be a more effective blogger, and another part of that is that I need to keep hammering away at the construction of my little online platform. But none of that part is very interesting to you, gentle viewers.  Which is fine — you are allowed to only be interested in the product, which I realize I am wasting a bit right now like bits of New Years confetti. Oops.

Emmie Lou

Emmie. Would you get to the point already? Image via Wikipedia

Yes, yes. Sorry.

Our first assignment was to take our dreams on a date. Figure out who they are and what they’re up to. And as my shapeshifting muse would have it, I decided to share that date with you. Ready to be a really big conglomerate of a third wheel?

It’s night on the banks of the Ness River. I can see the glow of the lights of the city through the trees as the wind parts their branches. A few stars sparkle above, and the gurgle of the river over the rocks provides our background music. An elephant stands nearby in a clearing, studying his easel, paintbrush in trunk.

I take a sip of Glen Ord’s single malt Scotch, swirling the caramel liquid in a delicate crystal glass. Though I’ve known my companion for years, I’m still a bit nervous.

The Scotch helps.

My companion looks ever-so-slightly like a tree. She has long willowy branches for arms, and her hair is a mass of vines and leaves in all stages of the seasons. Bright yellow-green, flaming oranges and reds, the occasional errant acorn or berry floating around.  She smiles and tosses me a rock.

I recognize that rock; it’s gray and muted. Solid. It has a nice weight when I heft it in my hand. Where she got it, I don’t know. It’s one of the building stones for the home my husband and I wanted to build for ourselves — a home we haven’t even drawn more than fantastical sketches of before now.

I should have known she’d have that. It is, you see, in her job description.

I take another sip of Scotch. It warms me going down. It smells like the river and roasty  peat and home.

The elephant looks up from his painting. A mass of blues and greens cover the canvas as if he conspired with my companion to draw just where that stone belongs. He seems to know it and dips his paintbrush in my direction.

Everyone here seems to know better than me.

Her voice is the rustle of wind and the sigh of the earth all at once. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“You look less fuzzy than the last time we met.” I take another sip of my Scotch.

Her eyes, the green-brown of river rocks, glint at me shrewdly. “Perhaps you just see me more clearly.”

“My eyesight has gotten worse.”

She laughs, and the sound blends with the rushing water. “Is that so?”

I look around to find the source of the music that trickles into my ears. My husband sits on a rocky islet in the middle of the river, strumming his guitar. The elephant waves at him. I look back to my companion. Maybe she’s just come closer; maybe she’s not as far off as I thought.

“I haven’t gone anywhere.”

I scowl, and she laughs again.

Her branches rustle as she shifts next to me on the bench. “It’s not my fault if you didn’t see me before. I’ve been right here.”

“You’re blaming me?”

“Well, yes. If you haven’t gotten to me yet, it’s no one’s fault but yours.”

Five minutes and already we’re bickering like old marrieds. This is supposed to be a date. She moves next to me, and through her leaves I catch a glimmer of a tiny chain around her neck. It holds a small leather book, the cover supple and smooth. Its inlaid with an antiqued world map, and a small loop of leather holds a shining pen. The strange little apparatus rests over her heart. Intrigued, my hand twitches toward it involuntarily.

“Is that mine?” I reach out to take it, but only air slips through my fingers even though sitting next to me, she looks close enough to touch.

I try again, but am met with nothing.

“It’s yours, but you have to get to it yourself.” The music ripples in the background, blending with the breeze. My companion smiles at me. “Keep reaching.”

With that, she vanishes. Back inside of me, where she dwells. It takes a lot of coaxing to get her to come out and meet with me. I feel the blank pages of the book on her necklace beckoning to me, the pen straining for my hand. The lines on the map glow. They’re there, waiting.

Keep reaching.

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Author | Emmie Comments | 2 Date | January 5, 2012

comments

Rebecca Goldson

Enchanting.

January 6, 2012 | 3:18 am

Thorsday: We Are Not Alone « Emmie Mears

[…] Don’t Dream It, Be It (emmiemears.com) Like this:LikeBe the first to like this post. […]

January 26, 2012 | 12:16 pm

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