tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146441332024-03-23T13:15:54.460-05:00The SandsSand grains of life drifting in an endless sea of time.........Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-10116212011691973932015-05-04T10:23:00.001-05:002015-05-05T05:24:20.130-05:00My Kenyan Metanoia<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">I had that dream again, the same dream I've been having for three months now. I used to be blissfully ignorant of such things, discarding them as errant whispers from a universe desperately trying to stay relevant in my life. I was the captain of this ship, the master of my own domain, the stirrer of my own pot of uji mix. I had full control of my life, or so I had convinced myself countless times before jumping gleefully over the precipice of drunkenness (in Tusker you never dream). How had it come to this?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;" />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">In the dream, I'm at my own party, old friends and new cousins all around, toasting and waiting for the guest of honor to arrive. The legend/infamy had grown, whispered and mauled with an inextricable mixture of lies, innuendo and promise into a caricature completely unrecognizable to me. What or who did they think I had become? I can see the seat reserved for me in the middle of the dais, and from the second I see it, a crooked voice in my head tells me that I will never sit in it. And as I walk past each table, I catch snatches of conversation. </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">I heard he was deported. Did you hear? I heard he abandoned his wife and kids in the US. I heard he came to get married, I can't wait to see who it is. I heard he refused to go to school and that he spends all his money on booze. Do you think he'll take after his father? I heard he wants to get into politics. </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;" />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">The conversations rise from murmurs to a deafening roar and I can no longer make out what anyone is saying. Still there on the dais is my seat, my small throne, one I had apparently abandoned to sow my wild oats if the stories were to be believed. I climb onto the stage, invisible to anyone but myself. Each step carefully placed after the last, inching closer to my destiny. I had been told this is where I belonged the whole time, just wait and see, they saged, fate is not to be defied. This chair that would fulfill all I was to be, to myself and others. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;" />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">One chair. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;" />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">One man. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;" />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">One fate.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;" />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">But as I move closer I see the truth, glaring and permanent, the dais is a painting and only the man holding the paint brush (and I now) know it. It is a masterpiece, really. The detail, the colors vivid and alive. If I hadn't approached it, I would have forever believed it to be real. I begin to understand what the crooked voice had said, that I would never sit on that throne, not unless I painted an illusion of myself on it.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;" />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">But as I start to turn away in disappointment, someone grabs my arm and whispers in my ear, "</span><i style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">Boss, behind the painting, a far grander chair awaits!". </i><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">Before I face the owner of the voice, it blends back into crowd, fading as if a mirage swept away by a cold wind. I stand there bewildered at my newly found knowledge. Could it really be? Is this some kind of test and the painting an illusion of an illusion? Am I to believe an invisible voice telling me about my lying eyes? This is all too much, I need a moment to take it all in but I know I have no time. There's really only one way to know for sure what is true. I reach out and touch the painting which starts to fall...</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;" />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">I sit up in my bed, canopied by the mosquito net and drenched in sweat. A couple of mosquitoes urgently, dizzily fly away from me, their meal interrupted. I have been in Kenya sleeping in this same bed for months now, still have no idea how the mosquitoes get past the net each night, but believe me they do. It's like a recurring episode of </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">Mission Impossible </i><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">only the mosquitoes are the heroes, and I their mission if they chose to accept it. I quickly go over what I remember from the dream this time. Each dream, though basically the same, is like a movie shot from a different angle, the protagonists remain, but I catch some different background detail each time. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;" />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px; text-align: justify;">The weight of expectation, when unnoticed can be unbelievably light, but once fully aware can crush you. Is there truly such a thing as being true to oneself? Or is it merely choosing a list of things you want to keep doing, and calling them you? If all we are we've learnt, then all we do we can change, unless, of course, we were born into a certain character. I don't know if I can change or even if I want to change whom I have become. One thing has become clearer to me, life will eventually come down not to good vs evil, but to self vs responsibility. Somewhere out there, is the right choice waiting to be made.</span></span></span>Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com0East Africa0 40.4296875-30.896077 -0.87890649999999937 30.896077 81.7382815tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-46348955409078847452011-09-24T14:47:00.001-05:002011-09-24T14:47:12.051-05:00The Long Journey Back...I would like to thank <a href="http://memoriesunearthed.blogspot.com/">Lucid Dreamer</a> for inspiring me to write again. Her stories are poignant and rich, filled with human emotion. She is one of the better short story writers that I know (and to think that she's just getting started!).<br />
<br />
I hope I still have what it takes...it's been 4 years and counting since I last wrote. I guarantee one thing, if it's still there,,,I'll find it!Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-54903098636782009552009-01-08T09:47:00.005-06:002015-05-04T10:41:35.189-05:00The World's most protected man...Here is the Obama inaguration security detail (at least what we know)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />4000 DC Metro police department <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpUtMZeZEh8BE3Y30bThsUoJJdQlusIv3FPQwcCkbWeqWLnW8zG0-Xmtu96oiYnu4Spsd_Lpuchw_7TKDXy8RhUnQfAPBprp0gQkr_c3s5xfqTbnWqUl-k9MQ1ZKgy4xbppX8JQ/s1600-h/OB1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288953841299791682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpUtMZeZEh8BE3Y30bThsUoJJdQlusIv3FPQwcCkbWeqWLnW8zG0-Xmtu96oiYnu4Spsd_Lpuchw_7TKDXy8RhUnQfAPBprp0gQkr_c3s5xfqTbnWqUl-k9MQ1ZKgy4xbppX8JQ/s320/OB1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />4000 Police officers from around the country (Snipers, K9, Bomb squads etc.)<br />11,000 Military personnel (Navy, Airforce, Special Ops, Coast Guard)<br />FBI, Secret Service/NSA – unspecified number of agents<br />Hazmat units (Bio, Chem & Radiological)<br />Satellites, Sensors, detectors, CC surveillance cameras<br />His ride - Armor plated (Anti RPG/Rocket), 6+ inch thick bullet proof windows, specialized run flat tires, a chemical/gas threat sealed interior…probably EMP (Electro-Magnetic Pulse) proof<br /><br /><br /><br />Needless to say he'll be say, he couldn't be safer if he was on the moon - see ya'll at the bash, Jan 20th. <em><strong>Si Se Puede!</strong></em>Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-84488518789701149782007-04-07T20:24:00.000-05:002007-04-07T20:29:07.969-05:00This present disillusion<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_7qdCsj6PevlXkgRDO13v9eRJTeeE9HtsVpAScHsXXi_jeHSTebsMS7OT5xXayArwU3W5Vuq9CCgHDk1j7WWE8PanH-eUYdcOoIVgj4PhhEP5NcBUVR7prdDyPGvB3njlCpR1A/s1600-h/dis.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050862899473817442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_7qdCsj6PevlXkgRDO13v9eRJTeeE9HtsVpAScHsXXi_jeHSTebsMS7OT5xXayArwU3W5Vuq9CCgHDk1j7WWE8PanH-eUYdcOoIVgj4PhhEP5NcBUVR7prdDyPGvB3njlCpR1A/s320/dis.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p><br />Once upon a time, a father sent his daughter and son to the market to sell the family donkey. This was the most important task that the two children had been assigned to this point in their lives and each of them wanted desperately to make their father proud. He gave them each a map and separate directions to the market so that if one lost his map or forgot, the other would be able to remember.<br /><br />So the two set out on their journey, aware that the road was long but comfortable and assured in the knowledge that they had each other. On and on they went past streams, over hills and through forests with one single mission in mind. They would often fantasize about their father’s happiness when they’d return and what a large feast their mother would prepare for them.<br /><br />One day they came upon a stream which crossed their path. The boy proposed that since there was no need for both of them to get wet, he would carry his sister across the stream, and the donkey would follow. She thought it the most selfless offer she had ever heard and mused about how wonderful her brother was. So she climbed on his back and he, with the ass in tow, proceeded to ferry his sister over the bubbling brook.<br /><br />The girl, though much lighter than her brother, made for a difficult load. He had never carried anything this heavy and progress across the stream was slow and haggard. Finally he got to the other side and on setting his sister down, collapsed and fell on his back on the muddy bank revealing the soles of his feet which were bruised and had several small bleeding cuts. The girl quickly tore off the sleeves of her shirt and wrapped them around her brothers feet then using the red ribbon she had got for her birthday bound the cloth.<br /><br />Several days had passed and the shadows appeared to get longer and the wind a little chillier and the grass along the path was turning a deeper yellow with each passing day. The bread that they had carried for sustenance was starting to get stale and the grape wine they had carried for thirst was starting to turn bitter. Their long, animated conversations began to shorten and ultimately changed into curt, abrupt phrases from sterile voices and expressionless mouths.<br /><br />After a week and a day virtually all conversation had ceased and each regarded the other with a kind of hostile contempt. All the boy could feel was the searing pain that shot up his leg with each step he took. Every time he would think the pain had reached its max, the next step he took would quickly change his mind. The girl could hardly move her arms which were now swollen from scratches and plum red from mosquito bites. The itch she felt was almost maddening in intensity and it was all she could do to not scream in frustration.<br /><br />A few days later, they came upon a fork in the road which split into three different paths. At this point each of the children took out their maps for consultation. It’s the narrowest path the girl announced triumphantly. No, it’s the path on the far left the boy answered resolutely. They proceeded to argue for a while each growing more confident of the position they had taken, and growing angrier with each uttered word.<br /><br />What an ungrateful little kimbele, the boy thought. After I injured myself carrying her across the stream this is how she treats me!<br /><br />What an ungrateful little mdomo, the girl thought. After I ripped my shirt to bandage his wounded feet this is how he repays me!<br /><br />Left, the boy insisted.<br /><br />Narrowest, the girl persisted.<br /><br />Eventually the girl stormed off taking the path on the far right and the boy stormed off, taking the path that was widest. After a day of walking along their chosen paths, each started to doubt the decision each had made and decided to head back to the fork in the path. The girl reached the fork after another day to find the boy crying standing next to the dead donkey. They had both stormed off in anger and forgotten the donkey which, already exhausted, had died of thirst.<br /><br />They sadly made their way home, without donkey or money. When they got to their father, they each narrated how the other had refused to follow the directions and map they each had been given. Each blaming the other for being a kichwa ngumu and a mjuaji.<br /><br />"Alas!" Their father said. "The path on the far left is also the narrowest path. If you only had taken the time to hear each other out and understand what the other was trying to say. Your pride and arrogance killed the donkey!"<br /><br /></p>Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-61459666876231910442007-02-28T02:51:00.000-06:002015-05-04T10:41:35.192-05:00Introducing the Kenya Imagine blog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6375/4177/1600/kenya%20imagine.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6375/4177/400/kenya%20imagine.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Imagine the Possibilities...<br /><br />Please visit <a href="http://www.kenyaimagine.com">www.kenyaimagine.com</a> or the blog at <a href="http://www.kenyaimagine.blogspot.com">www.kenyaimagine.blogspot.com</a>Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1162085147369309782006-10-28T20:24:00.000-05:002015-05-04T10:41:35.185-05:00Lady in Red<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/Kiddi.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/400/Kiddi.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />The lady in red is dancing with me <br />Cheek to cheek <br />There's nobody here <br />It's just you and me <br />It's where I wanna be <br />But I hardly know this beauty by my side <br />I'll never forget the way you look tonight <br />The lady in red <br />My lady in red<br /><br /><em>excerpt from Lady in red by chris Deburgh</em>Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1158598735972913492006-09-18T11:47:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:09.973-06:00The Mountain and the molehills<a href="http://dynamicoutdoors.com/kilimanjaro.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://dynamicoutdoors.com/kilimanjaro.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />So is this it. That wasn't a question. Was it? While dreaming of mountains I will fail to see all the molehills that dot my path. I have a choice to make. The goal is clear. The mission has been briefed. The choices understood. I can lower my gaze from the sky and concentrate on my path or I can hold onto my fantasies and blindly stumble along the way in the hope that I'll somehow make it through unscathed. The sands are almost all gone. I have to choose before the rain comes and the choice is made for me.....run! There's the mountain, beautiful, majestic and proud. Then there's the path of molehills, very clear, very present and real. The wind is blowing now, it has been for a while, to try and force my hand. It is known that you cannot resist the wind, not for long anyway. Her campaign is unrelenting, her goal but one, her destiny forecast. She whispers caring words in your ears so you may not fight her, eventually she will have her way. she always does. listen to her, I know she loves me but she doesn't know me. If she knew me at all she would leave me to my foolish ambitions. She would leave me to wallow in this murky cesspool of indecision and blow on her merry way. But she doesn't, She is real. The path is real. The molehills are real. The mountain is but a mirage and I am but a shadow. Yet the sun does not shine. Why isn't anything simple anymore. I remember yesterday when I was flesh and blood. The pleasure of breath, the sweetness of every heartbeat. For a moment I picture my tombstone, gray, weathered and chipped. The words have darkened and I can no longer make them out. What will I do, will I truly be reborn? There's no way I can let my dream go. There's no way I can hold onto it. Yes there is but it's a painful, sacrificing, martyr choice. And the wind will not understand. Yes they are blowing from all directions now. Can I just live? Ha! If it was only that easy. This is my Ka. This is my An-tet. This is my path and I have to walk it. Yet I know he's watching.Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1154325148196637312006-07-30T23:09:00.000-05:002015-05-04T10:41:35.182-05:00now about this tagging business...Rules:<br /><br />*Post six weird facts/habits about yourself. These cannot be used against you later on.<br />*At the bottom name the six people you will tag next.<br />*Leave them a comment to let them know they’ve been tagged and to read your blog.<br /><br />I have <a href="http://spicebear.blogspot.com/">Spiceboo</a>, <a href="http://mochalicious.wordpress.com/">Mocha</a> and <a href="http://valedon.blogspot.com/">Valedon</a> to thank for this so without further ado - <br /><br /><br />I love to surprise people. It's hard for me to give a gift without throwing in some sort of surprise twist into it. The more I care about the person, the more elaborate the ruse. Sometimes it gets so bad that setting up the surprise costs me way more than the gift - but what can I say it's worth it. I'd spend my last dime on someone I cared about easy. <br /><br />I'm very private. I like to have my own space even from family - scratch that especially from family. The only person I don't mind being around 24/7 is whoever I'm in a relationship with. and maybe a few other select people. I'm actually very good at keeping secrets that's probably why my friends like to confine in me. <br /><br />I love music. No I mean like crazy jump in a fire to save a cd love, you just don't know. I probably have about 5,000 songs on my PC. You know what it's more of an obsession - like if music was a person, I'd be a full time stalker. oh yeah, I love poetry too (see *I love music)<br /><br />I have an unquenchable thirst to learn and know things. I've read books on everything from quarks and the space/time continuum to how milk is pasteurized. I have so many questions in my head that sometimes it worries me that I might go crazy. seriously. Sometimes I have to slow my brain down kidogo coz it almost hurts, but I guess too much curiosity is better than none at all - at least that's what I tell myself. <br /><br />I can never stay mad at anyone for long......well, never say never, I should probably say I haven't yet. I can honestly say I don't hate anyone. I'm usually easy to get along with coz I try to be considerate. Sometimes I question myself coz there are certain things that you should be angry at for long but it's just too much work. I guess that's why I still talk to all my exs. figures!<br /><br />I'm a night owl. One of the hardest things for me to do is to go to bed before 2am. I always seem to find something to get into and it's not always the right thing. Something about a devils workshop.....! I just like it better after sun down. Maybe my great grandpa was a vampire or something. <br /><br /><br />Having completed my obligations I hereby tag <a href="http://thedeviousone.blogspot.com/">Devious</a>, <a href="http://amkeni-wakenya.blogspot.com/">DP</a>, <a href="http://kaggz.blogspot.com/">Kaggz</a>, <a href="http://www.ziwani.blogspot.com/">Ziwani</a>, <a href="http://sylkwan.blogspot.com/">Shiroh</a> and <a href="http://trueinstigation.blogspot.com/">Instigator</a>.Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1147680920491150672006-05-15T03:09:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:09.101-06:00LUCID DREAMS ctd......Now that I'm starting to feel like my old self again, it's about time I wrap up this story - I hope ya'll haven't given up on me. Just in case you forgot the storyline ....<br /><a href="http://www.gweep.net/~prefect/gallery.album/drewfarms2000/scary.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://www.gweep.net/~prefect/gallery.album/drewfarms2000/scary.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://sandsofthehourglass.blogspot.com/2005/07/lucid-dreams-part-1.html"><strong>Lucid dreams ......part 1</strong></a><br /><br /><a href="http://sandsofthehourglass.blogspot.com/2005/08/lucid-dreams-part-2.html"><strong>Lucid dreams ......part 2</strong></a><br /><br /><a href="http://sandsofthehourglass.blogspot.com/2005/09/lucid-dreams-part-3.html"><strong>Lucid dreams ......part 3</strong></a><br /><br /><em>the last part should be up in a little while ... scared? you should be!</em>Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1146674306559985332006-05-03T11:22:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:08.747-06:00Muddy waters<a href="http://www.quietlywild.com/qwpix/diarypix/MoonWater1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.quietlywild.com/qwpix/diarypix/MoonWater1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Muddy waters beneath a silver spring. The blue moon watching over a lonely star. The trees dancing their slow sway (in their way) as the wind whistles another sad love song. These are the realms of my heart. A wolf howls distances away, I know he’s there. But I have cried wolf before, many times before. The owl gazing at me in her all knowing way lets out a sad understanding hoot. I try to smile but my lips don’t remember how. It’s been like this for a minute and a year. My weakened spirit fighting a false war that I’m bound to inevitably lose. Why can’t it be that I win the war before the battle? Could it be that I’m my own enemy thus the most stunning victory would equal the most crushing defeat? If this was so then I should never dare to fight, but still I do! Why is everything both black and white? A tear wells up in my eye but it doesn’t fall. I blink it away (but it’s here to stay). It’s been this way for a minute and a year. This present darkness cast over everything. Muddy waters beneath a silver spring . <br /><br />…..but still the sun will rise at dawn.Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1137547530439263132006-01-17T19:14:00.000-06:002006-11-12T20:53:08.476-06:00Heart or Duty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/scales1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/400/scales1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I look around this burning house<br />ash and fire<br />the grey smoke rising higher<br />Yet the walls are so cold<br /><br />I am bound by oath to this place<br />paper and color<br />the places I signed my honor<br />Yet I cannot stay<br /><br />I have found a new solace<br />pillow and bed<br />gentle bosom to rest my head<br />Yet it will not let me<br /><br />I have a choice to make<br />heart or duty<br />to follow task or beauty<br />Yet beauty’s going awaySandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1136254817558770482006-01-02T20:02:00.000-06:002006-11-12T20:53:08.382-06:00Déjà Vu (not really)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/fam.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/320/fam.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />There’s that Déjà Vu feeling again! Wasn’t I just here a few (days?? Weeks?? Months??!!) ago? I look around the place and I know for certain I’ve been here before. There’s a note lying on the floor, I pick it up.... <span style="font-style:italic;">I will go to the gym more</span>.... Hmmm, where have I heard those words before?! What’s that? There’s something written on the right corner, I look more closely....<span style="font-style:italic;">January 1st 2005</span>...I recognize that hand writing but can’t quite place it. What is this? The twilight zone? It must be because everything seems so strange. There’s something on the table…..it’s a picture! Maybe that’ll answer some of my questions. I pick it up, it’s dusty and faded like a distant memory yet the colors are still bright and alive. The paper feels strangely warm as I gently brush the dust off it’s surface. There’s a face on it. It’s a young boy/man with a stoic face, kind eyes and bright smile that I feel strangely drawn to. Who is this boy/man? I turn the picture over...<span style="font-style:italic;">good luck bro, keep it real</span>...and suddenly I feel great sadness. Is this me? I look around the room and spot the mirror on the wall. The face looking back at me is not the same in the picture but there’s some familiarity. I must know who this boy/man is. I tuck the picture in my left breast pocket (right above my heart) in case the memory comes back to me. There’s a vase on the table with dry, wilted flowers in it. I move closer and realize that all the flowers have turned brown from age (they were once half a dozen yellow roses, some pink posies and a few red carnations). There’s a card stuck in between the stems...<span style="font-style:italic;">Happy Valentines Mom</span>... I open it ...<span style="font-style:italic;">I love you, Feb 14th 2002</span>...and notice a tear drop stain on it. Does that date mean that’s the last time this person got a valentine’s wish? I hope not because that would really be sad. There’s a handmade titanium fountain pen with a gold nib and some sort or engraving on it next to the vase. I pick it up...<span style="font-style:italic;">Happy Birthday Dad, November__ </span>...and realize the engraving wasn’t finished. What kind of person doesn’t know his/her father’s birthday? I would never be so cut off from the people I love. If this was me I would stay close to all the people important to me, this is inexcusable! I want to leave this place, it’s full of cold memories and sadness. I notice the bottle of Burberry Brit on the night stand. What a coincidence, that’s the same (make that only) cologne I use. Hmmm, I have a shirt just like the one lying on the bed. Actually I have that same bed! What is this some kind of joke? What’s today April fools? I look down at my wrist to check the date but my watch is missing. WAIT! There’s my watch lying right next to the bottle of cologne! That's when I notice the sign over the bed, <span style="font-weight:bold;">"SANDMAN"</span>!Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1129682404554719142005-10-18T19:30:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:07.902-06:00Lonely Girl<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/displaytop1.gif"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/400/displaytop1.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Lonely Girl</span><br /><br />Ever just the same<br />The shadows calling her name<br />She stares at the night<br />Clutching the dress in fright<br />Smelling the scent of flowers in bloom<br />as memories, all around her flood the room<br /><br />Why is she alone?<br />For what sin must she atone?<br />How can she bring it all back?<br />once so bright, why is it now dark?<br />She whispers a simple prayer, not for much<br />Then she reaches out for an invisible touch<br /><br />A tear falls on her pillow<br />Her heartbeat slow, heavy with sorrow<br />she knows to grow she must leave her cocoon <br />She sighs, soon, as she stares at the pale moon<br />Tomorrow's light will surely bring a new day<br />Maybe there'll be someone to meet her halfway<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/displaytop.gif"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/400/displaytop.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">for you!</span>Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1128609593959276572005-10-06T09:30:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:07.741-06:00Fool's gold<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/gold.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/320/gold.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Act 1</span><br />I was mesmerized, staring at the golden rays that emanated out of it. It took me a moment to realize what it was because it was the last thing I had expected to find. Could it be I wondered, that I’had finally struck gold? It lay there in the sun blinking shards of brilliance at me so blindingly bright that for all of me I couldn’t turn away. I prodded it gently with my toe just to let it know I was there and it smiled back, letting me know it had noticed me too. The Crane’s dance had began. And so we danced, I would marvel at it’s beauty, and it, in that knowingly way would radiate it’s approval showering me with golden rays of radiance. I could see my mirrored compliments on it’s smooth shiny surfaces, both infinite and exquisite . Oh yes we danced, avoiding the obvious but both knowing it nonetheless. I suddenly caught my breath and stopped in mid step, what was I doing? There was obviously only one way to tell if this was indeed real gold. I had to feel it, touch it, examine it. And so I did curling my fingers around it’s smooth edges and feeling it’s cool composure send shivers deep into my nerves. This was it, it had to be! Only real gold could make someone feel this way. I didn’t question why a valuable piece of gold was laying unclaimed in the middle of this cold land. It didn’t for a second occur to me that this piece of gold could be flawed or worse, a fake. All I knew was that, Ill-Fortura, the godess of making many bad things happen in a row had long made sport of my life. She was due to go out to lunch any time now – and this was as good a time as any. I stumbled about in a drunken stupor, dreaming of all the wonderful things this piece of gold was going to get me. Suddenly the future seemed bright and limitless, and to think it had just been laying there unclaimed, waiting for me. Oh what fortune!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/gold.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/320/gold.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/gold.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/320/gold.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;"> Act 12</span><br />It had been days since I last touched it. I had fallen into a habit of peeking in my secret closet every once in a while to make sure it was still there. It was still there. But I had started to notice that each time I checked on it, it sparkled a little less. Deep inside I knew it was my fault because every time I would see it, I would push it deeper into the dark confines of the closet and not let enough light shine on it. Of course every once in a while I’d pull it out and lay it on the kitchen table, and marvel at it’s beauty for when the light would hit it just right, it had a special way of saying “hi” that would set my entrails aglow. I failed to realize that it was only light that it lacked and the brilliance that had once captivated me so hadn’t changed. It was just harder to see. The darker it got, the angrier it made me. What the hell was I doing? Had I become the proverbial fool who fell for the false gold? I didn’t want to be that fool, I had heard all the stories and that definitely wouldn’t be me. I was too smart to be duped by falsehoods and false glitter, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I? So the day came when it didn’t shine anymore and I could no longer see my reflection cast in it’s metallic helm. That was the day I let it go, put it on the the bridge and let it roll down to the edge on it’s volition. I didn’t reach out my hand to stop it even though I knew in a moment it would soon plunge back into the murky depths of the unknown from whence it came. I stood there and watched it as if daring it to roll back to me if it did indeed belong to me. No sweet goodbye, no I’ll miss you, no hug, no kiss. Just the empty splash that would tell me I would never see it again. Never find out for sure if it was the real thing. All it had needed was a little light and maybe it would have made all my exotic and erotic dreams come true. All it had needed was a little more time on the kitchen table every now and then. All it had needed was for someone to let it shine and it would have let him shine too. Alas, it was gone now. I guess Ill-Fortura doesn’t take lunch breaks. As it tumbled in the air I caught my reflection, it appeared I was crying.<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span>Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1126170905059697752005-09-08T03:56:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:07.631-06:00LUCID DREAMS - part 3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/moonlit%20window26.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/400/moonlit%20window26.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Judy sat by her dressing mirror and watched as her husband tossed and turned in his sleep. She had opened the curtains and the moon was shinning directly into the room giving everything a bluish-gray tone. She hadn’t wanted to risk waking Andrew up, it had been hard enough getting him to sleep in the first place. He hadn’t slept for nearly two days now, afraid of the monsters that awaited him in his dreams. She unconsciously wringed her hands as she looked into the pained face of her husband. He was moaning softly and it was all she could do to stop herself from waking him. She knew he badly needed the sleep and she was determined to let him have as much as he could. <br /><br />Her mind wandered back to their first date, remembering how he had shown up with a basket of posies, not knowing about her allergy. Between the smashed toes on the dance floor and the wine he spilled on her dress, it easily qualified for the worst date she had ever been on. Yet she fell for that sweet man with the disarming smile. He wasn't strikingly handsome but he had a kind face and beautiful eyes. His disastrous effort at giving her a good time had uncharacteristically swept her of her feet much to her surprise. She had known he was the one from their first clumsy kiss at the end of the date. That man was now gone. In his place was a stranger who hadn’t even kissed her in weeks let alone touch her. He was looking sicker everyday and the worst part was she didn’t know how to help him. A tear softly glided down the curve of her cheek and fell unnoticed on the back of her hand. <br /><br /> “Ahhhaaaaahhhaaah” he screamed then sat up clutching the beddings close to his chest. He was trembling and gazing about the room wildly and she rushed up to him, arms stretched out.<br /><br /> “It’s ok honey, I’m here”, she started to say as she reached the bed. Then his gaze fell on her and for a second she froze. The eyes that stared back at her were not human eyes, they were the eyes of a desperate animal! <br /><br /> “You...you are de... dead!” he stammered as he retreated back from her outstretched hands and fell on the floor. “You are d... I didn’t do it”, he said dragging himself backwards until he hit the wall. “I DIDN’T KILL YOU”. <br /><br /> She stood in shock, feeling the blood drain from her head. She wasn’t sure she had heard the words right. The words “kill you” echoed in her mind in some sort of lunatic voice that seemed to be laughing. She bumped into the dresser before realizing she had been moving backwards. She put her hands on it to steady herself feeling weak and faint. She opened her mouth to speak but all that came out was a whimper. <br /><br /> “Andrew, it’s me,” she managed in a hoarse whisper after taking in a deep breath. She was scared, scared of this man that she so loved. She couldn’t see his eyes anymore but she could see that his hands were trembling. She knew she had to go to him but it seemed her legs had turned to jello. She wondered if her neighbors would be able to hear her if she screamed.<br /><br /> “Andrew you’re scaring me,” she managed in a weak voice that came from a thousand miles away. “Andrew...” she muttered. <br /><br /> His hands had stopped shaking but he hadn’t responded. His body appeared tense and poised like a snake ready to strike. She looked at the phone on the night stand on his side of the bed and wondered who she might call and what she would say.<br /> <br /> “Andrew, talk to me,” she said as she started inching closer to him. She pondered idly whether she would have enough time to get to the door if he suddenly tried to pounce on her. She could now make out the outline of his face and realized that his mouth was open and he was taking in huge gasps of air. She slowly reached her hands out to him while crouching.<br /><br /> There was a tense moment when it felt like the world had stood still then she felt his arm muscles relax under her palms. His breathing was shortening but he still had his eyes closed. She pulled him toward the bed and he came along easily. They sat on the bed for a moment, her arms around his shoulders and his head resting on her bosom.<br /><br /> “Judy,” he started to say. <br /><br /> “Shhh,” she silenced him, “I’m here it’s ok”. This was her husband, if the roles were reversed she knew he’d absolutely be there for her. She had to be strong because he needed her now. It would all be fine in a few days then they’d laugh about it. She reached for his hand and felt something warm and sticky. She pulled it up to the moonlight and saw his palm was covered in blood. She looked closer noticing the teeth marks between his index finger and thumb. He must have bit himself while dreaming she realized, wondering what kind of dream would make someone do that to himself. <br /><br /> “It’ll all be okay,” she said in a tone that was meant to be reassuring but even as she said it, the sinking in her gut told her it wasn't true. A raucous voice in the back of her mind laughed crazily and whispered over and over, “kill you...kill you...kill you”!Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1125762476351582652005-09-03T09:56:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:07.543-06:00the Emperor has no clothesday 6 ........... the federal gov. has failed.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/NOvictims3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/400/NOvictims3.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />this is disgraceful, shameful and pathetic that 6 days after Katrina there are still people without water and food.Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1123740638336948652005-08-11T01:08:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:07.462-06:00LUCID DREAMS - part 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/darktrees11.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/320/darktrees11.jpeg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />He woke up with a jolt, sat up on the couch and looked around. The phone was screaming in the background and it reminded him of his mother in-law‘s shrill voice when she was complaining about something…..which was often. The sun had gone down and he could see the dark shapes of the trees framed by moonlight outside the living room window. They appeared to beckon him as they danced in unison to the gently blowing wind. There was something eerily disturbing about them but he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The way the streaks of moonlight were... <br /><br />“Riiiiiiiiing”, the phone screamed again cutting through his thoughts like a sharp dagger. <br /><br />“I’ll get it”, he yelled swinging his legs from the couch and sliding them into the slippers on the rug. He stood up and hurried towards the phone on the stand by the wall. Just as he was about to pick it up something caught his attention. All the lights in the house were turned off! He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle and a strong sense of foreboding and horror came over him. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, the low hollow sound echoing through the trees around the house. Something was wrong. He could smell it in the damp air that suddenly floated through his nostrils. Beneath that musty smell there seemed to be a richer, more salty scent that was cloaked by the dampness that he'd smelled before but couldn’t quite place. Oh yes, something was deathly wrong.<br /><br />From his position at the bottom of the staircase, he could see the half opened doors to his bedroom and his daughter’s bedroom. With every ounce of determination he could muster, he placed his right foot on the first stair which creaked in agony. His mind was spinning and he felt dizzy. He took his other foot and placed it on the next stair. He felt as if he was walking in quick sand, sinking deeper with every step. Right foot. He had to get up there even though every nerve in his body pleaded for him to turn and run the other way. Left foot. He swallowed hard and could taste the acrid sting of fear in his mouth. Right. The sound of his steps reverberating around the house. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left!<br /><br />He stopped at the top of the staircase and listened. He realized that the phone was no longer ringing. The silence was so thick that he thought if he reached out he could part it with his hands. Their bedroom lay to the left and he now turned and headed towards it. He pushed it open and the door swung smoothly to reveal complete darkness. He carefully took a step inside the room, his keen ears listening for any sign of danger. The darkness in the room seemed to first hug him then cover him as he stepped deeper into the room. He stopped and stretched his hand blindly reaching for the light switch!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/darkdoor1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/320/darkdoor1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" /></a>His pupils contracted quickly as they were hit by the light and he reflexively closed his eyes. He slowly peered through squinted eyes giving his eyes time to adjust to the brightened room. An image on the floor gradually came into focus and he realized it was his daughter’s blanket.He stood transfixed for a moment wondering what the blanket would be doing on the floor then his eye caught a glint. His gaze started moving up towards the bed and then suddenly stopped. He blinked once then he blinked again his mind refusing to accept what he was seeing. <br /><br />The motionless figure of his wife lay in the middle of the king sized bed, a knife sticking out of a huge red patch in the middle. He put his hand in his mouth to stifle the scream that he could feel coming up from the pit of his stomach and bit down hard. He felt the skin give way as his teeth sank into the soft flesh between his thumb and his index finger. His mind sluggishly registered the pain, bubbling up to his consciousness as if someone was screaming under water. He tasted the blood and numbly took his hand out his mouth and looked at it. It was covered in blood. Caked blood. He looked at his other hand and saw that it too was covered in dried blood. <br /><br />"What the...," he started to say. His mind was reeling. This couldn’t be happening. What had he done! He noticed that his hands were now trembling and he couldn’t remember when they had started. He turned to his left, everything seeming surreal, every movement as if in slow motion. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of his face in the closet mirror. He was smiling……!Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1123526621215512402005-08-08T13:42:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:07.289-06:00The smile<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/thesmile.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/400/thesmile.jpeg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I was sitting at my desk at work when this random lady walked by and flashed one of the most brilliant, genuine, affectionate smiles I have ever seen. I could tell you her race, but that would be besides the point. I could tell you her approximate age, but that not necessary. I could tell you whether she was pretty, tall or short, fat or slim………but none of that matters. All that matters is that she smiled. No wait, she smiiiiiiiiiled! I was having what was turning out to be a lousy day - but that was all before the smile. It wasn’t one of those I’m-just-being-polite smiles, this was a real, 100%, no water added smile that warmed my heart. <blockquote></blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">Mother Teresa once said, “Every time you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing”</span> .<blockquote></blockquote> I didn’t know what she’d meant till today. I mean I knew and understood the words but I had never really felt the full meaning like she had described. It was like a window peering over a garden in which grew every possible nice thing. And for a moment I gazed through that window. For all I know she was having a bad day too, but for that moment in time she reminded me of all that was good in this world. So what if my car broke down? So what if I have a couple of overdue bills? So what if I’m stuck at this desk staring at the computer for the next 10 hours? She smiled at me – but more importantly, I smiled back.Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1122455257140308452005-07-27T04:00:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:07.203-06:00LUCID DREAMS - part 1<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/eye2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/320/eye2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />He stood up from his bed, beads of sweat streaming down the sides of his face. His breath was coming in quick, labored gasps making a wheezing sound that seemed to fill his whole head with noise. He could feel his heart beating in heavy thuds that joined the raspy wheezing in a kind of orchestra from hell. He heard the baby crying and suddenly he was filled with anger. He turned and saw the soft, sexy silhouette of his sleeping wife under the covers and got the compulsion to hurl something at that figure. The baby uttered another desperate wail, urgently demanding attention. He knew what he had to do. He moved across the room, slowly, a deliberate step at a time. When he got to the door and opened it, the wail got louder as if instantly magnified. He, on reflex, turned back to look at his wife even though he knew what he would find. She lay there uninterrupted, the blanket gently rising and falling as she breathed in her sleep. He had often marveled at her ability to remain asleep no matter how much noise he was made. He turned back towards the opened door and walked down the hallway towards the baby's room.<br /><br /> He opened the door, smelling the sweet light scent of clean cotton and baby powder. He took a step into the room and was instantly enveloped by the blue light he had installed in the room three months ago, just before his wife and the baby came home. He walked over to the horse shaped, wooden rocking crib that stood in the middle of the room and took a long look at the squinted face of the crying baby, wondering how such a little creature could make such a loud noise. The baby, on sensing him, opened her eyes and stopped crying. He stood there for a moment, his anger dissipating, gazing at the angelic face that stared back at him and thought he had never felt love for anything like he felt right now. He wanted to hold her and reached down into the crib. Suddenly the baby let out another screeching wail and he, in shocked surprise, quickly pulled his hands back but in doing so lost his balance. He fell backwards arms flailing and hit his head on the wooden floor. He was immediately filled with a sharp pain that seemed to radiate from the small of his back into the rest of his body and let out an anguished moan. He lifted his head and looked at the crib feeling the blood pound in his head. The baby was still screaming and he felt his pain turn to a blinding rage. He got up slowly the rage spreading to occupy every inch of his body and he reached into the baby's crib. He grabbed the blanket and stuffed it into the baby's face. He could hear the muffled cries get a little more desperate and after a moment, the frantic movements beneath the blanket ceased.<br /><br /> He walked towards his room clutching the stake knife that he had just gotten from the kitchen drawer. He pushed the door open and stood there watching the rhythmic movements of his wife. His eyes burned with rage and the pounding in his head seemed to get worse with every second he watched her. She was the cause of the pain and the pain had to be stopped. He let out a wild yell and lunged at the sleeping figure, the knife pointed out in front of him…<br /><br /> Andrew sat up in the bed in that confused state just before waking up. He blinked for a second then it all came rushing back in. It was that same dream again. Damn it, this was the eighth time in three weeks that he had had that exact dream. He wiped his forehead with his left hand and it came back damp. He looked down at his sky blue pajamas and saw that they had turned dark with perspiration. He let out a troubled sigh and looked around the room. Outside, the sun was rising filling the room with golden rays that seeped through the curtain edges as if trying to peek in.<br /><br /> "Honey what time is it?" asked his wife stretching and turning to face him. He had married Judy ten months ago when they found out that she was pregnant but he had been planning to anyway. He was a senior partner in a law firm and that afforded him a comfortable lifestyle. All he had seemed to need was someone to share it with and now with Judy and the baby, all that was coming true.<br /><br /> "Huh", he responded slightly dazed.<br /><br /> "Are you okay?" she asked the urgency creeping into her voice as she noticed the sweat drenched pajamas. She quickly sat up and reached for his forehead with the back of her hand, deep lines appearing on her brow. "Do you have a fever?"<br /><br /> "No just a bad dream" he responded sullenly pulling away from her. He was feeling guilty about the dreams even though he knew he wasn't responsible.<br /><br /> "Another one, isn't that the third this week? Maybe you should see someone about this."<br /><br /> "Damn it Judy I don't need to see anyone, I'm fine!" he said his voice rising an octave higher. In truth he had been pondering the same thing but that might have meant also opening up to Judy about the dreams. He didn't want to do that. Who knows how she might react, after all she had only known him for a year, and how well do you really know a person after only one year. He knew that he could never do such a thing but how would she know that. With all the crazy stuff happening in the news these days anything was possible. She might get scared and end up drawing away from him. God knows he wouldn't be able to take that. No, she mustn't find out about the dreams.<br /><br /> "Well don't shoot me for caring," she said a little perturbed herself.<br /><br /> "Honey," he said reaching for her as she was about to get off the bed. "I'm sorry, you know how I'm an ass in the morning". He pulled her close to him and she didn't resist. "I love you very much".<br /><br /> "I know I love you too it's just that I'm worried about you".<br /><br /> "No need to, I’m fine," he said. "Cross my heart." But even as he said it, he wondered if he truly was. The first couple of times it happened, he had thought it the result of too many late hours in the office and even cut back his days to three a week from a rigorous six day schedule. That didn't help, if anything it seemed to increase the frequency of the dreams.<br /><br /> He stood up, walked to the bathroom sink and splashed water on his face which made him feel a little better. He straightened up and peered into the mirror on the wall above the marble sink. He noticed the deep, dark circles forming around his eyes and knew he had to do something. He had to do something very soon.Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14644133.post-1122423353239124522005-07-26T18:20:00.000-05:002006-11-12T20:53:07.106-06:00Stories to keep you up at night<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/1600/boogeyman.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/512/1332/320/boogeyman.jpeg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Ever since I can remember, I've always been fascinated by the things that scared me. A nightmare, a horror movie, dark abandoned houses, elves........you know things everyday people worry about. What was that? Regular people aren't scared of elves? ......uh, I didn't mean......er, you know......um, it's just that..............ahem. Well screw you, those pointy eared yokels scare me, big deal. Moving on. I was talking about my fascination with the phobias. I've always wondered, what it is that scares me about the things that scare me? And it seemed, no matter where the thought started, it always ended up at things beyond my control with the potential for some sort of physical harm. I'm scared of things that I know I have no command over that I believe could hurt me in some way. If this doesn't sum up any and all of your fears, quick, call a shrink - you are crazy!<br /><br />I've decided to explore this domain of fear by writing a series of short stories about, well, things that hide in your closet at night with an axe - for lack of a better word.....or words. These will all be original stories, that I'm yet to pen (with the exception of part 1 of story 1) and any similarity to anyone's personal experience will be truly coincidental. So please don't go calling the cops talking about I'm stealing thoughts from your head,..........besides, I know the mayor. These stories will come in sections with each story probably having about four parts. I promise not to drag them too long, well, I'll try since I don't know what'll write until I write it.<br /><br />Feel free to offer any and all criticism, I promise I won't send my 7'2" friend Paul to pay you a visit and find out exactly why you don't like my work. What? I promise!<br /><br />The first part of the first story, Lucid Dreams, is already written and I will post it soon. Thank you for your time. Enjoy.Sandmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09446628261595706921noreply@blogger.com0