The Stranger Dream

 I wrote this raw version in an hour. Enjoy!

The Stranger Dream

By Joshua A. Spotts (grateful/stranded/dream)

            Albert Mersault was a man of the darkness. His shadow was never seen. In the sunlight everything seemed as an image in a broken mirror. He clung to the thick darkness of the night, cowering in the darkness of the earth in the day. He walked silently with footsteps softer than a cat’s. He was master of the night. No one heard or saw him. He moved and did as he pleased until they arrived.

            The gas lamps were bearable. In fact, Albert liked them. They flickered and were familiar. They assisted him when the moon and the stars cut through the night ceiling for he hid in the shadows they caused. Those shadows were lighter and then darker, ever in a constant state of change. He enjoyed the effect this produced. If anyone glimpsed him there they would only see an illusion. They would dismiss his presence to the deception of their own eyes.  This was all before they came.

            They cut through his home. That wonderful darkness he embraced and which had embraced him. It was no longer safe. Those horrid beams of brilliant illumination bit through all he held dear. A spear of pure hate caught him full in the chest. He blinked at the dazzling light for a moment before he heard their voices. They had found him. Those silver badged varmints with their beams of light.

            Albert ran. He ran with all the purpose in him. He scaled a nearby fire escape. It didn’t creak and groan beneath his light weight. At first, he thought they wouldn’t hear him and they didn’t. The lights, they found him. He winced in their cruel illumination. He felt utterly naked, even swathed in dark robes like he was.

            “Climb, boys, we have him now! Circle ‘round.”

            The pursued player of the shadows fled across rooftops and the men with their illuminating beams chased after. Hate swelled in his chest, combining with his fear of the light. He glimpsed out across the skyline and glanced the reddening cloud. He cursed the light and dived through an open window. He moved silently through the room. A sleeping child rolled over in the corner. Down the hall, he slid down a banister and out the front door. As he left the building he heard the crash of furniture, curses of men, and the crying of the frightened child, then there were hands on him. Those long-fingered claws drug him to the ground as the sun rose in the sky. Albert Mersault screamed his hatred to the world.

            “He’s a thing of passion, be cautious.”

            “I think I can handle myself, captain.” 

            Albert huddled in a shadow behind one of the parapets. A man dressed as a prince emerged unto the tower roof. He held a sword in one hand and a club in the other. Albert hissed at him. The man towered over Albert. “Tell me what you heard.”

            Albert Mersault shrunk deeper into the shadow, fearing the light. A heavy, gloved hand pulled him out into the center of the tower. The hand slapped him to the left then backhanded him to the right. Blood trickled down Albert’s chin. He held his eyes closed. He sat in a humiliated, pathetic heap at the man’s feet. The club came down and he remained motionless, sprawled out upon the tower top, fully exposed to the hated light. “Tell me, fool. Or I will kill you like I killed your family.”

            “I do not fear death.”

            “Then live an eternity in the light,” the man stormed off the roof, his crooked nose held high. Albert chuckled, had he actually offended the man’s pride? Two men with the silver badges emerged unto the roof. They had clippers and needles and thread. They laughed as they sowed Albert’s eyelids to his eyebrows. His entire world shattered like an image in a mirror. He saw the pyramid symbol on the shining badges and cursed under his breath as they beat him with rods. He was stranded on that tower all day and the sun burnt his eyes out.

            Louie Mersault awoke with a start. What a horrible dream. He leapt out of bed and stared around. The red numbers on his alarm clock read 3:23. They gleamed through the darkness. He could still see! Louie sighed. That dream had been so real. The light turned on and there, in the doorway, stood a tall man with a shining badge. The pyramid and eye boldly declared who the man was. The Illuminati had finally come for him. The man spoke, his voice like tires on gravel, “what did he hear?”

Meat and Dessert Editing

Recently, while I was talking with a fellow Professional Writer, Katie Irons, she mentioned a particularly interesting illustration concerning editing. She told me that editing should be like polishing off a dinner plate. You start with the meaty parts first and finish with the dessert. This illustration stuck in my mind and now I am outpouring my thoughts on it.

I thoroughly agree with her. The "meaty parts" of her illustration concerns the first draft edit, which I am currently going through on a book of mine. The first draft edit is a run through to make sure everything fits. It is a test that the story is properly filled out and constructed. I have strayed from the method of first draft editing, though. I have added a scene and am struggling to tie it into the next. I believe that I should just make a note of that page and the issue therein and then move on. In this way, I can complete the entire first draft and then look at my list of details to fix for the desert part of my editing process.

Think about it. The dessert is often the most detailed part in a meal and it is typically reserved till the end. This is the same way with the finite details and the scene insertions and/or reworkings of editing. I believe that grammar falls under this section of the edit. There are so many details to grammar that if I looked for every grammatical error in the first draft it would take a really long time.

Overall, I believe the first part of an edit, the "meaty parts," should go quickly so that I can enjoy the dessert...okay, so maybe I won't enjoy it. I will enjoy the fact that it will be the last part of my self-editing process and that, dear reader, is sweet enough.

The Peculiarities Part 2

Aye, that is me, standing out there in the rain. In this blog I am going to confess two more peculiarities that apply to me as a writer. The first is my compulsion that drives me outside in shorts to feel the weather fully upon my naked torso. (gasp, I used the word naked!) Sometimes, while I write and when it is stormy outside I feel an urge to rush into the weather. I stand out there, becoming one with the character in my head. After this strange ritual I hurry back to my laptop and pound out a scene involving what I just felt. I am quite sure I look rather strange while doing this. But, how would I know how to describe something if I had never experienced it?

In the past, I have spent hours outside in a jacket and jeans, during the winter, to feel the pain of a character who is lost in a frozen wasteland without adequate supplies. I can imagine magnificent things, like dragons, but to experience an encounter with one would be truly wonderful. I can imagine hours-long sword fights, but to experience one. To feel the tremendous fatigue. I can imagine the calming, magical touch of a fairy, but to experience it in our world today? Perhaps there is something wrong with my mind. Are these the normal urges of a person? 

The second peculiarity may not be as strange as the first. I have a tendency to spend entire days around my house with a cape around my shoulders and a sword at my waste. I have worn capes and tunics into public places. I didn't feel ashamed or even wonder why people were staring at me. In fact, I felt proud. I enjoyed throwing something shocking into their monotonous lives. Another time I wore a grey wig for an entire day for no particular reason at all.

And thus concludes my four prominent peculiarities. I feel that most of these come from my writer's mind. I could keep going with these confessions, but I do not believe that is necessary. I could mention that I carry around a pocket notebook that I use to, as I call it, "steal people's souls." I will consider explaining this habit of mine to you, dear reader. We shall see come Tuesday.