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The dream was always the same. Grassland that reached beyond your sight, hills that formed and clumped together in the distance, with a stream that shone radiant from the sun.
And he would run across the grass, roll in it, jump into the stream and wade, laughing like a child, jumping and splashing, and then just keep running, running towards the hills.
At which point, he always woke up, and found himself chained to the floor. The rusty iron manacles that held him in his cell... the barred doors that lay behind him, and the small window that was before him.
Each day was always the same struggle. He would get to his feet, and try, PUSH, with all his might, so he could just peer, just see a glimpse of the outside world... see just for a second through that window. But he never could see. All the time telling himself, the metal was stretching, he had moved up a whole damn centimetre from yesterday... when the truth was he hadn't moved at all. All the work, the constant pressure... but he never saw out that window.
And he would fall asleep, dream again, the lush green grass, every now and again he would dream of a tree, a single tree... and he would lie under it, and chew the grass, before getting up again, and running for the hills.
Food and water came every other day. Not that he noticed. All he did was plead that they would release him, just for a second, they could whip him, kick him, do anything they wanted, as long as they could let him see out the window, if just for a second...
They could tie his hands, his legs, they could TAKE his arms and his legs... he didn't need them... he just needed to see, he needed to see the outside, the world, more to dream of.
But the man never said a word. He walked in, dropped the food and water, and left, locking the door behind him.
He would always eat though. Because tommorrow, he'd stretch the metal further.
One day, in his dream... he was splashing in the calm waters of the stream, when he was awoken. There was a lot of noise.
He couldn't really remember what happened, but a man came in, unlocked his chains, and told him to go with him.
The man got to his feet, and ran to the window... he looked out, and just stared in wonder.
Mud. Nothing but mud. There were a few cracks in the ground, there was a twig lying about fourty metres away... and that was it. Mud.
And so, sitting in a helicopter surrounded by marines and others that had been trapped in the prisons... he fell asleep, and for once, he dreamt something different.
He opened his eyes to see nothing but mud... mud in all directions. There was the twig, the broken branch that lay on the floor... the dry cracks that broke the surface in random places... and he smiled, and he ran... he ran across the mud, laughing and crying... and it was more beautiful than he could have imagined.
The dream was always the same. Grassland that reached beyond your sight, hills that formed and clumped together in the distance, with a stream that shone radiant from the sun.
And he would run across the grass, roll in it, jump into the stream and wade, laughing like a child, jumping and splashing, and then just keep running, running towards the hills.
At which point, he always woke up, and found himself chained to the floor. The rusty iron manacles that held him in his cell... the barred doors that lay behind him, and the small window that was before him.
Each day was always the same struggle. He would get to his feet, and try, PUSH, with all his might, so he could just peer, just see a glimpse of the outside world... see just for a second through that window. But he never could see. All the time telling himself, the metal was stretching, he had moved up a whole damn centimetre from yesterday... when the truth was he hadn't moved at all. All the work, the constant pressure... but he never saw out that window.
And he would fall asleep, dream again, the lush green grass, every now and again he would dream of a tree, a single tree... and he would lie under it, and chew the grass, before getting up again, and running for the hills.
Food and water came every other day. Not that he noticed. All he did was plead that they would release him, just for a second, they could whip him, kick him, do anything they wanted, as long as they could let him see out the window, if just for a second...
They could tie his hands, his legs, they could TAKE his arms and his legs... he didn't need them... he just needed to see, he needed to see the outside, the world, more to dream of.
But the man never said a word. He walked in, dropped the food and water, and left, locking the door behind him.
He would always eat though. Because tommorrow, he'd stretch the metal further.
One day, in his dream... he was splashing in the calm waters of the stream, when he was awoken. There was a lot of noise.
He couldn't really remember what happened, but a man came in, unlocked his chains, and told him to go with him.
The man got to his feet, and ran to the window... he looked out, and just stared in wonder.
Mud. Nothing but mud. There were a few cracks in the ground, there was a twig lying about fourty metres away... and that was it. Mud.
And so, sitting in a helicopter surrounded by marines and others that had been trapped in the prisons... he fell asleep, and for once, he dreamt something different.
He opened his eyes to see nothing but mud... mud in all directions. There was the twig, the broken branch that lay on the floor... the dry cracks that broke the surface in random places... and he smiled, and he ran... he ran across the mud, laughing and crying... and it was more beautiful than he could have imagined.
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Really nice Grix. Not much more to say really and its not often you silence me :0)
*thinks up something annoying to say*
Can't. Well done. :)
*thinks up something annoying to say*
Can't. Well done. :)
And thanks again everyone for reading, really cheers me up to find people enjoying the odd stuff that twirls around in my head. :0)
I'm just recording how long it takes me to write everything, so yeah, it's the time I start. Just did it for the first one, kinda just got into tradition of doing it.
Grix, just curious as to what the numbers at the top of your stories are? The time of day?
Anyway, another good story by you, the ending is good because you feel that he expects too much from what will be outside, but when he gets outside and it doesn't sound beautiful to the reader, to him it is, because it is freedom.
Anyway, another good story by you, the ending is good because you feel that he expects too much from what will be outside, but when he gets outside and it doesn't sound beautiful to the reader, to him it is, because it is freedom.
Was thinking that the other day. Try and raise a bit of money, so I can do some more stuff... always good to have a book too. :0)
This is what that publishing thingy was about. I'm not sure if I can just walk into a publishing house with a book or not. :0D
This is what that publishing thingy was about. I'm not sure if I can just walk into a publishing house with a book or not. :0D
You should write a book Grix, full of all these stories. Not sure what the title would be, but I'm sure it would contain "Something." {:)
Excellent stuff.
Excellent stuff.
Arthouse ponce ;-)
You know I'm joking. Excellent.
You know I'm joking. Excellent.
Oh, before I forget.. :)
Grix posting something happy? Are you feeling okay?
:D
Grix posting something happy? Are you feeling okay?
:D
Nice. Good ending, it reminds me of a similar story I once heard, which I suspect you've already heard too.
I'll summarise it anyway.
It involves two people, locked in prison. One has a window in his room, and every day describes the outside world to the other - the trees, the birds, the kids walking home from school. He describes the sunsets, the morning dew glistening on the grass, the shapes of the shadows and the coulds in the sky.
Every day the other man wishes he had the window. He envies the man with the window in his room, and wishes he were there instead. It's only these descriptions of the world outside that get him through each day, give him his will to live. Nothing else matters. He'd give everything he had for once chance to look out of that window, but instead has to be content with the descriptions relayed to him. The months and years inevitably slip by, until one day the man with the window in his cell is released. Not wanting to waste this oppertunity, the man who had spent all those years in the windowless cell asks to be moved to the now vacant cell.
His wish is granted, and he allowed to move cells. He looks out of the window, to make real all the images which have been dancing around his mind for years. He looks out to see the scene that was described to him in such detail, on so many occasions.
He looks out, and there is nothing there but a brick wall.
I'll summarise it anyway.
It involves two people, locked in prison. One has a window in his room, and every day describes the outside world to the other - the trees, the birds, the kids walking home from school. He describes the sunsets, the morning dew glistening on the grass, the shapes of the shadows and the coulds in the sky.
Every day the other man wishes he had the window. He envies the man with the window in his room, and wishes he were there instead. It's only these descriptions of the world outside that get him through each day, give him his will to live. Nothing else matters. He'd give everything he had for once chance to look out of that window, but instead has to be content with the descriptions relayed to him. The months and years inevitably slip by, until one day the man with the window in his cell is released. Not wanting to waste this oppertunity, the man who had spent all those years in the windowless cell asks to be moved to the now vacant cell.
His wish is granted, and he allowed to move cells. He looks out of the window, to make real all the images which have been dancing around his mind for years. He looks out to see the scene that was described to him in such detail, on so many occasions.
He looks out, and there is nothing there but a brick wall.
Can't really reply, but I REALLY loved that.
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