Dream of Sand

I remember my dream, for the first time in months. Now little is extant, but I remember a great chamber, so dark you can hardly see the walls, the floor strewn with rubble, half an ancient theatre or a great school hall, half a war zone, kipple everywhere. We’re all children (I sense my mother is involved somehow) and we’re running amidst the rubble against the opposition, trying to acquire something that’s half typewriter, half bomb, half radio, but is very valuable. I hang back in the struggle for the macguffin, but eventually, too late, I join in and almost grasp it as the opposition take it, following the captor as he takes inside a doorway in the chamber’s corner, on their side of the chamber and into a cluttered small room with a stairs blocked by a closed door, shelves beneath. I lie down beneath the stairs’ shelving as he places it in front of the door, thinking it secure, and he passes by me. I think I can grab it and sneak it out, think I’ve not been spotted, but a gentle, resigned hand shakes my shoulder and the illusion of stealth evaporates.
Later, I am outside, in a great sandy desert enclosed by high smooth slopes, like arena seating with no seats. A sandstorm whips up and I sink into it, losing sight of everyone, if there is anyone. The sand doesn’t hurt, doesn’t abrade, just smothers. I can’t breath through the whirling particles and am buried, managing, through flailing my hands, to keep my mouth of the sand as it settles. I am completely buried,save for my mouth and someone comes to help me out.

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GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.

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