The transformation of a dream


This is an admittedly strange story – but this is written more or less on a dare by The Cutter.  I was challenged to use Transformers, Guns ‘N Roses, the plight of a Philadelphia sports fan and Mr. Eko from Lost in a post, and I DO love a challenge.  Please don’t judge me on this roller coaster of imagination!


Guns ‘N Roses blasted in the background as Mr. Eko sat, head in his hands, wondering where it all went horribly wrong.  The acrid stench of  smoke still permeated his sense of smell even though the  fuselage, that was once meant for a much bigger purpose, had ceased burning long ago.  In retrospect, he realized he was much safer on the island.  The billions of dollars he had illegally transferred to fund his project had gone up in smoke when Oceanic Airlines Flight 815 met with its unanticipated fate and crashed into the deserted island on which he now found himself trapped.

The project had seemed light years beyond the technology that was available at the time.  He  had painstakingly sought funding, pilfered money from unsuspecting institutions and watched his idea grow from infancy to maturity.  It was brilliant.  Science fiction and action movies had created this phenomenon on the big screen but he was helping to make it a reality.

The design, on paper and in computer software, was flawless.  Moving parts were masked to create the facade of a passenger airliner but, underneath, the pretense of modern aviation was enhanced by robotics.  This plane would make history and alter the way humanity viewed modern travel.  Access to remote areas would become simple, mundane, and no piece of the Earth would remain untouched.  There would be no more need for extended runways and no exotic destination would be impervious to human persuasion.  Planes would become Transformers.  Spheres of rubber would never again touch the Earth’s surface.  Instead, wings would become arms, and legs would propel from metal making the plane land in an upright position on a small square of land.  Pure genius.

But, like any Philadelphia sports fan, his dream was marred with disappointment.  His Hail Mary had been thrown.  Hundreds of people had watched as the glistening ball of metal was thrown from the opponent’s thirty-yard line and failed to meet its destiny.  The plane soared through the sky, showing the promise of scoring the winning touchdown and dropped a yard short of its intended receiver.  The game was over, the robotics had failed, the plane was destroyed and he was trapped on a secluded piece of earth surrounded by an immeasurable ocean.

mr eko

(image credit:

As the lyrics of Sweet Child of Mine played incessantly in the background, he finally realized the irony of the only soundtrack that remained intact after the crash.  That idea was his baby, his lineage.  And as he blatantly ignored the encroachment of his impending  death, he welcomed the final release that would come when the Smoke Monster finally found him.

Reflections – a short story


This was a piece of writing I started a while ago and I’m unsure where I was going with this.   I thought it would be interesting to get some feedback.  Any comments are appreciated.


The rain was heavier than usual that night and the wind streaked through the trees leaving a trail of leaves and twigs scattering in its wake.  The mottled gray sky seemed to undulate with the motion of the wind.  Torrents of water cascaded along the sidewalk and involved the trash it picked up in its macabre dance.  This was November.  Michael grabbed for the collar of his coat and did his best to shield himself from the icy bursts of cold air.  The gusts of wind tore through his jacket and felt like white-hot needles piercing his skin.  He could vaguely make out the lights of his house in the distance.  Tucking his head down, he battled the elements as well as he could until he reached the all too familiar driveway.  Never before had his living room looked so inviting.  He climbed the feeble steps to his door and inserted the key.  Although he fumbled with it for a few seconds, he still did not hear the sound of the lock disengage from its housing.  Baffled, Michael withdrew the key and examined it to make sure he had the right one.    The wind had suddenly shifted and the rain was now blowing fiercely from behind.  The pockets of cold air swirled around him and seemed to push him from the door.  He fought against the force and once again attempted to get into his sanctuary, but to no avail.  He stepped back from the threshold and peered into the picture window.  The blinds were opened enough so as to afford him a slice of vision into his home.

The rain had not dissipated and, as Michael exerted himself to be able to look inside, the wind knocked him off-balance and toppled him into the yard.  The sucking noise seemed to reverberate in his ears as he pulled himself from the mud.  The wind had increased its intensity and played at Michael like a feline with small prey.  Fighting against the currents of wind and rain, Michael made his way back to the window.  Stepping up onto an empty flower box, he peered into the well-lit room.  The figure of a man was clearly outlined in shadow against the wall of his kitchen.  Michael shifted his position to get a better view and keep himself inconspicuous.  The figure stealthily maneuvered around the room and the shadow began to shrink.  The man was coming out of the kitchen.  Michael crouched until his legs ached in objection.  The kitchen light was extinguished and the man entered the living room.  He had a casual way about him and somehow seemed familiar.  As Michael was able to focus on his face he thought he was merely seeing his reflection in the window.  With trepidation he wiped the beads of rain from the glass.  The image of the man cleared enough for Michael’s vision to accumulate the details and process the information.  He was looking up at himself.  Michael’s balance wavered and he tightened his grip on the ledge.  He could not avert his eyes from the man in his home.  He shared the same mannerisms, the same habits and seemed quite content to be ensconced in Michael’s life.  A jagged streak of lightning sliced through the night sky and the thunder answered back with a rumbling scream.  The intensity of the noise shook Michael on his perch and he teetered on the lip of the flower box.  He struggled to regain his composure and in doing so, reached for the ledge.  Instead he connected soundly with the glass.  The intruder startled immediately and rose from his chair.  Michael corrected his angle and stood to watch the man cross the room to the window.  The two stood face to face on either side of the pane of glass.  The beads of rain continued to follow their winding paths to the ledge in which Michael still found himself attached.  The  look-alike pulled his gaze from the figure outside and turned his attention to the storm.  The teeming rain continued to dance in the light from the distant street lamp as the wind tossed it in all directions.  The man inside took a step back from the window and in one fluid motion, reached out to the blinds and pulled them shut.

Michael’s grip on the ledge faltered and he plunged into the puddle on the lawn.  The water seemed to envelope him as he lay floating in the puddle.  The man inside opened the blinds as if something was out there that he had missed.  Movement in front of the house as lightning crested the horizon averted his attention from the spectrum of light.  His gaze settled on the image of the man in the puddle.  Features similar to his own shimmered in the reflection as raindrops disturbed the peace of the small pool.  Light from a break in the storm hit the puddle and accentuated the eyes of the reflection.  Wonderment turned to fear, and as the rain gathered, the puddle began to flow into the stream that quickly traveled along the sidewalk.

The reflection in the puddle slowly disappeared into streaks of color that followed the current.  The puddle was now gone and so too, the image of the man.  The man inside the house once again glanced into the evening sky and drew the blinds.

Daily Prompt – The Light Beyond The Glass


Daily Prompt – Take the first sentence from your favorite book and make it the first sentence of your post.  I took this line from Cold Fire, by Dean Koontz.

Even before the events in the supermarket, Jim Ironheart should have known trouble was coming.  The gloomy weather was an overwhelming indication that the confines of his small apartment would be his only safe haven, but he was never one to let the voice of reason be his guide.  He was a man, after all, and he would let no sinister feeling shape his mood or carve the path of his day.  He prepared himself for the barrage of wind and rain and locked the door behind him.

The Supermarket, oddly named since it stood on a small corner and was the only store for miles, seemed to cast an eerie glow through the mottled grey light of the morning and he  paused with his hand on the door.  Something was waiting for him inside that store.  He felt it as much as he felt his heart beginning to pick up the pace of its beat.  He surveyed as much of the store as he could see beyond the shelving units that were home to his precious fast food addiction.  After what seemed like an eternity, he couldn’t delay any longer without looking like he was casing the joint and as he pushed open the door the chimes signaled his entrance into the store.

The air was frigid.  Not just air-conditioned, but Arctic cold.  The exhalation of his breath hovered in front of his face and seemed to hang in the air long enough to form its own icicles.  The place was deserted.  Apart from the humming of the coolers, there was no sound.  With slight trepidation, Jim made his way deeper into the store.  It took several seconds before he realized his footsteps made no noise.  There was no squeak of wet rubber on the tile floor and no audible proof that he had even moved at all.  The incessant hum of the fridges seemed to increase in volume and pierced the silence like an arrow.  Jim was now drawn to the back of the store.  He needed to get to that fridge.

As he pulled open the door to the cooler, the world behind him went black.  The ethereal luminescence emitted from the refrigerated section of the store was the only thing that seemed to exist.   Jim turned slightly to look behind him and there was nothing.  The store seemed to have been pulled into a giant vacuum and the only thing that existed within those four walls were Jim and the door he still grasped in his hand.  The contents of the fridge no longer existed.  Jim seemed to be standing on the divide between the blackness behind him and the white light of the cooler.

Jim stared at the light.  He cautiously brought his free hand to the opening and found the courage to let his fingers be bathed in the warmth that the light was emitting.  His fingers tingled in the light and he felt a joy that he didn’t know he had within him.  He liked it.  He wanted more.  He stepped into the opening and the door closed behind him.  He was awash in such a blissful feeling.  He began to weep and as the saline from his tears saturated his cheeks he felt a sense of utter happiness.  All the pent-up anger and disappointment were sluiced away by his tears and for the first time in his life he felt blessed.

The alarm clock blared and Jim was startled awake.  The modest decor in his apartment swam into focus and Jim realized he had been dreaming.  He swung his feet out of bed and sat up, wiping the cobwebs of the dream from his head.  As he rubbed his eyes, he felt the dampness from his tears and noticed that his pillow was wet.  As he struggled to recall the fragments of his dream, he began to smile.  The smile became wider and, for the first time in a long time, he was happy to greet the morning.   Jim carried that feeling of joy with him for a long time after that experience and realized that the name “super market” was a gross understatement.