Savrins: Based On A Dream
ONE SHOT (Possibly)
I knew this was a special privilege. Many had tried to talk to him, but failed, turning
away exhausted and frustrated. Left with more questions than they arrived with. It got to
the point where the ruined family stopped accepting visitors and adoring fans. For some reason,
however, I was granted permission to enter the decaying house. The door creaked open, with no
one there to greet me. Stepping in however, the house was darker than the world outside,
shadows cloaking everything. The door shut behind me, and I jumped, placing my hand on my chest
as I realized a woman was standing behind the door. It took me a minute to calm my breathing
as I realized she was indeed living, and not a ghost.
She had a motherly look about her, short blonde hair, with no real distinguishing facial
features. Her face was very pale and plain looking, and it appeared that she didn't even have
eyebrows. Not a word was said, or needed to be said, as I faced the staircase in front of me.
The closed draperies allowed no further peering into the living room to my right, for it was
too dark to see. I climbed the staircase, my host not following me. The whole house smelled of
mildew, the scent getting stronger as I reached the top of the stairs. I needed no directions
as I slowly made my way to the end of the hall. Opening a knicked and battered wooden door,
another staircase was revealed to me. It was narrower than the one I just climbed, and small
streaks of light filtered through. I took my time making my way up them, taking the time to
notice small flakes of stray dust floating through the sun beams. The staircase wrapped around
a landing, and continued to ascend. I reached the top, letting the breath I was holding go
rather loudly.
I looked to my right, and through a doorway was an empty room with green walls. The
windows here were also taped with newspapers, and I squinted my eyes to see in the dim light.
Not a noise was present, not even from downstairs. I stood there, with my purse slung over my
shoulder, and did a quick turn around. I had been taken for a ride, no one was here. Upon
completing my turn, I noticed a man sitting in the green room where no one was occupying it
before. It made my heart jump violently. He was sitting just inside the doorway atop a
cardboard box, next to a window that let the light in fully. He looked old and worn, with his
brown pants and suspenders, his white shirt, and matching brown hat. Upon noticing me too, he
lowered his dingy golden trumpet from his lips. If he had been playing before, I did not hear
it. No words needed to be said as I turned to face a door next to me. It was the same yellowed
wood as the one downstairs, and I opened it, keeping my eyes on him. A short staircase, maybe
only four steps in total, met me. Looking up the stairs, I could see clearly as another un-
covered window was at the top. Straining my head to the right, I saw various crinkled newspaper
clippings tacked to the wall. I lump started to form in my throat, and fear began to make its
way in my brain. I turned back to the old man, hoping he would accompany me up the stairs. His
eyes didn't met mine in their silent plea. Shutting the door quietly, I decided it was time to
go, and turned to the staircase I had just come up from.
He was there, standing before me. How he got in the room I'll never know, for not a creak
of the steps behind me betrayed his presence. He stood there, the sunlight playing off his
faded golden hair, making his face look paler than normal, and stared at me. His lips were
drawn tight, and his head was tilted. He seemed to be considering why I was here, along with my
very persona. He knew what I wanted. I wanted what all the other nebby people wanted, answers.
Most were turned away once face to face with him, but little did I know that today I would
receive a very unique opportunity indeed.
A table now stood where the door once was, along with an old wooden chair. I couldn't
explain to myself how these objects and people evaded my sight. The boy, who appeared to be
maybe twenty years old in age, though his small stature fooled people into believing he was
younger, sat down in the chair. Now a small red radio was clutch tightly in his arms, the old-
fashioned kind with the large speaker to one side, and a black knob on the other for picking up
scratchy radio stations that long since died. Seating myself on the floor, I looked up at him
impatiently. I was brimming with excitement, though I did not let it show. Now where all others
failed, I would be listening. His face now showed anxiety and fear as his blue eyes looked down
and away from me, seemingly finding the floor more interesting. Softly, music began to play
from the radio without so much as a single dial being turned. It was that of the old trumpet
bands in the fifties, and upbeat, lively music. A small, childlike perky voice began to sing a
snappy tune with the trumpets. It was a voice I -and the world- had heard countless of times.
It was his voice.
Looking at his face, I notice it had brightened considerably, thinking of moments long
since passed. Though his face perked up, his eyes still seemed haunted and lost, and I could
pick up that he was truly not here with me. The tune ended, only to be followed by another one
shortly after. I noticed the tune right away. The same upbeat music, the same voice, though it
was later in his career. It was the last song he ever did. Keeping my eyes glued to his face, I
couldn't miss this crucial moment. A small smile betrayed his face, and I took the nerve to
smile with him. It was at that moment that things turned sour. Just as his mother came up the
stairs soundlessly, the little boys voice on the radio began to miss notes, and skip,
forgetting words he must have practiced a thousand times. Before my very eyes, I saw his
expression turned to one of horror. Hid eyes grew wide, so most of the whites were showing. His
very own mother placed a hand on his shoulder gently as he began to rock back and forth
listening to the skipping voice, while turning her head away. Suddenly he looked years older,
dark, heavy bags rapidly grew under his eyes, and his lips turned a chalky white and were
flaking from being chapped for so long.
The words continued to skip and miss beats, and his wavering back and forth became
stronger, more threatening, as he started to mumble to himself.
*How did things become like this?* I wondered.
Sensing it was my time to leave, I looked towards the carpet. I didn't say a word as I
faded out of this world, and let the boy in peace again.
**************************************************
The reality of my world came rushing back to me quickly. I sat up on the old table I was
currently laying on. I patted down my shimmering sleeveless pink gown, making sure I was still
all in one piece. I was. It was sometimes dangerous to leave your body while you project
yourself away. Little did I know this was one of those times. I stood up on the wooden table,
and surveyed my surroundings. I immediately sense the tension and danger in the room as the
hairs on the back on my neck and arms stand up. Immediately in front of me was a muscular man
with shaggy red hair on a platform. His white tank top had been soiled, and the various scars
on his arms showed prominently. His fists clenched, he looked around the room. Next to him
stood Raphael, dressed in all black. His arms were also exposed wearing a tank top, and a black
bandana was tied around his head. Like the other man beside him, he was looking around sharply,
un-noticing of me.
It was then I noticed the room filled with other men. They stood on the platform around
Raphael and the other man, and behind me as well. They mixed in well with the dingy-ness of the
thick wooden beams that criss-crossed above me, for they were also drab in color. The men were
all dressed in grey, some had beards, others wore sunglasses.
"These men will kill you, don't trust them." Raphael spoke to the red-headed man, who
appeared to be 19 like Raphael, through clenched teeth.
"Will you kill me?" The man spoke. Around the room were different reactions. Some men
lied and shook their heads, others nodded yes telling the truth. Suddenly, a punch was thrown,
and the fight began. Standing up top the table, I stood helpless, watching. Soon, it was
everyone against everyone, the opposing sides from before now dissolving. As the fight
escalated, the table I was perched on began to shake.
Raphaels voice broke through the brawl, "Satu! Get us a smoke screen!"
I bowed down, placing the small silver bottle placed on the table in my sights. What I
failed to see was the witch behind me. A small ball of fire struck the beam above my head,
alerting me to my danger. Turning, I faced the witch, Arista. Her milk-white face was turned
in a scowl, framed by tiny red ringlets. Throwing her hands back, she released another throw
of her fire power. Dodging, I narrowly missed her attack. Spreading my wings, I flew up from
the scene above me. I tried to spoke Raphael in the crowd, but all the people looked the same
in their greys and blacks. Suddenly I spotted him, and hovered slightly above him. Wielding a
double bladed axe, he sliced through many attackers. In a wild rage, he turned so suddenly,
attacking everyone who got too close. He met eyes with me just as he released the axe. I felt
it lodge in my left lower back, right next to my spine. Cringing, I kept my eyes locked on his.
The hatred melted from his eyes, and turned to the look of realization and fright. As I bent
over from the pain, I felt the blade pulling at my skin. My wings began to beat slower, and
without fighting, my body slumped to the ground.
AN: This was an actual dream I had, and I described it as it happened, and the feelings I felt
during the dream. i made up the names of course. I usually write my dreams just for practice,
but let me know if you want to see this develope into an actual story. I think it might very
well develop into a story. Thanks!
ONE SHOT (Possibly)
I knew this was a special privilege. Many had tried to talk to him, but failed, turning
away exhausted and frustrated. Left with more questions than they arrived with. It got to
the point where the ruined family stopped accepting visitors and adoring fans. For some reason,
however, I was granted permission to enter the decaying house. The door creaked open, with no
one there to greet me. Stepping in however, the house was darker than the world outside,
shadows cloaking everything. The door shut behind me, and I jumped, placing my hand on my chest
as I realized a woman was standing behind the door. It took me a minute to calm my breathing
as I realized she was indeed living, and not a ghost.
She had a motherly look about her, short blonde hair, with no real distinguishing facial
features. Her face was very pale and plain looking, and it appeared that she didn't even have
eyebrows. Not a word was said, or needed to be said, as I faced the staircase in front of me.
The closed draperies allowed no further peering into the living room to my right, for it was
too dark to see. I climbed the staircase, my host not following me. The whole house smelled of
mildew, the scent getting stronger as I reached the top of the stairs. I needed no directions
as I slowly made my way to the end of the hall. Opening a knicked and battered wooden door,
another staircase was revealed to me. It was narrower than the one I just climbed, and small
streaks of light filtered through. I took my time making my way up them, taking the time to
notice small flakes of stray dust floating through the sun beams. The staircase wrapped around
a landing, and continued to ascend. I reached the top, letting the breath I was holding go
rather loudly.
I looked to my right, and through a doorway was an empty room with green walls. The
windows here were also taped with newspapers, and I squinted my eyes to see in the dim light.
Not a noise was present, not even from downstairs. I stood there, with my purse slung over my
shoulder, and did a quick turn around. I had been taken for a ride, no one was here. Upon
completing my turn, I noticed a man sitting in the green room where no one was occupying it
before. It made my heart jump violently. He was sitting just inside the doorway atop a
cardboard box, next to a window that let the light in fully. He looked old and worn, with his
brown pants and suspenders, his white shirt, and matching brown hat. Upon noticing me too, he
lowered his dingy golden trumpet from his lips. If he had been playing before, I did not hear
it. No words needed to be said as I turned to face a door next to me. It was the same yellowed
wood as the one downstairs, and I opened it, keeping my eyes on him. A short staircase, maybe
only four steps in total, met me. Looking up the stairs, I could see clearly as another un-
covered window was at the top. Straining my head to the right, I saw various crinkled newspaper
clippings tacked to the wall. I lump started to form in my throat, and fear began to make its
way in my brain. I turned back to the old man, hoping he would accompany me up the stairs. His
eyes didn't met mine in their silent plea. Shutting the door quietly, I decided it was time to
go, and turned to the staircase I had just come up from.
He was there, standing before me. How he got in the room I'll never know, for not a creak
of the steps behind me betrayed his presence. He stood there, the sunlight playing off his
faded golden hair, making his face look paler than normal, and stared at me. His lips were
drawn tight, and his head was tilted. He seemed to be considering why I was here, along with my
very persona. He knew what I wanted. I wanted what all the other nebby people wanted, answers.
Most were turned away once face to face with him, but little did I know that today I would
receive a very unique opportunity indeed.
A table now stood where the door once was, along with an old wooden chair. I couldn't
explain to myself how these objects and people evaded my sight. The boy, who appeared to be
maybe twenty years old in age, though his small stature fooled people into believing he was
younger, sat down in the chair. Now a small red radio was clutch tightly in his arms, the old-
fashioned kind with the large speaker to one side, and a black knob on the other for picking up
scratchy radio stations that long since died. Seating myself on the floor, I looked up at him
impatiently. I was brimming with excitement, though I did not let it show. Now where all others
failed, I would be listening. His face now showed anxiety and fear as his blue eyes looked down
and away from me, seemingly finding the floor more interesting. Softly, music began to play
from the radio without so much as a single dial being turned. It was that of the old trumpet
bands in the fifties, and upbeat, lively music. A small, childlike perky voice began to sing a
snappy tune with the trumpets. It was a voice I -and the world- had heard countless of times.
It was his voice.
Looking at his face, I notice it had brightened considerably, thinking of moments long
since passed. Though his face perked up, his eyes still seemed haunted and lost, and I could
pick up that he was truly not here with me. The tune ended, only to be followed by another one
shortly after. I noticed the tune right away. The same upbeat music, the same voice, though it
was later in his career. It was the last song he ever did. Keeping my eyes glued to his face, I
couldn't miss this crucial moment. A small smile betrayed his face, and I took the nerve to
smile with him. It was at that moment that things turned sour. Just as his mother came up the
stairs soundlessly, the little boys voice on the radio began to miss notes, and skip,
forgetting words he must have practiced a thousand times. Before my very eyes, I saw his
expression turned to one of horror. Hid eyes grew wide, so most of the whites were showing. His
very own mother placed a hand on his shoulder gently as he began to rock back and forth
listening to the skipping voice, while turning her head away. Suddenly he looked years older,
dark, heavy bags rapidly grew under his eyes, and his lips turned a chalky white and were
flaking from being chapped for so long.
The words continued to skip and miss beats, and his wavering back and forth became
stronger, more threatening, as he started to mumble to himself.
*How did things become like this?* I wondered.
Sensing it was my time to leave, I looked towards the carpet. I didn't say a word as I
faded out of this world, and let the boy in peace again.
**************************************************
The reality of my world came rushing back to me quickly. I sat up on the old table I was
currently laying on. I patted down my shimmering sleeveless pink gown, making sure I was still
all in one piece. I was. It was sometimes dangerous to leave your body while you project
yourself away. Little did I know this was one of those times. I stood up on the wooden table,
and surveyed my surroundings. I immediately sense the tension and danger in the room as the
hairs on the back on my neck and arms stand up. Immediately in front of me was a muscular man
with shaggy red hair on a platform. His white tank top had been soiled, and the various scars
on his arms showed prominently. His fists clenched, he looked around the room. Next to him
stood Raphael, dressed in all black. His arms were also exposed wearing a tank top, and a black
bandana was tied around his head. Like the other man beside him, he was looking around sharply,
un-noticing of me.
It was then I noticed the room filled with other men. They stood on the platform around
Raphael and the other man, and behind me as well. They mixed in well with the dingy-ness of the
thick wooden beams that criss-crossed above me, for they were also drab in color. The men were
all dressed in grey, some had beards, others wore sunglasses.
"These men will kill you, don't trust them." Raphael spoke to the red-headed man, who
appeared to be 19 like Raphael, through clenched teeth.
"Will you kill me?" The man spoke. Around the room were different reactions. Some men
lied and shook their heads, others nodded yes telling the truth. Suddenly, a punch was thrown,
and the fight began. Standing up top the table, I stood helpless, watching. Soon, it was
everyone against everyone, the opposing sides from before now dissolving. As the fight
escalated, the table I was perched on began to shake.
Raphaels voice broke through the brawl, "Satu! Get us a smoke screen!"
I bowed down, placing the small silver bottle placed on the table in my sights. What I
failed to see was the witch behind me. A small ball of fire struck the beam above my head,
alerting me to my danger. Turning, I faced the witch, Arista. Her milk-white face was turned
in a scowl, framed by tiny red ringlets. Throwing her hands back, she released another throw
of her fire power. Dodging, I narrowly missed her attack. Spreading my wings, I flew up from
the scene above me. I tried to spoke Raphael in the crowd, but all the people looked the same
in their greys and blacks. Suddenly I spotted him, and hovered slightly above him. Wielding a
double bladed axe, he sliced through many attackers. In a wild rage, he turned so suddenly,
attacking everyone who got too close. He met eyes with me just as he released the axe. I felt
it lodge in my left lower back, right next to my spine. Cringing, I kept my eyes locked on his.
The hatred melted from his eyes, and turned to the look of realization and fright. As I bent
over from the pain, I felt the blade pulling at my skin. My wings began to beat slower, and
without fighting, my body slumped to the ground.
AN: This was an actual dream I had, and I described it as it happened, and the feelings I felt
during the dream. i made up the names of course. I usually write my dreams just for practice,
but let me know if you want to see this develope into an actual story. I think it might very
well develop into a story. Thanks!