Guest Appearance

I want to preface this post because it is, beyond this preface, not my own. I am placing a bit of fiction here, written by a good friend, Mike Raevsky. Through a collaboration of our own reasons, it is appearing here in Wanderal. A note to you, Dear Reader: The content is not light and may cause you to think deeply ... or, perhaps not. Your reaction depends, forebodingly, on your perception.


Deja Vu

The conniving controller created a swirling cacophony of colors caustically crossing his vision contriving a low level panic. This was the Somnatextorix's job every night; to oversee the maelstrom of dreams that hid her creative process. Now, the floor dropped out from under Maxwell, and he was swimming in a giant tank with fish, manta rays, and most quizzical of all, audacious swimming parrots. This didn't seem strange to Maxwell because, of course, he was dreaming. It happened every night. The sun rose below the ocean, and the diaphanous explosion of salmon and burnt umber hues evaporated the sea. The fish and manta rays became cats and cars, and Maxwell flew far above a typical English countryside. Exultant in the feeling of flight, Maxwell was dry and weightless.

Somnatextorix couldn't feel. She understood the idea of emotions much like a physicist understands that electrons are waves and particles, but she couldn't fathom what they would be like. She attributed colors to them, named them, and above all, she inflicted them on Maxwell. The key to the whole process was to drain his mind of any possibility of remembering the events of the evening. The cheery green hills and vibrant blue sky filled with impossibly puffy and white clouds began to gray. The undersides of the clouds began the process, and as they expanded, they foretold a violent storm that would rend the world. Maxwell was dimly aware that the flying had stopped and the world was fading. He was along for the ride tonight.

Maxwell walked past street lamps, grateful for the light they gave off. It wasn't as cheery as the setting sun, but ominous brick buildings blocked its warming glow. He wanted into the door. He needed something inside that building, and the door was locked. Of course, he'd left the key. The crushed sky made him feel like he had sepia toned sunglasses, and the shadows from the buildings cut across the street, stark and mysterious. The transformation from dream to
nightmare was complete settings wise, now Somnatextorix infused the plot with details from his ordinary life. A hurt friend inside the building, the key at his work. Maxwell was running by this time. Endurance is never an issue for Maxwell because he is a confident man, but in this dream, he could never be fast enough.

His office is locked, so he climbs up the outside to an open window on the second floor. Somnatextorix added another floor between him and the open window, and then another. The journey must be interminable, but when Maxwell reaches the open window reflecting the sun like an egg white on a cast iron skillet, he looks down to the harsh asphalt just one floor below, unsurprised that he's only climbed one story.

The office has been ransacked, and he trips on his way to his cubicle. The light switch doesn't work, and he walks by inference through the subdued navy and gray tone shapes to his desk. There is a meatball sandwich with lettuce covering the meatballs on the left, and on the
right, he sees a stack of papers. The key! Maxwell exits the front door without incident, but he can't remember where the building is. He runs in what he senses is the right direction. There are new turns on his route back, but Somnatextorix guides him with her most ingenious creation. Death would not be so frightening if you could see it. The Enemy has no real properties except for its shining red eyes and the sound that it makes as it follows you, just entering your sight as you round corners, always encroaching. Like a kitten playing with a mouse, the Enemy guides Maxwell and his hammering heart to the building with the nerve jangling sound only possible within the confines of nightmares.

Somnatextorix inserts a fumble before Maxwell gets the door open, but he is inside before the Enemy reaches him. The search begins again, and when Maxwell finds his friend, there isn't much left. The sadness that would accompany an ordinary death doesn't strike Maxwell; his terror and self-preservation instinct cause him to coldly examine the red splatter painting for patterns that might lead to the killer. Whether Maxwell is intent on vengeance or flight is unclear at this time, but he studies. Limbs seem to be strewn over the floor at random, and a grisly head with eye-sockets and upper teeth glares at the wall in a pose fit for eternity. Maxwell finds tracks in the blood. They are the Enemy's, but Maxwell does not know this. Maxwell wants out, and he would like to wake up.

Somnatextorix pulls him up just enough to feel the comfort of darkness and blankets before bringing him back down to a red velvet room. The windows have translucent white curtains that gently flutter in a breeze that Maxwell cannot feel. There is a four mahogany post bed in this room, and a doorway that leads to a bathroom. Maxwell is wearing faded blue jeans and a tight white T-shirt. His belt is simple, well loved leather, and a pair of old cowboy boots adorn his feet. He smells flowers and turns around to see a woman, five foot eight and draped in a satin night robe. The sunlight flows freely through the windows that do not allow the wind to pass, and he moves to her.

Some part of Maxwell knows this is a dream, but running his fingers through her auburn hair and tenderly examining her stunning hazel eyes, he lets himself enjoy the foreplay. She runs her hands up his chest, fingernails first, sending chills up and down his spine, and he pulls her robe off with a flourish to reveal beautifully freckled, somewhat tan skin that runs all the way to her toes.

"Max" she breathes. Her deep purple bra only just holds her breasts. He doesn't know her name, but this is a dream, so what the hell. He reaches around her waist with his right hand while running his left hand's fingers up her neck, into her hair to pull her face to his. Their kiss is slow and passionate, allowing all 20 fingers to explore cheeks, then necks, then backs, then breasts and buttocks. He picks her up just above her thigh, and she wraps her legs around his waist while he carries her to the bed. It's a dream, so she doesn't weigh anything; all he feels is her warmth encircling him.

She reaches for the ground with her toes, and when he lets her down, she unbuckles his belt, and pulls it out with a satisfying snap. With a devilish glint in her eyes that never leave his, she belts his feet to the bottom of the bedpost. Her fingernails push his T-shirt up over his head, but by some trickery that Maxwell doesn't understand, his hands are locked above his head by the shirt, and she is kissing his chest as she unbuttons his jeans. She moves with a frenzy that would
have scared him if he'd been conscious, but he's not. Her bra and panties vanish and she's kissing him and standing up on the bed, holding the bedpost above his head. She bends her knees to position herself and pushes him inside her, warm and safe. She holds there for a full minute, kissing his lips, neck, and chest. He kisses her in return, but as she moves out of range, he is forced to look at her hungrily. Again, she grips his hips with her legs, but this time, she moves her hands down the bedpost behind his head, and leans back putting tension in her arms.

She lustily looks into his eyes as her hips begin to move. He can see her lithe thighs, abdomen, and hips flex in a slow, coordinated symphony of movement that has brought men to their knees from the dawn of time. He moves in time and out of phase, all the while yearning to taste her lips on his. Her wanton eyes loll around the room as she moves up and down on him, and he watches her breasts and stomach. He can now feel the gentle breeze flowing across his bare skin, pulling the sweat off. She moves faster and faster, and he surges to keep up. Maxwell is virtually senseless with ecstasy but as she reaches her climax, the world fades to black, and the real dreaming begins.

Somnatextorix could not have said if she was the woman in Maxwell's dreams. She did not have emotions. She could not feel. She certainly moved her, but those two things perhaps aren't the same. Then again, it doesn't really matter. Maxwell's emotions had run a brutal gauntlet, and now that he is drained, she goes through his life as it will be for the next month. She builds the scenery and the images with an amazing eye for realism. Part of what makes Somnatextorix godlike is her ability to build realities with whatever stylistic bias she wants. The dialog is infinitely faster than the backdrop. People transmit infinitesimal bits of information over periods of hours, while building a sunset requires an incredible swath of data for every changing instant and every viewpoint. It was the rare person that valued her work, but again, she could not feel; she could not care.

She weaved her creation together with the realities of nearby people to create a seamless version of their lives yet to be. As she finished up with his dinner, he began to recover. He rolled over in his sleep, and she considered the possibility that he would remember this snippet of his future. The stars came out after dinner as he walked away from the restaurant, and she pulled out. She'd have to finish his month later. If she could love, she might have had feelings for Maxwell; she always gave him more time than her other charges because he stopped to enjoy her sunsets. It did not occur to her that he might be watching her sunsets because they were more beautiful for him, or that if he was simply watching because he enjoyed them, that his life wasn't as preordained as she believed. A small part of Maxwell knew though. What made Maxwell special was that he also knew that it didn't matter, and that made the sunsets worth watching.