Young Writers Society

In my mind I dream of cities on rails, held well above the tree line and constantly moving, the only man made structures on the ground small towns based around multi-level farms

In my mind I dream I am on a port by the sea. Around me countless people shuffle along with their various cargo, pushing past me as if I am nothing while going to their various ships. Despite the yelling and screaming I notice a pair of sailors with a large crate between them, covered in a dark and heavy tarp. They were bulky men who had long since been hardened by the sea they often cross. Yet now they seemed soft and drunk, stumbling with their cargo like they hardly cared about their job or what ever was contained within. Like all the others on this port they ignore me bumping into me and blaming each other for the sudden stop. The yelp I gave was echoed by the crate.

In my mind I dream of I men with no faces, scratches cover their numbs we would call heads, and they all are dressed as if going to a funeral. They walk all to a massive obsidian structure while women watch on. Their faceless heads cleaned and polished as if glowing orbs of light. I can only guess what is going on in that structure.

In my mind I dream I am standing on a red stained shore line, not from blood, nor gore, it's just...red. In the distance, the faintest of outlines of a planet can be see, reflecting light from the far off sun of this world that had yet to rise. I am alone here, but know that the beach will be soon. For the sun rises, and I expect the red of this beach to soon be a little redder.

In my mind I dream of a world of neon, a world under the world laced with moss that creates this colorful gas and then charges it. Endless caves spread out beyond my awareness and the life of countless creatures squirm in its depths. Living off the light of this moss. Flourishing under its care. To them, truly this light must be their god.

In my mind I dream of horrible things. A me dressed in a soldiers armor and laughing in a city half collapsed by the bombs around it. Corpses of men, women, and children decorated the city like ornaments to some grotesque holiday. Truly he is a artist at his craft as he ran through the city killing anyone he found so smoothly that only he could count the seconds it took. In this chaos he was home, and I knew he would continue to walk it until no more bodies were left to kill. 

In my mind I dream I am on a train, electricity spiraling outside as the train rushes through a tube of energy. While there are no windows I can hear it ever ringing, setting the metal of the train to a silent and ever present hum. I glance around and only see bored faces playing on many devices, both mute and colorful.

in my mind I dream of a city of white, where nobody truly walks, it is a silent place covered by machines with human faces, for all of humanity is hiding in their own perfect virtual worlds. Places so perfect that they feel no real emotion. Only existence, they no longer know joy because their worlds let them know no pain. It is expected humanity will go extinct in only one hundred years. With only their machines to maintain the ruins that shall be left behind.

In my mind I dream I was a six year old, my class had gone outside and the teacher was asking us to look up into the clouds and say what we see. She picked a large lump of white and all of us had a turn saying something. One boy said a truck, one girl said a pretty woman, one boy said a robot, one girl said god, then when it was my turn I spoke of a city. I detailed its structures and the people within. They all looked at me, funny, like I had said something wrong, weird, strange. But to me, it made perfect sense.

In my mind I dream I am a octopus, the ever present hue of blue I would see with my own eyes in such a ocean a dull grey with many shades of white and black in between. I crawl a coral reef in search of prey, hardly in control of my tentacles, yet ever aware. I can not see the colors of what is bellow me, but I can FEEL it. I can feel the blues and reds, the yellows and greens. I can feel the colors of my skin change to match and the moment all my tentacles stop so I can hide. I know I will have to wait a long time.

In my mind I dream of a wonderful woman. A girl I could adore, so far away from my heart that she could be on another planet. But she is beside me always, and she is the one to adore me. In this world I am fiction, a creation of a mind far more bored of its life then I am of mine. The stories told of me are explorations into science and magic, of the many worlds that my mind diverged. I am nothing but a poster on the wall and text in a book. Yet the life she brings to my fiction makes me all the more real in her head. So she plans to make worlds of her own. To dance with me and many more fictions. Perhaps one day to write them down for others to draw from.

In my mind I dream I am in pure darkness, and a voice says to me "Truly you are dead." I do not understand why I believe him, but I do. But he changes he mind and says "Truly you are alive." I still believe him. 

In my mind I dream of a world with such vibrant colors I think I might go blind on the beauty of it. "Truly" I thought, "Truly this is how the world should be." After many minutes, many hours, many days observing the vibrant flora and fauna, breathing in the lights and towns with their elegant shine, I saw grey. Grey was on the horizon, as were all the other dull colors of our world. I ran and scream for help, but nobody noticed as their world went dull, only me. Then I was dull as well. 

In my mind I dream of a empty school room, the teachers desk coated in a fine layer of dust, a moldy apple half eaten among many half graded papers. The chair rusted and snapped in half, and a blackened outline of what might have been the man who worked there. I looked around the room and found plenty of ash and dust, but much more was there. Every student desk filled with books and their little artifacts, colorful stickers and toys they used to amuse themselves while the teacher talked. The seats were all filled with ash and little fingers seemed to have drawn in the dust on top of their desk. Scratch marks of their one week loves and the people they hate. Before I left the room I thought I heard yelling, and a echo down the hall.

In my mind I dream of another me, a girl in contrast to the male me. Yet despite this, she seemed to be doing far more "manly" work. Hands coated in oil and hair tied back by a network of strange bands she was putting together a unknown machine. Like an artist with their brush I could see the attention she gave every bend in the metal. Every piece that went into the machine another step in a wonderful play only she could preform. Welding on parts and cutting off others at a frantic pace as she gathers inspiration already long past the design she had started with. The inventor I could never be. Showing her art in another way, one that would work as well as it looks.