kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"CityOfLostDreams.1"

words

900 words

I write to an audience of millions: millions who eagerly yet with the elegance and savoir faire of connoisseurs sup on my every word, my every turn of phrase. Have I always? I think not. Once it was such that I had no concept of millions. Once it was such that I had no concept of writing -- what was I then? I was a dream, still, I am sure. Or perhaps I was not; not a dream, not at all.

I write to the adulation of my well respected peers. I am recognized for this writing. But truly, I am not -- the millions are as much a dream as any other here. More, perhaps, for they are me. Would it upset my loyal readers to know that they are me and nothing more? Perhaps, but it is not worth the frustration. In any case, they knew before I told them, though they may have managed to forget exactly how I'd say it so that they could savor the words as fresh.

I am, to put it as succinctly as I can manage after these two hundred odd words, the dream of recognition through writing. Sometimes what I write is truth, and sometimes what I write is fiction. Mostly what I write is some combination of the two; what else can one expect of dreams? --



Yes, yes, young Squeak, I have a mission, and I will carry it forwards. The mission however is not so straight forward as this narrative would have it be, and you lay upon me great responsibility. (Of course you know this and you do not wish me to belabor it. You are certainly an impatient critter.) Dear audience, if you do not know her... but you do, for you are me and I know Squeak quite well. But perhaps I do not understand her as well as one would like. Do you think it would be possible to understand her better by Socratic method? Perhaps, perhaps. Where would one start? I know my answers so well, but then I lose myself in them and fall back to writing this in air...



Oh, very right you are Squeak, very right you are: I'm not weaving this in the breeze, and there's an excellent place to start. I can explain that, and much will come clear to our, well yes, our readers who might not know the first thing of the City of Lost Dreams. (Do you mind that I capitalized that, Squeak? No? Thank you. It's very kind. You know, you're an awfully understanding being.) She really is. Quite --



No, I'm afraid I lost my thoughts.



Hmm. Quite? Quite right. I was *going* to say forgiving, but she seems to be pushing her limits. (Do calm down, Squeak, it's not at all becoming)



She's new, you see. No, I suppose you don't -- at least, I hope you don't. Or she does. I have her hope, as it were.



(You're right, I have confused the matter.) Squeak is a hope. A lost hope, to be precise. She's not unique in that -- there's easily thousands of them running about infesting this or that; they do get about. You know, I hear that the lost dream of free and fair elections has a whole nest of hope hidden in his beard.

...

Ahem. As I was saying: Squeak is rather unique for a hope.

She has more life, more substance. You see, yes, well, I hope you'll be able to see... this. This is her idea -- she's very brave, or perhaps idealistic. She is, of course, a hope, but there's more to her than that. I don't know what it is, but there's more to her than any hope here, possibly more than all other hope toegether. She's the lone spark in the darkness, a lone Squeak in the silence.

She and this flag you now hold (so we hope) -- I'm sewing tiny threads of hope throughout this tired flag: Old Glory.

...

Squeak wants you to forgive the flag -- it knows not its people's sins. This flag stands for freedom; it stands for liberty and justice. It stands for dreams. It stands for us, and you if you exist (or perhaps that's backwards, eh Squeak?). This flag was strong once and carried the dreams of a nation. Perhaps it can carry us as well: carry us away from this Lost City and make us whole again. Perhaps.

(Squeak?)

This is all symbolic, of course, but it's the substance we have; we are but dreams. Say hello to Squeak. Believe in her. Rekindle that hope, and perhaps she can live again. With her, perhaps we all can. But she is gone now; she is but these last tattered remnants oddly stretched to fill the thoughts with perhaps enough to say goodbye. I have lost my hope and with her "you", as much as you were but a dream of this lost dream.