# Literary Manoeuvres August 2019 "Dead and Dreaming"



## velo (Aug 1, 2019)

*"Dead and Dreaming"*[FONT=&Verdana]
_650 words, deadline 20:00 PDT ( UTC-8 ), Saturday 17th August, 2019_[/FONT]​
*
Introduction*

This month's prompt, as voted for by WF members, is "Dead and Dreaming", for which you are to write a maximum of 650 words of fiction. Pick your own title, write about whatever you want, in whatever prose style and interpreted as you see fit, as long as it's related in some way to the prompt. You decide the best way in which to dazzle your readers - and the judges. :smile:

The judges this month are *anonymous.  *Both judges and entrants will be hidden behind a veil of secrecy until the scores are published.  

If you win, you'll get a badge pinned to your profile plus a month’s access to Friends of Writing Forums (FoWF) where you’ll have access to hidden forums. Pretty neat, eh?

A couple of points:

We will continue the experiment with the different style of judging this month, superceding the current judging guidelines temporarily. SPaG and T&V stay as they are, but effect will be divided into two scores of five: _evaluation_, and _reaction_. Evaluation focuses on the technical aspects: synposise the story, consider whether the prompt is included, what story elements are used, is it consistent, and so on. Reaction is the personal bit: did the story touch you?

All entries will be PMed to *velo.  *Please DO NOT post your entry yourself.  If you want your entry posted in the workshop to retain first publishing rights or otherwise keep your words away from google please say so in your submission PM.  

Lastly, why not check out this ancient text on how to best approach this task.


*Rules*





*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word is the standard for checking this. If you are unsure of the word count and don't have Word, please send your story to me and I'll check it for you.





Everyone is welcome to participate, _including judges_. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score. Please refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an entry until the scores are posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send the scores one week after the closing date it will ensure a timely release of results. Please see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*Saturday evening 17 August at 20:00:00 (8 PM) Pacific Daylight Time (UTC-8), on the dot. Please note any time differences where you are and be mindful of daylight savings time.  ​
Scores would be appreciated by the last day of the current month, at the latest, pretty please, cherry on top, mmm? Too much later than that and I will have to post with any scores that I have.

Click here for the current time. Good luck!


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## velo (Aug 2, 2019)

Entry 1- Dead and Dreaming (645w)


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## velo (Aug 4, 2019)

*Entry 2 - Joe Hill - 1915 (650w)*

In the early morning hours, a song on the radio by my bed begged me to come awake. I fell deeper into a dream about a dead man, still alive, instead. 


I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night,
Alive as you or me
Says I, "But Joe, you're ten years dead,"
"I never died," says he 
"I never died," says he" - Joan Baez, Woodstock - 1969
-----------------------------


An immigrant, itinerant worker was Joe Hill. The songs he wrote gave him a voice to speak to folks he met along his way. His rough, un-rhyming verses told of the fight to earn a decent wage, without discrimination and with respect. He was a quiet man, spoke in low tones, but when needed, he could make his voice heard - for the people who were just like him, trying to get by in the vicious cycle of poverty and need, during WWI.


After being on the road for a time, he moved into a rooming house in Salt Lake City, owned by the Erickson family. He met their daughter, Hilda, and was in love from the minute he saw her. She smiled up at him, blue eyes warm and inviting, hair golden in the sun. She was, however, already seeing a brute named Otto, so the two men set off to show her who was the best.


Joe would sit on the porch and sing to Hilda, but the only songs he knew were about hungry working men, poverty, and the lies spun by big bosses and preachers. He wanted to sing a love song for her, but once he got started the fierce fight would come out and the meaning behind the words was often lost on his lovely Hilda. 


The closest he ever came to touching her was to hold her hand. At the time, it seemed enough, but one night he saw Hilda and Otto in the moonlight, closer than close, without so much as a moonbeam to shine between them, and Joe knew he had to stake his claim.


He stepped up, pulled them apart and landed a mighty fist on Otto's square jaw. "She's mine!," he shouted, and they had at each other. The fight seemed to go on forever; both just kept getting up for more. Joe would stagger to his feet, blood dripping into his eyes, but still he kept going. Hesitating only once, he caught a glimpse of Hilda's tears on flawless cheeks. Otto took the opportunity to land a hammer on his already broken nose. Joe charged back.


But Otto soon had enough of Joe Hill. He simply reached for his gun and shot a single bullet into his chest.


Joe went to a doctor, who called the police. There had been a double murder nearby and because of his wound, they thought he had done the deed. He told them he was shot in a fight over a woman, didn't even own a gun, but they convicted him of killing a father and son who owned a grocery store. They were working people and it broke Joe's heart. 


After a denied appeal and many cries for clemency from all over the land, he was shot dead by a firing squad on a cold November night, in 1915. 


But he wasn't done! His body was sent to Chicago, Illinois for cremation. There his ashes were placed in six hundred small envelopes and mailed to many friends around the country. On a lovely May Day in 1916, his ashes were released to the four winds by those who knew him well.
---------------


My dream had ended, and I awoke. I hummed Joe Hill all the way to work that day, feeling empowered by gratitude that such a man still lived in song, his story to be told.


"I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you and me . . ."


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## velo (Aug 6, 2019)

Entry 3 - Exhibit A


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## velo (Aug 7, 2019)

Entry 4 - One Dead, One Dreaming (650w)


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## velo (Aug 14, 2019)

Entry 5 - Moodswings (650w)


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## velo (Aug 14, 2019)

Entry 6 - Northern Lights (639w)


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## velo (Aug 15, 2019)

*Entry 7 - WAR BRIDE (645w)*

Captain Thomas Stuart had been gone for months. He had volunteered and traveled North with the regiment to fight the yanks in a bloody war that seemed to never end. As a captain in the infantry, he saw many savage battles, and watched many good men die. None of these things were ever recalled in the regular letters sent home to his wife, who he adored.


Emeline waited patiently for each of the letters. She sat on the porch in her mother’s old rocker reading and re-reading each letter as they arrived. Her heart was filled with pride, knowing that Thomas was fighting the interloping northerners with many men at his command. She longed for the day that Thomas would return home to her and no longer be Captain Thomas Stuart of the CSA, but simply her Thomas. Then, they could start their family.


The letters began to take more and more time in arriving. But, when they did arrive, they were filled with reassurance that the war was going well, and he would hopefully return home soon. Eventually, it seemed as though the letters had stopped. Emeline kept up hope that the next day would bring another letter for her, but it did not. Slowly, worry crept into her heart, needling at the hope she had been harboring.


One night she went to bed, moistening her pillow with a trickle of tears. She yearned to see her husband and to be held by him. Her heart ached as she laid there in the silence of the lonely bedroom. Eventually, sleep overtook her and there was peace.


Emeline woke with a start at the sound of a knock at her door. Light was streaming in through her window and she could hear the warbling of the birds in the tree outside. She turned in her bed to see who had awakened her.


Thomas stood in the doorway smiling, his uniform crisp and the buttons gleaming in the sunlight. “Thomas!”, Emeline exclaimed as she clambered from the bed and raced across the bedroom to embrace him.


“Emmy honey, I’m home. And, it sure is beautiful here!”, Thomas said as he lifted his wife from her feet and held her closely, like he would never let her go again. They kissed the kiss of long separated lovers.


“I must tell you though, I don’t have long.”, he said.


Emeline dressed and the two descended to the dining room. Over breakfast, Emeline told Thomas all that had been going on at the farm. Thomas entertained Emeline with humorous stories from the war, omitting the more gruesome tales. After breakfast the two walked hand in hand through the plantation’s flower gardens. For lunch, they picnicked by the stream that ran through the lower fields.


All through the day, Emeline would ask Thomas when he must return to his men. Thomas would only say “Soon” and look off into the northern distance.


That evening, the couple made love and fell asleep embracing one another.


In the morning, Emeline was again awakened by a knock on the door. She rolled over to find one of the house servants standing in the door.


“This message just arrived for you ma’am.”, she said as Emeline looked around the room wondering where Thomas had gone. She took the note and opened it. With confused tears growing in her eyes, she read:


_“Mrs. Stuart,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that your husband,_
_Captain Thomas Stuart, has been mortally wounded and passed into the_
_loving arms that await us all. It was my pleasure to serve with your_
_husband and I loved him like a brother. I must tell you, his final thoughts_
_were of you. I’m told that before he passed, he was heard to say_
_“Emmy honey, I’m home. And, it sure is beautiful here!”_

_Lt. Daniel Moreley”_


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## velo (Aug 16, 2019)

Entry 8 - Black Wings of Everwaking (650w)


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## velo (Aug 16, 2019)

Entry 9 - The Breathless (287w)


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## velo (Aug 16, 2019)

*Entry 10 - But I haven’t seen Dubai (505w)*

I swam through fog; up, maybe down, but towards the haven of some dim and distant light. But there only dread welcomed me: the fingers of some forgotten nightmare. I opened my eyes to shape, colour and texture and yet I saw nothing. Each was isolated from the other, refusing to form a coherent image. Was this what it was like for a person blind from birth to suddenly see? It made no sense. The colours were shades of black and grey, the shapes geometric. A movement, and a world drifted into focus. But a world upside down. Was that a wheel in the air? The movement was a shadow. It crawled beyond my sight, lurking. I could feel its presence. It watched. It waited. For what? I tried to move but couldn’t. Something held me deathly still. Even breathing was difficult, shallow and uneven, as is something sat upon my chest. And still the presence waited, right beside me, but out of sight. A flash of memory came unbidden: _headlights in the rain, an empty winding road._

_No, not now. Not yet_. _I must move._ I strained every sinew, commanded every cell, screamed at every muscle to move. Suddenly, with a crack, I turned my head to behold the presence. I saw the eye first, framed in a fractured car wing mirror. It was my eye and my bleeding head. I could now see the totality of the car, upside down and twisted. A thousand tears of glass were shattered upon the road, crying in jaundiced light. And still I could not move. _Carefree driving on a wet summer night._


A shard of colour pierced through the darkness, then another: bright blue flashing followed by the shriek of a siren. The crunch of boots on gravel, urgent voices muffled as if by distance. Help. I relaxed my fate to the professionals. _Heady, opening the Porsche door._

“… airway intact…”
Steady hands held my head. 
“… OK, I’ve got access…”
A dim pain lanced through my arm.
“… get the board under…”
A hardness braced my back.
“… _out, out, brief candle_…”
Fear flittered inside my chest.

The shadow! I rallied against it, knowing now it would not leave me in safe hands and willing myself to rise, sure that if I could but direct my rescuers’ attention to it, it would melt under their gaze; sure that something so obscene could not belong in our world of tarmac and ambulances and chardonnay; that even the smallest gesture from my hand could break the spell upon me, the spell that pulled me down and down, ever down; if I could just move my hand… _Dancing, drinking, chatting; another good night._

A movement snapped my attention back to the mirror. _No!_ In it I watched as the shadow crept towards me, extending an impossibly long limb towards my head. _I won’t go_. I was not surprised that my rescuers did not see it. It felt cold as the world sunk into nothing. _But I haven’t…_


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## velo (Aug 18, 2019)

Entry 11 - Dead and Dreaming (650w, mild language)


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## velo (Aug 18, 2019)

Entry 12 - The Harpist (650w)


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## velo (Aug 18, 2019)

Entry 13 - Morningstar (646w)


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