There are two islands in the middle of the ocean. One is a desert island and the other is green and leafy. I'm on the desert one and everything is sandy and orange. There is a dusty beige path leading down to the sea where the desert drops off suddenly but the water's not far down. We were on the path and some kids were being mean so we went down to the sea. We swam over which was somehow cut out of the dream. Then we were on the leafy green island and there was a bridge made of metal pipes that went across a cove and part of the ocean. I t was very high above the water as well. It was absolutely gorgeous. We climbed across the bridge to a stone bridge with moss which is beautiful as well. Then some how I was back at the metal bridge hanging from the bars. The way you crossed was by swinging across, like on the monkey bars. Casey was with me and dropped into the ocean. Colby was next to me, saying not to go. I was scared because of the long drop but I went anyway. I plunged into the ocean where Manny, Kim, Katie, Melissa, and Tabitha were waiting. We swam back to another part of the island. It was so easy to move through the water too. It felt like swimming through air, not even having to work to propel myself.
The strange thing is that at the time Colby was my very close friend and Casey was a friend of his I didn't know so well. The entire time Colby was being discouraging and telling me that I couldn't jump off the bridge, while Casey was being so supporting. He knew I could.
That's the confusing part.
Once my mom asked me if I ever had an imaginary friend or something like that. I said no but I did remember a lady named Linda who had red hair. I didn't remember who she was though and maybe she was one of mom's friends.
Mom said no, Linda wasn't one of her friends. When I was little and my parents were in the midst of their divorce, if I got upset or scared she would try to calm me down but really couldn't for awhile. Then I would stop throwing a fit and calm down suddenly and when she asked me if I was alright I would reply,"Of course. Linda's here again Mom."
Another time when I was 3 and we were grocery shopping I started to tell mom a story about how once when I was younger I climbed a apple tree on Mr. Camp's yard and fell out. Then I told her I even had a scar from it and I pointed to my knee. That was the same story her mother, my grandmother, told my mom about the man they had lived next to in Utah. My grandmother had died before I was born.
I love to write. When I write poems or short stories I try to develop my sentences and dialogue and have an interesting plot going on at the same time. I like to make characters that are 3 dimensional and all the rest. Then late at night I log into my fanfiction account and I steal other writer's plotlines for a moment and write fluffy, saccharine stories that are just too much fun to give up as I probably should. Those stories are like the trailor trash in the suburbs of the huge city of writing. Dangerous for brain-cells, but addictive.