Legacy of a Dreamer
Read Legacy of a Dreamer Online
Authors: Allie Jean
First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2012
Copyright © Allie Jean, 2012
The right of Allie Jean to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
(Australia)
PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126
(USA)
PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168
Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-040-8
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-041-5
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover image by: © Amy Kaplan
Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/ajean
Allie Jean was born with an overactive imagination. At a very early age, a child, her days were spent inventing stories, directing her sisters in made-up plays or telling elaborate ghost stories. Her mind never took breaks, or shutdown, even when she slept. When her eyes shut at night, she would have vivid dreams complete with extensive, elaborate plot lines, and good overcoming evil villains.
She was encouraged by her parents, even at a young age, to write down her tales, and it has remained a somewhat secret hobby.
It became a means to escape from the drama of real life into one of the many worlds she created.
Now, living in California with her husband of ten years, her love of storytelling had taken a back seat with the arrival of their four children. Though, she always found time to write down her thoughts on whatever was handy, including a stray diaper or two while rocking a sleeping child in the middle of the night when her character's begged for attention as well.
As a busy wife, mother and working full-time outside the home, somehow she has been able to write down her relentless character's story.
Her once secret hobby and private world, is now released for other's to enjoy.
Nothing would make Allie happier that to continue writing and spend more time at home with her family on a more full-time basis.
::§::
"For nightly visions speak of our worst fears, and greatest desires . . ."
– AJ
::§::
Your heart beat for only mere minutes, yet your ephemeral little life has brought so much joy to our lives. For my writing, for the gift of perfect love, and for a million things more, this one is for you, little Angel.
To Angeliz, Jodi, Alanna, Candace, and Kristi - without you, the dreams turn to ash.
A dreamer dreams in color and light. The world she makes within her mind is her only escape from reality
.
Here, she can dance with the wind, laughing aloud with a carefree indulgence that isn’t allowed where she is from. She smiles as the blades of grass tickle her bare feet, the cool dew the only thing that remains constant amid the ever-shifting background. Her clothing transforms to various dresses she’s coveted before. Now, she wears a deep lavender A-line with a willowy skirt that skims across her skin like the touch of fluttering butterfly wings. The colors around her mix and move, shaping the images as fast as her mind can create them.
She envisions her most hidden desires, finding her wishes among silken tulips when she leaps onto a cloud made of the softest light. Here she’s alone—her solitude giving her the peace she lacks otherwise. Here she can breathe, relax.
She opens her eyes with a start, finding her safety morphing into the unknown. The change is against her will, bringing a sense of foreboding. She’s approaching that precarious edge where the ominous hint of a nightmare forms, causing a chaotic racing of her heart.
Her sight becomes hazy, the environment shifting from a glorious sunset to something far more sinister. The darkness encroaches, the terror and intrigue seeping in.
This is not a dream, but a vision. The sharp images and echoing sounds don’t fit the criteria of a listless fantasy. Her attention piques, intuitively aware what she’s about to see may be of some importance; granted the gift of second sight by some mysterious force.
These visions have come in sets as of late. It didn’t always happen that way. She can tell this one is connected with the many she’s seen over the past three years. It’s the same feeling she’s experienced since she was young. The same chilling dread encompasses her when she sees the redundant images of a warrior fighting the darkness until he falls, a black smear of blood upon the ground becoming his deathbed.
A candle flickers to life beside her, and she turns toward it in response. The walls around her begin to solidify. Tall windows made of different-colored glass set into depictions of saints and martyrs. Wooden pews facing the altar held a slight scattering of patrons, their heads bowed in homage. Their silent reverences are directed toward a shadowed cross. A man hangs from it, his head tilted as if death had claimed him.
Beneath stands a cloaked figure, his robes stained an ominous red as he raises his hands toward the sky. A circular object rests in his grip, starkly white against the heady background. She’s captivated when the man holds it high, drawing the attention of the room and changing the tempo of her heart to a steady, quick rhythm.
She’s seen this vision before, but the feeling of it is different this time. She senses the urge to look around her, yet she can only look at the white, round loaf of bread, hypnotized by its purity.
A deep cadence of voices begins to sing a haunting melody, and the words are in an unknown language. It doesn’t matter that she can’t understand. In her mind, she knows the meaning automatically, translated in implication and tone by an unknown power. Her soul joins an audience that seems greater than the entire world’s population, chanting the same words, though in various tongues.
The bread slowly changes as she watches, the color deepening to match that of a winter rose. Her eyes widen when she realizes the cross is bleeding. No, it’s the man who bleeds. A thick river of crimson gushes from his side, coating the servant and the host, and running down onto the altar below.
The singing dies as a creak of wood and metal resound behind her, and a breeze gusts through the hall. Her instincts urge her to turn, to see who’s come inside, yet she’s frozen, transfixed on the sacrament before her.
Heavy footsteps clatter upon the marbled floor, the pace unhurried, solemn with unspoken intent. She senses that the quiet ambiance will soon be in upheaval.
When the visitor approaches, the vision morphs once again. The parishioners have gone, as if made of smoke. The priest, too. On the altar lies the blood-soaked bread, on the wall, a vacant cross.
She turns toward the approaching footsteps, taking in a shuddering breath when a young boy passes by. The weight of his walk doesn’t match his small stature. The dark color of his clothing, hair, and shadowed eyes make her see him in a revealing light. His nature matches the atmosphere. He ignores her presence, his bright eyes watching the cross above expectantly. He pauses below it, staring up with an innocent, inquisitive expression.
“I thought He would’ve been here,” he says, cutting through the silence.
“Who?” she whispers, suddenly standing next to the boy. He holds her hand, his small fingers wrapping around her palm like a warm glove as her skirt billows around her, moving with a sudden breeze. The boy remains unruffled, his clothing and hair in perfect form.
“The man.”
The boy sighs, looking up at her with concern. His dark eyes seem ageless; foreboding while the tireless question that has been asked many times before remains.
