TMD Audition

Bedtime is her absolute favorite time of day. She gets to dress in soft, comfortable clothes, and then snuggle in voluminous, warm blankets with a cushy pillow under her head.  Yes, she loves going to bed. Odd in a young lady her age, but still, she has a special reason. When she sleeps, she also happens to dream.

She stood before the bathroom mirror, brushing her teeth and anticipating the aforementioned snuggling. She did her usual assessment of herself. Reflected in the mirror was a really rather small person, with no outstanding characteristics. She had brown hair with a slight curl to it, cut short in a pixie style but long enough around the ears to frame her face. Brown eyes, on the large side, her one redeeming feature in an otherwise unassuming appearance. Pimple-ridden forehead and chin, an overly round face, with an almost unhealthily pale complexion. Straight teeth, thanks to some extensive dental work, including surgery. Her smile is nice, she has been told. Her laugh is too loud, she has been told, but she finds it difficult to turn down the volume on herself.

She's really too short. Five foot two inches, nowhere near tall enough to reach the highest cupboards in her kitchen. She's way out of shape, with a few curves along her frame that shouldn't be there. At least her broad shoulders and wide hips make it look like she's got a waist. As she lifts a hand to brush away some toothpaste foam, she notices once again that her hands are very small. So small that the thick writing callous on her middle finger looks like some kind of growth.

In contrast to her laugh being too loud, her speaking voice is very quiet. She's very shy, and doesn't open up to people very easily. Introverted with strangers, extroverted with friends, she's self-conscious and always in need of confirmation of her worth. So she works hard at her Projects.

Her Projects, capital P. Her cherished creations. Consisting of her sketches and artwork and a large body of written material, only two stories in the whole mess are actually finished. She works on whatever she feels like working on, tidbits of every genre she enjoys writing. As a result, it all moves along at rather a slow pace. Production always jumps whenever she has a particularly vivid dream.

After spitting and swishing and spitting again, she turned her face this way and that, checking all the angles, bemoaning over her chubby cheeks and spotty skin. Finally she stuck her tongue out at herself, and flounced off to her bedroom. Her pajamas consisted of dark, baggy pants and an oversized blue shirt with the words "Gone to my Happy Place, Back Soon" emblazoned on the front. Appropriate, she thought.

She said goodnight to her roommate and turned off the lights, burrowing deep into her bed. Now came her favorite part. Dreams. Where she could be anything or anyone she wanted to be. Where she could have release.

She started off by letting her imagination loose. As was her practice, she started thinking about the various stories she's writing and pictures she wanted to draw. What should happen next? How would this character react to this? What pose and facial expression to try?

This young lady thinks rather strangely. Her mind is made up of many levels of thought, not all of which are thinking the same thing. It gets rather loud in there sometimes. Most levels are music; never the same song. She calls those her 'channels,' like on a radio. Most other levels are stories. Either ones she is making up or ones she has heard or read. She loves reading almost as much as she loves writing. When she's reading a book or watching a movie, she can concentrate all her attention on that, because it is a story. And she loves stories, in any form. Books, movies, comics, television, video games. She eats them up. And as a result, she is very much a story teller.

She'll tell the stories she's amassed to anyone who'll listen. All her siblings are terribly bored with her constant talk of this game, or that book. Sometimes she feels so full of stories she thinks she might burst.

That's where dreaming comes in.

She felt she was falling asleep much faster than she usually did, and felt pleased with this. Sleep is wonderful, sleep is good. She would sleep all day if she could. She floated in stasis, surrounded by dark mist. This did not unduly bother her; her dreams have gone every which way imaginable for as long as she can remember.

She knew that she was still herself, as happens often in her dreams. She looked down to see that she was wearing her favorite jeans with lots of pockets, and favorite t-shirt, a black one with red Akatsuki clouds across the side. On her wrist is the familiar weight of a leather bracelet she always wears. Carved on it's flat, oval bead is the simple image of a boat on waves. It carries great personal meaning for her. With all her accoutrements in place, she waits patiently for her dream to begin.

She gets worried when it doesn't. She continued to float aimlessly in the void, and she felt herself falling asleep again. The mist around her grew steadily darker until she was surrounded by calm nothingness. Her dream eyes closed and she rested, at peace.

Blackness engulfs you as you lose the last thread of bright consciousness. You float in the darkness for time unmeasurable, until the darkness becomes light and the dream begins. Beside you stands a person you never thought to be real, you have twisted their fates, made them who they are and guided them through so many perils. Now they are your only defense in this twisted and deadly dream.

Her eyes flew open when this ominous narration began, and she stared at the blackness in terror until it finished, utterly confused as to what it meant.

She blinked. Suddenly she was standing before a crowd of people, in a large room. There must have hundreds upon hundreds of them; in the strange way of dreams, although the crowd extended for quite some distance, she could clearly see every face. It took her a moment to focus, to really look at their faces, and when she did, her knees went weak. The beings standing there before her were impossible. There was no way they could all be there, here. For she no longer felt that this was her dream.

As she sank to the ground she heard voices she never thought she'd hear.

"That's her?"

"Not much, is she?"

"I demand you give her to me. I wish to make her suffer as she has made me suffer."

"Come on guys, back off. Let's give her a chance."

"Why should we? Look at her. She's pathetic. She made us? I don't think so."

Her eyes moved from face to angry face, some of whom's names she had forgotten, and a terrible realization constricted her throat. She had hurt them. Every one of them. Her friends in reality had always teased her about how cruel she was to her characters. Tears filled her eyes as she looked at them. Young and old, ugly and beautiful, man and woman, infant and aged and every age between. Every one of them. Scarred, because of her.

She burst into tears.

This was met by stunned silence. "She's crying," said a little girl's voice, filled with concern.

This only made her cry harder. How could she? She loved them all so much. How could she have hurt them so badly? She had killed off their loved ones, stricken them with disease. She had made them endure unspeakable horrors, the worst that life could offer. They had every right to descend upon her and tear her to pieces right there.

She wept only for a few moments before a tiny hand reached out and touched her cheek. She jerked back from the touch, blinking away her tears as she struggled to see who it was.

It was someone she never recalled creating. A tiny, perfectly formed woman stood before her, eye-level with her even though she was kneeling on the ground. Her little face was elfin, with thin, delicate features and high cheekbones, atop a graceful neck. Her purple dress covered her trim frame from neck to wrist to ankle, and her tiny, bare feet peeked out from under the filmy fabric. Her eyes were large and pale hazel, her skin flawless and dark, her hair brown and impossibly straight, falling down to the backs of her knees. Extending from her back was a pair of gossamer wings, nearly invisible and shaped like butterfly wings in threads as thin as spiders web.

In a flash of inspiration she knew this tiny faerie for what she was; a muse. Her muse.

"I will not address you by your true name before your creations," her muse said in the voice her heart spoke with, "You will be known to them by your alias. Rosemarri Levi. Rise, and choose your Champion."

Rosemarri Levi struggled unsteadily to her feet, self-consciously wiping at her still streaming eyes, hiccuping a sob now and then. She couldn't bring herself to look up, into the eyes of her creations. She stood like that for awhile, hugging herself, until her muse spoke softly. "There isn't much time."

           That made Rosemarri look up, and start crying again when she saw the looks they were giving her. "I'm sorry," she finally gasped. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I was just... telling a story."

"Choose, Rosemarri," said her muse again. "Choose from among them the one who will defend you."

"Call me Mari for short," she said, making herself look up again. She saw many faces that made her heart leap, looked into eyes of every color, into faces human and not. Finally, her eyes settled on one. Her lips formed his name without thinking as her heart swelled with love.

"Arkeal."

The white-haired youth she addressed smirked, and stepped forward. "Bad choice," he growled, and reached for her throat. She gasped as his strong fingers constricted her breathing, and she grasped his arm.

"Stop," said her muse, gently. Arkeal froze, and slowly released her, the fury in his eyes burning her with guilt. Mari massaged her throat, croaking "I'm sorry," over and over again. Arkeal folded his arms and turned away. After a few moments of her apologizing, he finally turned back.

"Shut up already! I know! I wouldn't be here without you, anyway. So stop crying."

She obediently sniffled into silence, but his words filled her with hope. He was right. Without her, he wouldn't exist. She remembered that with the bad, came the good. She remembered that she had only placed such trials in front of them so they could grow. She made the journey hard, but it was usually worth it in the end. She gave him a moist, uncertain smile. He scowled back. Her smile disappeared.

Mari's muse and her other characters faded into the familiar mist. She watched them go with a pang of loss; there was so much she wanted to say to all of them. Only Arkeal stood beside her still, arms folded, glaring at her with his pale, featureless blue eyes. Being on the receiving end of that glare was more upsetting than she thought it would be. He was as bitter as she had made him.

Finally their surroundings solidified again. They stood in a crowd of people. Some of these people were normal, like her. Normal clothes, human. But the others... were anything but. Her eyes widened at the beings around her, of all shapes, sizes and forms. Arkeal looked very small all of a sudden.

Before them all, on a raised platform, stood an old man, like none she had ever seen. His skin was so white, and his eyes looked so dark, he didn't look real, didn't look alive. He looked like an aged doll, until he moved, his black robes swishing ominously. The sight of him filled her inexplicably with dread, and also the desperate need to please. She wrestled with her unprovoked feelings as he raised his voice to speak.

"I am The Editor, you are all authors and their characters. You are here to fight! Why you ask. Because you are all trapped in the Muse's dream, and you will wish to escape which can only happen if you wake her. To do that you must reach the centre of her dream, but she will only let the best and most creative writers go there. We will see if you have the ability to reach there. And if you do, we have one extra prize for you, one piece of writing, one piece in which myself and the muse work in perfect harmony for you, as writers you will see the value of that."

Mari looked around with amazement. They were all authors and characters! In someone else's dream, no less. In spite of herself, she began to feel a little excitement. This could be interesting. And if she lost, well, what could happen? It was just a dream. Wasn't it?