The Land Forlorn

[-= About This Story =-]
"The Land Forlorn" is a two-part account of a dream I had sometime around 8-15-06. Compiled with some other real-life occurrences, it proved to be quite a mental burden to carry... so I wrote it down. Names have been changed to protect the innocent... and the not-so-innocent.

[-= The Tale =-]
   The wasteland spread out for unfathomable miles on eithe rside of the narrow road upon which Shearin traveled. Grey dust on the left, grey dust on the right - and the Mountain dead ahead.
   It was a place she felt she'd been before, as someone else in some other world, a place strangely similar to and yet drastically different from a vague memory on the outer rim of her consciousness. Why she'd felt called to these forsaken wastes, to this mountain of desolation, was beyond her - all she knew was that she had been summoned, or so it seemed.
   Shearin parked the odd, twisted car at the base of the mountain. Looking back at it as she started up, the thing bore some basic resemblance to a sedan, of the gray, lifeless colour shared by the dust of the dead land all around her. There was only one seat - and she had not driven; no steering wheel protruded from the dashboard.
   The mountain itself scraped rustily against the hazy sky, sunless, moonless, unchanging. A blink, and she was at the top, inexplicably standing on the rim of a bowl-shaped indentation as wide and long as the top of the mountain, which formed a sort of plateau. To Shearin's surprise, a sort of nest had been constructed here, large enough for many people to lie in at comfortable distance. At one end of the nest sat a large television, elevated from the pillows and blankets, hovering in midair with a set of rabbit-ears on top.
   As Shearin wondered about this place and why she was here, a young man crested the other side of the mountain, slightly out of breath. His brown eyes blinked at her in confusion from beneath dark, tousled hair, until suddenly he grinned in recognition. "Shearin!" he exclaimed.
   She eyed him warily, taking in his pale skin and slight form. Something about him tugged at a fragment of her memory, but she wasn't certain, yet. "How...?" she began, but he cut her off.
   "Don't you remember me?" His smile dimmed.
   She shook her head... then something clicked, and she ventured a guess. "Dorian?" When his grin brightened again, she knew for sure. "Dorian Colrain!"
   "The very same!" he said, smiling from ear to ear and hugging her. Surprised and delighted, she hugged back.
   "How've you been?" she wanted to know. "It's been years!"
   "He shrugged, still grinning. "Same old, same old. You?"
   "Nothing to report, actually."
   Dorian's brown eyes flicked down to the mark on her left hand. "So I see. Still a virgin." It wasn't a question.
   She flushed crimson. "Yes, and proud."
   Something in those fathomless eyes suggested he thought otherwise, however. "That's as may be," he said, then gestured toward the nest. "Want to watch something?" She nodded, indicating that he should choose; she'd learned when they were in school that she could trust his taste, and she also welcomed the subject change.
   The settled in, sharing a large bowl of lightly-buttered popcorn and watching an old sextet of British comedians on the wide, curved screen. Between skits, Dorian looked at Shearin steadily. "Care for a drink?"
   "Sure," she replied, and a moment later there appeared a bottle of some sort of alcohol and a gallon-sized bag of green leaves she almost didn't recognise.
   Both of these were consumed within the hour, if Shearin used the TV program to judge. Suddenly, Dorian looked at her again. "What are you saving yourself for?" he queried.
   "Oh, a rainy day," she replied with a giggle and a shrug. She'd seen both substances, now, and both were communicating quite well with her bloodstream.
   "When are you going to... let it go?" he wanted to know. She noticed he was dangerously close now; she could smell the drink on his breath as a soft rain began to fall. Presently she felt his hand on her breast and she looked up at him pleadingly.
   "Dorian...?"
   "What, love?" he asked, applying gentle pressure now. 
   "What about...?"
   "Dyan? Haven't you heard, baby? She doesn't get off work 'til five in the morning."
   "Still..."
   He put his lips to hers, and she surendered as the rain grew heavier and the TV blew up beyond them.

The Land Forlorn: Part Two

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