Doodle Dream

This is a silly story and should not be taken seriously…

I dedicate it to those, who like me, give the story permission to write itself 🙂

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I knew I was dreaming. Life didn’t feel this good. It didn’t look like this either. Here, colours were more defined, too much in contrast with each other to blend. Everything was outlined in black like it had been drawn first and coloured in later. The space for each shape distinguishable. Every blade of grass a thin line, highlighted with a light green. Each house a simple rectangle, a triangle on top.

The sun was high in the sky, but the symmetrical rays didn’t warm my back. The trees were not swayed by the breeze, the bordering lines around them keeping them stoically in place. And while I could feel the slight wind against my skin, my hair and clothing were fastidiously in place as well.

The birds were whistling and as I heard them, clefs and notes also marked their tune, little word bubbles displayed around each musical chirp. I passed flowers that had faces to match their sunny dispositions, their smiles bobbing in time with a tune only they could hear, together in neat little rows.

Looking at my hands, I noticed that they too were drawn. The tone of my skin was not as transparent as in real life. No impurities marked them here, no chipped nail polish tipped my fingers. They looked much the same as always, once I got past the part about being drawn.

Walking along, I reach a pure white clearing beside the road, surrounded by trees that stand in a circle. Beside the entrance is a drawn pencil, as tall as I. Letting my curiosity get the best of me, I wander toward the blank space. The area is large and completely void. Above me, below, and to each side is more of the same. It feels like the artist forgot to complete this part or left it blank, to be filled in later. An unfinished project, maybe.

Returning to the entrance I grab the pencil and am surprised by how lightweight it is, considering its height. I look around, unsure of what to do or what the rules are in this strange dreamlike world. I start with a dot, and when that doesn’t do anything but leave a small mark behind, I erase it.

Quickly, I draw a mirror and watch in fascination as my reflection slowly appears. Wavering at first, but becoming more solid, more tangible as the moments’ pass. Whoever has drawn me has done a good job. I look like me, freckles included, and I seem to have the proper proportions.

Wondering what else I can create I start drawing a myriad of images. A horse with a saddle, a wagon for it to pull. The horse delivers a neigh as it materialises, like it too is surprised by how it got here, the sound emphasised by the word bubble released on time with the call. I draw birds and flowers, trees and a lake. A blanket to sit on with a picnic basket waiting on top.

The scenery is lacking, and I complete a meadow, a mountain range, and place a boat on the water, complete with a sail. I’m happy with my creations but notice that everything feels dreary with the absence of colour.

I begin with a crayon, drawn in proportionate size to the pencil. At first, it is a black line drawn on white , and I stand and ponder until eventually I write the word “red” on the side. Slowly, the crayon changes from stark black and white to crimson. Picking it up I add checkers to the blanket, fill in the sail, and add apples to the trees. Erasing red I write “Blue” and the crayon changes again. Filling in the sky and the lake, I see the world I’ve created start to take shape.

I complete the scenery with snow-topped peaks and a fishing rod resting against a dock. Turtles sit on rocks, basking in the sun’s rays. Fish jump from the waves, the splash that should accompany them muted but ripples form on the surface where they re-enter the lake.

I walk to the shore and let the waves lap over my feet. The water feels wet but not cold. I wonder if I can swim in this world or if the colors of me and the lake will run together as I enter. Some rules apply to this world, others don’t. I haven’t figured out which are what, yet.

Going back to shore I undo my pants and step out but looking down realize that my legs seem to be missing. They have not been drawn. Only my clothes and my feet have been given shape. Tentatively, I erase one leg. I don’t feel the slow obliteration of myself and that spurs me on. Erasing myself from the waist down, I redraw my legs and feet, purposely keeping them hair-free.

Lifting my shirt, I realize that my top half has not been drawn either. I am only a shirt with two small bumps, arms and legs at this point. Being thankful that my neck and face have been drawn I remove my shirt and stand mesmerised in front of the mirror, my arms appearing to be separate entities from the rest of me. Using my reflection as a guide, I draw my torso and waist. I place my belly button and add a little ring, something I’ve always wanted to try.

Once I am standing almost complete, I decide I need to add my other parts as well. Without my clothes, my breasts have vanished, and I’ve realised I don’t have a vagina either. I draw that first, keeping the details to a minimum but once again hair free, then draw in two round buttocks. Once I’m happy with the way it looks which takes a bit of erasing and redrawing, I move onto my breasts. Usually not very pleased with their size I draw them a little bigger and a bit perkier than they were before.

I take in my new figure and find that I am happy with the changes. I redress and sit on the blanket. Opening the picnic basket, I find there’s nothing inside. Of course, I haven’t drawn it yet. I draw some fruit and cheese and crackers, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. I lay it all out and look around. Two glasses seem pointless now. I go to erase the one glass and stop. Why don’t I just draw a second person? Someone to share the bottle of wine?

Standing, I start with his feet. The toes a bit longer than my own, but still slim. They lead up to lean calves, strong thighs. I give them a spattering of hair. I decide to pass the genitalia for now and draw some narrow hips and a tapered waist, a couple of marks to show definition of abs. I finish with strong shoulders and pecs with round spots for nipples. The finished torso has broad shoulders, strong arms, and is tipped with lean, long fingers. I stand back and give him a once over and add a sprinkling of hair to his chest and add a line that travels down to his…

Looking there I know I have to finish him. He’s looking rather incomplete right now. I start with his testicles, making them tight and firm, and continue the line to draw a shaft, a bulbous tip. I compare the proportions and adjust lines until I think he’s perfect. Behind him I finish his buttocks and back, giving it the strength to match his front.

Once done, I colour in blue jeans and a t-shirt over his body, then draw his face and neck. A day worth of stubble lines his chin, a straight nose and strong brow line define his masculine features. I colour his eyes a bright shade of green and define each tooth inside the line of his smile.

I draw his ears and give him a head full of hair, long enough to grab, but short enough that it doesn’t cover his eyes. I colour it in dark brown, matching it to that on his chest and chin. Finished, I stand back and gape as he materialises before me. Even in doodle form, he’s handsome.

He smiles at me like he’s known me my whole life. Extending his hand, he takes mine and we sit together on the blanket. He pours the wine, and we sit silently watching the sun set. Just as the last rays are crossing the horizon, I look over and catch him staring at me. I stare back. He leans in slowly, his red mouth forming a pucker. I feel my eyes close as I lean toward him. I feel his lips graze my own.

Beep, beep, beep.

 I roll over and turn off my alarm, the last moments of the dream still seeming real inside my foggy mind. I release a small chuckle at the strange dream and place my feet on the floor. Time to get ready for the day.

Once I’m washed and ready, I lock the door behind me and walk down the street. I think of the dream as I make my way, checking my hands more than once to make sure they’re real. I cross at the end of my block and turn into the park.

Walking down the path I see a checkered blanket sitting beside the pond, topped with a picnic basket. I slow my pace and look around. Standing not far from the shore is a man, dressed in blue jeans and a t-shirt, tall, dark and handsome, one hand extended as if ready to take mine.

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