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The Dream Quest One Third Writing Prize

Winter 2010-2012 Contest Winner is

Alexandra Carmona

of Montebello, California, USA


This story was based of many dreams; one in particular, and most of it is true, especially the end, where one of the greatest messages was told to me. I think though, the message stands for nothing can be perfect, and if it is, it does not exist in this life or consciousness. But maybe we can find it if we can use it wisely. This world is a combination of all my dream worlds, and I hope we can find small perfect things in our dreams.

—The Author


Between Two Worlds


The hallway was long and dark, each flickering light of the candles bouncing like vivacious creatures, morphing and warming. The girl’s footsteps made almost no sound as she drifted past the corridor, light as a breath of cloud. She could feel her heart thumping, a fluttering trapped animal in her throat. She could feel the emptiness where it should have been in her chest. She remembered coming here before, the dark walls of this passageway the same as ever...

A warm shape guided her arm; she realized it was a hand. The love of her life was smiling warmly at her, his face perfectly etched and soft in the orange glow the candles provided her. He had a small weak smile on, and the shadows under his eyes from the light made him seem frail and ailing. He nodded softly and walked down the hallway, brushing his hand off her arm, and the skin felt cool where he left contact.

The girl gave a cry of indignation and ran to follow him through the corridor that had no end. Up a spiral staircase she came, and it led to nowhere, just empty blackness.

And she blinked in the sudden sunlight.

She was on a beach, not unlike the one in her hometown Santa Monica. The highway winding around the rugged cliff, with the

~Page 1~      


large houses facing the fresh white sand, but it was empty. The highway was vacant, and the dark murky waters were as clear as tropical seas, with crystal shine and light happy blue. There was not a soul on the beach, just an abandoned towel, with an umbrella. The girl ran to it, enjoying the warm sands and the feel of the crisp sea air on her face. She sat on the empty, clean towel; trying to remember why she should be worried she was here, but no negative thought came to her relaxed mind. She lay on the towel, watching the cloudless sky. Stars appeared, despite the noon sun, and they grew bigger and larger, pulsing, filling the girl’s mind and eyes...

She was whooshed to a strange building, in a franchise mall store with an unrecognizable name. She saw all her friends and family, waiting for her to pick out her clothes for an unknown occasion. But as the girl scanned the rows and rows of material, she realized they were not clothes. They were pieces of cloth, hardly big enough to cover her body. But as the girl looked around, she noticed other girls, in the meager outfits with silver and blue makeup, walking with each a purse in one hand and a boy in the other. There was only one girl, in regular clothes, who was looking at her with a rebelled look. She walked up to the girl and asked: “What do you choose?” The girl stammered, bewildered. She took out an outfit and watched it, as it latched to her and morphed to jeans and a T-shirt. The strange rebel girl nodded and said, “Keep it.” The girl was perplexed but did not dispute as she ran out of the store. She burst out to see she was at the muddy bank of an island, with a neighborhood of small Victorian houses. She ran inside one to see two of friends. Usually messy and uncoordinated, they were dressed in suits and one was painting finely. He smiled briefly at her before going back to his concentrating work. The other was playing keys on a piano, clearing his throat every so often. The girl was utterly dumbfounded at this irrational disclosure. She was about to say something, before the painter shot up his head. “Your time approaches,” he whispered. “The way will be clear, but first you must know what happens next. Take my paints.” He handed his palette filled with colors to the confused girl. “If you can find the right colors, they will help you.” With a bang, a man’s voice exploded from one door. Looking alarmed, the two contrary friends exchanged a glance and bustled away, leaving the girl alone. She looked at the paint palette. The lavender purple matched the hue on the wall. In desperation she dipped her hand in the pale thick mixture and smeared it on the smooth wall. The wall

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scraped away like soft butter! The girl stuffed the palette in her pocket; to her surprise it did not smear, it was as stiff as dry cement. She did not want to think about it, and rushed out into the street, and ran as fast as she could. Around the lake bank, her shoes sliding and sticking to the thick mud, she ran to a dock with no boat. She wanted to get out of there, to wander into another world of peace.

Then something sparkled. A palace was shining on the edge of the bank, opposite of the village. It was more of a museum, nothing fancy to appeal to sight or to trim the edges. The girl got from her knees and ran to the entrance.

A baby wolf cub waited near the entrance, its soft dark fur whispering in an invisible wind. Its brown eyes did not shine with the innocence of an animal; they looked as searching and intelligent as a sage. Come on, the animal spoke. We can’t wait all day! The girl, befuddled but now growing used to the strange surprises, followed the wolf cub into the palace. It was quite blank, looking more like an art museum with its many paintings and sculptures. The wolf cub halted at an exhibit, and jumped up on a half-pillar which carefully held an old book. It cover was old leather, soft with age, and an unrecognizable script on its front. It was huge and dusty, and the wolf cub patted its cover gently with its paw.

This is the greatest story ever written, and ever told. It has the perfection of immortality, and it is time for you to read it, to discover the true gift of writing. The girl touched the soft leather with her fingertips, but before she could pick it up, she asked, “What can I learn from this? Does this mean someday I will write like this if you have chosen me to read it?”

The wolf frowned, as if the question should’ve angered him, but she seemed too confused to be offended. Then the wolf’s wise eyes turned sad, despite the pulsing of the universe around the pupils. The book opened by itself, to the very beginning, and the girl could make out large and beautiful words...

~Page 3~


But the wolf spoke.

If you wish to hear this gift of God, you must commit. For if you can write the flawless works of the written language, or to discover the powers of the gift of writing, you must be willing to sacrifice. To write a perfect piece of writing, it can be heard by no one.

The girl woke up, the memory of the book sliding away at fight speed.

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By Alexandra Carmona (Age: 12)