I am in a photographer's art studio. It is a loft with high ceilings and walls made of brick. The studio is well lit. A tall beautiful woman in her late thirties or early forties is there. She carries her beauty with elegance. My brother is on the opposite side of her from me although he does not look like my brother. I am attracted to her but not in a sexual way. I am stunned as I look upon her.
We are in the kitchen of a manor made of brick. In the kitchen is an old-fashioned brick stove for baking bread. My father is there but he is a vague figure. Several men younger then me are there, presumably my cousins, and some old men that I think are related to me. My mother is there, too, and she is the elegant woman from the studio. She is quiet in a respectable way as she serves the men who are now in another room cheese.
I realize that I am hungry and go to the refrigerator. The cheese drawer contains only an old and moldy wedge of dry cheese, perhaps Parmesan or Romano. I take it out and place it on a butcher block in the middle of the kitchen. The block is dark and rutted with age and repeated use. I remove the plastic wrap from the cheese and see that it is moldier than I expected. I go to look for a European-style cheese cutter to slice of the moldy parts. I know that within these parts is still cheese I can eat. I cannot find the slicer even after searching through all of the drawers.
I get frustrated. My brother who is now here becomes impatient. He insists that I use a knife or an American slicer. While looking I notice an American slicer in a drawer under a pile of other slicers. I ignore it. I search the cabinets and confirm that they only contain food. My tall and elegant mother appears and quickly produces a slicer that while not exactly European is nevertheless useful for the task at hand. It grates instead of slicing. I am a little disappointed but keep this to myself. Privately I tell myself that although grated I can still eat the cheese by squeezing it.
I am back in the studio. My brother and I dip our heads lightly on each shoulder of the beautiful and elegant woman. She dips her head a little bit and smiles a little. She knows that we adore her. My brother reaches up and kisses her lightly on the side of her face. He returns to her shoulder. I reach up and do the same but reach for her lips. It is a peck that continues with a passion. I stop when I realize that it is time to stop.
I am back in the mansion. Gunfire fills the air. I look through an open but fortified window and see Eco-terrorists firing at us. A bullet whizzes by my head. I quickly withdraw into the safety of the room. We are all afraid and unsure about what to do. We decide to fight back rather than remain cornered like rats. The Eco-terrorists are shouting at us, daring us to come out and be shot. They are unrelenting and without remorse.
And older man, my uncle maybe, gets hit by a bullet and is gravely wounded. I feel pressure from the other men upon me to do something. I yell back at our adversaries, begging for a halt to hostilities. They laugh from afar and dare me to show myself. The wounded man disappears, seemingly carried away by others in our group. Shots ring out from elsewhere on our side of what now appears as a river. There are wrecks of old boats and indistinguishable flotsam from a wrecked harbor. Bullets continue to whiz by and it now appears that some of the bolder terrorists are now wading across the river to invade our sanctuary.
All look to me to do something. I suddenly have a long-range rifle in my hands and confirm that is is loaded by checking the cocks. I kneel more or less out of vision (and gunshot) of the terrorists. I take careful aim at one of the terrorists standing in the burnt out remains of a fortress they are guarding and attacking from. I remind myself to squeeze the trigger slowly. I shoot at a man. My aim is good, I kill him. I decide to shoot another.
I notice that the gun is strangely double-barreled. Although it looks like a shotgun it is not. It fires rifled bullets designed for sharp-shooting. It has two triggers and holds only two bullets. One trigger is drawn back from shooting the first terrorist. I carefully reach across it to get to the other trigger. Again I take careful aim at a man on the other side and pull the trigger. He falls down dead. Howls of remorse mixed with anger and threats come from the other side of the river.
My brother appears and is dark and unattractive. He is behind me. Having now fired my two shots from the rifle I desperately call for more ammunition. He angrily replies that there is no more and that I should use another gun. I look behind me and see no help forthcoming from the crowd there. One of the terrorists appears in the room and is hastily shot on sight. I cannot see who has done this or the fatal wounds the man sustained.
Another man appears suddenly at my window and manages to get himself in. He is holding a semi-automatic pistol. He takes aim at me but I very quickly grab his arm and aim the pistol upward. The gun fires once. He threatens to shoot me and tries to lower the gun at me. I force his blow downward and threaten to shoot him in the foot. The fight with him is strenuous and I feel myself tiring. But I manage to move the gun upward to below his chin. I fire and see the exit wound in the left part of his head. He crumples and drops down dead.
I am again in the kitchen. My mother is missing. I stick my head out a window, drawing it back to avoid sporadic gunfire from the terrorists. I see a woman terrorist sneaking up an outdoor flight of brick stairs flush against the wall of our fortress. She ducks into a hollow to avoid detection and gunfire. I see my mother, a beautiful and elegant woman with her back held high, slowly descending the stairs. I yell to her to warn her that an enemy is hiding in a hollow further down the stairs. She does not hear me.
I wake up.
We are in the kitchen of a manor made of brick. In the kitchen is an old-fashioned brick stove for baking bread. My father is there but he is a vague figure. Several men younger then me are there, presumably my cousins, and some old men that I think are related to me. My mother is there, too, and she is the elegant woman from the studio. She is quiet in a respectable way as she serves the men who are now in another room cheese.
I realize that I am hungry and go to the refrigerator. The cheese drawer contains only an old and moldy wedge of dry cheese, perhaps Parmesan or Romano. I take it out and place it on a butcher block in the middle of the kitchen. The block is dark and rutted with age and repeated use. I remove the plastic wrap from the cheese and see that it is moldier than I expected. I go to look for a European-style cheese cutter to slice of the moldy parts. I know that within these parts is still cheese I can eat. I cannot find the slicer even after searching through all of the drawers.
I get frustrated. My brother who is now here becomes impatient. He insists that I use a knife or an American slicer. While looking I notice an American slicer in a drawer under a pile of other slicers. I ignore it. I search the cabinets and confirm that they only contain food. My tall and elegant mother appears and quickly produces a slicer that while not exactly European is nevertheless useful for the task at hand. It grates instead of slicing. I am a little disappointed but keep this to myself. Privately I tell myself that although grated I can still eat the cheese by squeezing it.
I am back in the studio. My brother and I dip our heads lightly on each shoulder of the beautiful and elegant woman. She dips her head a little bit and smiles a little. She knows that we adore her. My brother reaches up and kisses her lightly on the side of her face. He returns to her shoulder. I reach up and do the same but reach for her lips. It is a peck that continues with a passion. I stop when I realize that it is time to stop.
I am back in the mansion. Gunfire fills the air. I look through an open but fortified window and see Eco-terrorists firing at us. A bullet whizzes by my head. I quickly withdraw into the safety of the room. We are all afraid and unsure about what to do. We decide to fight back rather than remain cornered like rats. The Eco-terrorists are shouting at us, daring us to come out and be shot. They are unrelenting and without remorse.
And older man, my uncle maybe, gets hit by a bullet and is gravely wounded. I feel pressure from the other men upon me to do something. I yell back at our adversaries, begging for a halt to hostilities. They laugh from afar and dare me to show myself. The wounded man disappears, seemingly carried away by others in our group. Shots ring out from elsewhere on our side of what now appears as a river. There are wrecks of old boats and indistinguishable flotsam from a wrecked harbor. Bullets continue to whiz by and it now appears that some of the bolder terrorists are now wading across the river to invade our sanctuary.
All look to me to do something. I suddenly have a long-range rifle in my hands and confirm that is is loaded by checking the cocks. I kneel more or less out of vision (and gunshot) of the terrorists. I take careful aim at one of the terrorists standing in the burnt out remains of a fortress they are guarding and attacking from. I remind myself to squeeze the trigger slowly. I shoot at a man. My aim is good, I kill him. I decide to shoot another.
I notice that the gun is strangely double-barreled. Although it looks like a shotgun it is not. It fires rifled bullets designed for sharp-shooting. It has two triggers and holds only two bullets. One trigger is drawn back from shooting the first terrorist. I carefully reach across it to get to the other trigger. Again I take careful aim at a man on the other side and pull the trigger. He falls down dead. Howls of remorse mixed with anger and threats come from the other side of the river.
My brother appears and is dark and unattractive. He is behind me. Having now fired my two shots from the rifle I desperately call for more ammunition. He angrily replies that there is no more and that I should use another gun. I look behind me and see no help forthcoming from the crowd there. One of the terrorists appears in the room and is hastily shot on sight. I cannot see who has done this or the fatal wounds the man sustained.
Another man appears suddenly at my window and manages to get himself in. He is holding a semi-automatic pistol. He takes aim at me but I very quickly grab his arm and aim the pistol upward. The gun fires once. He threatens to shoot me and tries to lower the gun at me. I force his blow downward and threaten to shoot him in the foot. The fight with him is strenuous and I feel myself tiring. But I manage to move the gun upward to below his chin. I fire and see the exit wound in the left part of his head. He crumples and drops down dead.
I am again in the kitchen. My mother is missing. I stick my head out a window, drawing it back to avoid sporadic gunfire from the terrorists. I see a woman terrorist sneaking up an outdoor flight of brick stairs flush against the wall of our fortress. She ducks into a hollow to avoid detection and gunfire. I see my mother, a beautiful and elegant woman with her back held high, slowly descending the stairs. I yell to her to warn her that an enemy is hiding in a hollow further down the stairs. She does not hear me.
I wake up.
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