A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes....sorta
Posted: Tue Jul 18, 2006 7:56 pm
((Hey everyone, little OOC note here. This is a dream sequence in which Francis dreams about other SJS people. It is not about what those characters would do, it is about how Francis views her relationships with them in the context of her subconscious. If they are very Out-Of-Character it is because her concept of them is playing out in her head. No offense is intended, this story is for humor as well as an insight into Francis’ character. Seriously, this is just fluff because I'm having an entertaining idea))
It was 3 a.m. and two sleep tablets later Francis finally felt herself drifting off into the comfort of slumber. On this night, she had a dream…it went something like this.
The fire that crackled in the stone hearth was finally chasing the aching chill from her hands. She absently brushed the dirt and stray pink locks from her forehead as she piled on more wood. She’d spent the entire day chopping wood, cooking, and scrubbing the floor and now, as the night grew darker, she relished in the silence of an empty house. All around her was filled with the soft creaks and hisses of a drowsy country house sinking into the blessed nocturnal rhythms.
There was a moment of clarity, odd clarity in a dream, and Francis looked about at the rustic kitchen and wondered suddenly….just where the hell she was?
“Hey there, Cinderella!” a cheerful and familiar voice echoed off the parquet floor. Francis spun, about face.
There, in a pair of sparkling silver pumps, a ruffled blue taffeta dress with green sequins, and a two-foot, glitter covered, wand topped with a blunt star, stood a woman who could only have been…
“Sister Salvation!?!” Francis nearly choked, “Wha…What the…”
“Oh shut it!” She huffed, her flustered stance dropping a small pile of glitter onto the floor, “This is your Tylenol PM induced dream, not mine!”
Francis could hardly hold back the bubble of laughter in her gullet as Salvation heaved a deep sigh. Francis pulled her hand from her own mouth, “What the hell is all that supposed to be?”
Salvation rested her hands on her hips and contemplated beaning the girl with her cheap, Disney-knockoff, kiddie wand.
“I’m your god-damn fairy god-mother, what the hell does it look like?!”
Francis coughed and tried to dab at the tears in her eyes with the sleeve of her ragged, brown dress. “My fairy god-mother? Jesus, Salvation…..*cough*…ok, ok….doesn’t that mean you’re here to uhh….to uhhh….”
“Get you ready for the ball? Yes, that’s the idea.” She supplied glumly, arms still firmly attached to her hips.
Francis looked around the cozy room incredulously. “Um, Cinderella, huh? Well, uhhh, shouldn’t there be, like, some mice or pumpkins or something?”
Salvation managed another exasperated sigh, and clapped her hands three times.
On cue and with heavy, trudging steps, Francis stared in disbelief as the kitchen door swung open and in walked Tolliver, Biff Hannigan, High Tower, and Barrier.
Francis did not move her head, only her eyes as she looked slowly up to Sister Salvation. “Uhhh, Sister? Shouldn’t those be mice?”
Salvation snapped her head down and glowered at Francis. “For Christ’s sake Francis I’m a fairy god-mother, not a fucking miracle worker. How the hell am I supposed to convince a bunch of scummy mice to pull a damn carriage, huh?”
Francis tried to shrug and managed something between a hiccup and slump.
“Besides,” Salvation smiled back up at SJS’s most well known strong-arms, “I think these four will work so much better, I mean, seriously. You’ll get to the ball in no time. Damn pumpkins.”
“I hate to be a kill-joy here, Salvation.” Francis finally tore her eyes away from the ridiculousness before her. “Aren’t my wicked step-mother and step-sister supposed to try and stop me or something?”
Salvation chewed her lip a moment. “Well, thankfully I saw Sister Moltar heading up detention this week so I figure you won’t be seeing her unless you chew gum in class again, and I haven’t the slightest idea where Mimi is.”
“WHAT!?!” Francis nearly fell off the hearth. “Mimi?!? Sister, Mimi’s not evil..she’s..she’s my friend!”
Salvation rolled her eyes. “Listen kiddo, I’m not going to explain every little Jungian metaphor in this little escapade of yours, but this one, I’ll give you. It’s about how you feel about Mimi…not actually Mimi doing something. She’s not here. Got it. Good.”
Francis sat in silence for a moment, her eyes flicked up to the four bored looking students standing in the kitchen, every now and then Tolliver looked hungrily over at the stove. She rested her chin on her hands and looked up at Salvation. As they stared at one another Francis’ eyes suddenly became huge.
“Oh great.” Salvation dead-panned, “now what?”
“Does this mean….that…oh. my. God.” a wry smile trailed up Francis’ mouth, “Does this mean that Michael is my….*cough* *snort* Prince Charming?”
Salvation didn’t even bat an eyelash.
“Fucking duh, Francis. Who the hell else would we get to dress up in that weird, white, fold-over tuxedo with gold trim like some sort of coked-out Michael Jackson wannabe? Then again, last I heard, the Lord Chamberlain Conrads tried to get him into his formal wear for the ball and ended up peeling skin and cloth bits out of the balustrade for like, a week.”
“Do I get glass slippers?” Francis tried.
“Huh? Yeah sure…glass slippers…well, I uhh…don’t really have any glass slippers. Besides, you chip those things and your feet are El Screwed. I got some clear heels though, had some in my closet. Here ya go.”
The clatter of plastic tumbled across the floor. Francis was dumbfounded.
“Sister? Uhh….good lord, hookers wear shit like this! I’m surprised they don’t have gold-fish in them!”
“Oh stop with the fucking profanity, Francis and get this shit on, already! I’ve got, like, fifteen more minutes until bar time.”
“Dress?”
“Hmmmm….” Sister Salvation turned around and then promptly whacked a scurrying mouse flat on the head with her plastic wand. She lifted up the small, dazed creature into her hand as she turned back around to the stunned girl.
“Ok, Jas. I need you to run up and grab that dress in the upstairs closet, ok? What? Look I don’t care how you do it…huh? Ok listen you little snot… either you get that stupid dress or…” She glanced up to see Francis’ jaw hanging nearly to her chest, “What?” She snarled, “Would it make you feel better if I put a cute little yellow vest on her and sang for you?”
“Jesus Christ on a crutch, Francis,” She snapped her fingers next to her face. “I told you I wasn’t going to explain every little metaphor in this for you, now pay some fucking attention!”
“Uhhhh……yeah….” Was about Francis could manage.
((Next up: The Ball))
It was 3 a.m. and two sleep tablets later Francis finally felt herself drifting off into the comfort of slumber. On this night, she had a dream…it went something like this.
The fire that crackled in the stone hearth was finally chasing the aching chill from her hands. She absently brushed the dirt and stray pink locks from her forehead as she piled on more wood. She’d spent the entire day chopping wood, cooking, and scrubbing the floor and now, as the night grew darker, she relished in the silence of an empty house. All around her was filled with the soft creaks and hisses of a drowsy country house sinking into the blessed nocturnal rhythms.
There was a moment of clarity, odd clarity in a dream, and Francis looked about at the rustic kitchen and wondered suddenly….just where the hell she was?
“Hey there, Cinderella!” a cheerful and familiar voice echoed off the parquet floor. Francis spun, about face.
There, in a pair of sparkling silver pumps, a ruffled blue taffeta dress with green sequins, and a two-foot, glitter covered, wand topped with a blunt star, stood a woman who could only have been…
“Sister Salvation!?!” Francis nearly choked, “Wha…What the…”
“Oh shut it!” She huffed, her flustered stance dropping a small pile of glitter onto the floor, “This is your Tylenol PM induced dream, not mine!”
Francis could hardly hold back the bubble of laughter in her gullet as Salvation heaved a deep sigh. Francis pulled her hand from her own mouth, “What the hell is all that supposed to be?”
Salvation rested her hands on her hips and contemplated beaning the girl with her cheap, Disney-knockoff, kiddie wand.
“I’m your god-damn fairy god-mother, what the hell does it look like?!”
Francis coughed and tried to dab at the tears in her eyes with the sleeve of her ragged, brown dress. “My fairy god-mother? Jesus, Salvation…..*cough*…ok, ok….doesn’t that mean you’re here to uhh….to uhhh….”
“Get you ready for the ball? Yes, that’s the idea.” She supplied glumly, arms still firmly attached to her hips.
Francis looked around the cozy room incredulously. “Um, Cinderella, huh? Well, uhhh, shouldn’t there be, like, some mice or pumpkins or something?”
Salvation managed another exasperated sigh, and clapped her hands three times.
On cue and with heavy, trudging steps, Francis stared in disbelief as the kitchen door swung open and in walked Tolliver, Biff Hannigan, High Tower, and Barrier.
Francis did not move her head, only her eyes as she looked slowly up to Sister Salvation. “Uhhh, Sister? Shouldn’t those be mice?”
Salvation snapped her head down and glowered at Francis. “For Christ’s sake Francis I’m a fairy god-mother, not a fucking miracle worker. How the hell am I supposed to convince a bunch of scummy mice to pull a damn carriage, huh?”
Francis tried to shrug and managed something between a hiccup and slump.
“Besides,” Salvation smiled back up at SJS’s most well known strong-arms, “I think these four will work so much better, I mean, seriously. You’ll get to the ball in no time. Damn pumpkins.”
“I hate to be a kill-joy here, Salvation.” Francis finally tore her eyes away from the ridiculousness before her. “Aren’t my wicked step-mother and step-sister supposed to try and stop me or something?”
Salvation chewed her lip a moment. “Well, thankfully I saw Sister Moltar heading up detention this week so I figure you won’t be seeing her unless you chew gum in class again, and I haven’t the slightest idea where Mimi is.”
“WHAT!?!” Francis nearly fell off the hearth. “Mimi?!? Sister, Mimi’s not evil..she’s..she’s my friend!”
Salvation rolled her eyes. “Listen kiddo, I’m not going to explain every little Jungian metaphor in this little escapade of yours, but this one, I’ll give you. It’s about how you feel about Mimi…not actually Mimi doing something. She’s not here. Got it. Good.”
Francis sat in silence for a moment, her eyes flicked up to the four bored looking students standing in the kitchen, every now and then Tolliver looked hungrily over at the stove. She rested her chin on her hands and looked up at Salvation. As they stared at one another Francis’ eyes suddenly became huge.
“Oh great.” Salvation dead-panned, “now what?”
“Does this mean….that…oh. my. God.” a wry smile trailed up Francis’ mouth, “Does this mean that Michael is my….*cough* *snort* Prince Charming?”
Salvation didn’t even bat an eyelash.
“Fucking duh, Francis. Who the hell else would we get to dress up in that weird, white, fold-over tuxedo with gold trim like some sort of coked-out Michael Jackson wannabe? Then again, last I heard, the Lord Chamberlain Conrads tried to get him into his formal wear for the ball and ended up peeling skin and cloth bits out of the balustrade for like, a week.”
“Do I get glass slippers?” Francis tried.
“Huh? Yeah sure…glass slippers…well, I uhh…don’t really have any glass slippers. Besides, you chip those things and your feet are El Screwed. I got some clear heels though, had some in my closet. Here ya go.”
The clatter of plastic tumbled across the floor. Francis was dumbfounded.
“Sister? Uhh….good lord, hookers wear shit like this! I’m surprised they don’t have gold-fish in them!”
“Oh stop with the fucking profanity, Francis and get this shit on, already! I’ve got, like, fifteen more minutes until bar time.”
“Dress?”
“Hmmmm….” Sister Salvation turned around and then promptly whacked a scurrying mouse flat on the head with her plastic wand. She lifted up the small, dazed creature into her hand as she turned back around to the stunned girl.
“Ok, Jas. I need you to run up and grab that dress in the upstairs closet, ok? What? Look I don’t care how you do it…huh? Ok listen you little snot… either you get that stupid dress or…” She glanced up to see Francis’ jaw hanging nearly to her chest, “What?” She snarled, “Would it make you feel better if I put a cute little yellow vest on her and sang for you?”
“Jesus Christ on a crutch, Francis,” She snapped her fingers next to her face. “I told you I wasn’t going to explain every little metaphor in this for you, now pay some fucking attention!”
“Uhhhh……yeah….” Was about Francis could manage.
((Next up: The Ball))