by Shayn Bloom
In the Wake of a Dream
The Newcomer Trilogy (Book 1)
Shayn Bloom
Copyright 2015 Shayn Bloom.
For more information about the author and trilogy:
https://shaynbloom.blogspot.com
Edited and formatted by Kye Fehrenbach.
Cover design by Ronnell Porter.
Table of Contents
Prologue
1. The Dreamcatcher Boy
2. The Awkward Dinner
3. The Dream
4. The Appalachian
5. The Holan
6. The Creed
7. Josephine
8. The Surface
9. The Newcomer
10. Eli
11. The Party
12. Caleb
13. The Teacher
14. The Ladder
15. The Dreamdrifter
16. The Utopian
17. In the Wake of a Dream
See beauty to behold,
In the ache of a beam
Touch hearts bold,
In the make of a seam
Smell love rolled,
In a cake of cream
Taste finest gold,
In the take of a stream
Hear stories unfold,
In the sake of redeem
Know truth will be told,
In the wake of a dream
– Dreamdrifter psalm
Prologue
Six years passed before I decided to forget my dreams.
I hated my dreams.
But I hated one dream in particular.
Like a tornado this dream would rip through my life, leaving me shattered. With this reoccurring ruin in mind, I determined to take control of my life.
I built a routine. I would rise each morning and forget the dream as quickly as possible, refusing to reflect once freed, the chains of the dream falling away, cowards against determination, leaving no scars.
My routine worked for a while. I began each morning with four motions: Eyes open, covers thrown off, feet on the floor, dream forgotten. I liked to combine the last two, racing to forget my dream by the time my feet hit the wooden floor of my bedroom. I was slowly getting better, becoming a master of self-distraction, each night’s dream rejected faster than the last.
I had won it seemed. I had conquered the night and taken control of the dream. Empowered, I realized that I could do or be anything. I just had to choose my dream. I couldn’t have known that my dream would choose me.
1. The Dreamcatcher Boy
I awoke, stung by the night.
In its wake I felt the fresh, pulsing bite. My skin tingled and my heart raced. I tossed the covers away. My feet hit the floor with my defenses. I had been caught off guard. The dream had come from behind.
It had been the dream. The dream I had been pushing away for six years. The dream I hadn’t relived in five months. The dream I had believed my determination could destroy.
I felt the warmth before I knew I was crying. Flushed, I leapt from the bed. I would not give in like this. I would not lose control. Standing, I inhaled deep, soothing breaths that calmed my heart.
Gazing around the room, I drank in the mess. The furniture was haphazard, that was the most obvious problem. My bed was crooked, the cushions were in disarray on the foldout couch, and everything from books to wrappers littered the floor. The cave was the room at the bottom of the staircase. Couches lined its wood paneled sides and a pellet stove stood in the corner where an old fashioned iron once stood. Walking through the cave, I continued up three stone steps and into the kitchen.
Dad walked in from the backyard. He was dressed in a white shirt and khaki pants. The tie slung over his shoulder would make its way around his neck as he sat in traffic on the way downtown. There he was, the professor.
“Ready for your first day?” Dad asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “But I’m a bit nervous.”
Dad nodded. “I was always nervous before term started. Now I’m teaching and I’m still nervous!” He snorted with self-deprecating amusement. “Abnormal Psychology, you?”
“Intro to Psychology with Adia Arrowheart,” I reeled off.
Dad looked surprised. “You have Dr. Arrowheart?”
Sighing, I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “You recommended her, remember?”
“Not really,” Dad replied. “But you’ll love her. She specialized in clinical depression.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Anyway, I’d better get going,” he added, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a water bottle. “Be on time!” Leaning against the counter, I returned his wink before watching him descend into the cave and out through the front door. “Have a good first day!” Dad called.
Today was my first day of college. However, Dad and I would be heading in two different directions. While Dad would spend the semester driving to Johns Hopkins University, I would be going to Carroll Community College until I decided what to study. I could transfer later.
While in the bathroom upstairs, I peeked in the mirror above the sink. A skinny, eighteen year old girl stared back at me, her red pixie hair revealing ears that sat like question marks on the sides of her face. She smiled at me before turning away.
I dressed hurriedly after showering. I didn’t put on my jeans but fell into them and didn’t put on my bra but wrestled with it to comply. A shirt and backpack over my shoulder later I was running down the stairs.
Score was parked across the dirt driveway. My Celica was named Score for two reasons: its considerable age and the fact that I loved it regardless. Soon I was speeding up my long, dirt driveway at fifty, ignoring the tiny rocks that bounced and dived around the car frame like dolphins around a cruise ship.
Open acres stretched for miles and trees waved at me from the landscape of horse and cattle farms. Suburbia was whizzing by at sixty-five miles an hour and Westminster was fast approaching. Ten minutes later I pulled into the parking lot at Carroll Community College.
The main building was comprised of glass, red bricks, and high, vaulted roofs. I zigzagged through the crowd of people, passing under light posts and sporadically placed trees. I climbed the staircase inside while retrieving a piece of paper that I had scribbled on earlier. It read: LAB, 219.
A man crossed the top of the staircase.
“Excuse me!” I panted, reaching the top and feeling infinitely out of shape. The man was older, probably a professor. “Am I in the right building?” I handed him the scribbled note.
He looked down at the paper. “Yes.”
“LAB?”
“Liberal Arts Building,” he said. He pointed down the hallway. “Your room is just down the hall there.”
“Thanks.” Following his directions, I stopped at a line of students protruding from a doorway.
Two girls were talking in low voices. Regardless, I could hear what they were saying. “I don’t understand,” said the blonde of the two. “They never do this.”
“What’re they doing?” I asked.
The blonde girl turned to me, her silver eyes sweeping me into the gossip stream. “Dr. Arrowheart is assigning seats. Professors never assign seats.”
“That’s strange,” I said.
“Yeah,” she enunciated. “Class should have started ten minutes ago.” The line, however, was quickly dispersed as Dr. Arrowheart assigned each student a seat. Soon it was my turn.
The woman standing before me was short and black. Her hair was long, shining with red highlights, and dispatched into a weave that allowed it to curl around her voluptuous bosom. Blood red tint layered her eyelids and an enormous, metal
lic dreamcatcher necklace matched her earrings.
“Name?” Dr. Arrowheart spoke clearly.
“Annie McGallagher.”
Dr. Arrowheart, despite having assigned the previous girl her seat without so much as looking at her, gazed at me. “You’re Martin McGallagher’s daughter… third from the back on the right side, middle.” I was taken aback by the short exchange.
“Thanks,” I said, allowing my tone to curdle the word. Turning, I walked down the center aisle of the classroom. Finding my seat, I caught the internal whiff of a headache approaching. Sighing, I brought my palm to my face.
“Not feeling well?”
I looked to my left. My heart was instantly thrumming in my chest.
The boy sitting next to me was brighter than the sun. Brilliant hazel eyes burned above full lips that smiled above a thick, muscular body. A v-neck shirt revealed a rugged upper chest and a curling tattoo that dipped downward like a necklace. His hair was messy and yet flawless as it lay dirty blonde on his head like the luckiest hat ever. He was like reflected gold.
“What?” I stammered.
“Are you not feeling well?”
“I – I’m alright. It’s just a headache.”
“Oh,” he said. “I thought it might have been her.” He motioned to the front of the room where Dr. Arrowheart was assigning seats to the final stragglers. “I was watching.” It was difficult not to hyperventilate while gazing at him. Those hazel eyes threatened to explode a bombshell of desire in me. He smiled.
