Vondra Devoir: Dream Wanderer- A Children's Tale

Every night at exactly 8 o’clock, Mrs. Devoir poured herself a cup of tea, looked at the kitchen clock, and softly told her daughter, “It’s that time, Vonnie.” Every night, at exactly 8 o’clock, 8-year-old Vondra Devoir asked her mother, “What time?” even though she always knew the reply. “It’s time to board the Sleepytime Express to Dreamland.” So every night, at exactly 8:01, Vonnie quickly walked to her room, put on her orange nightgown, brushed her long brown hair and big white teeth, kissed her mother goodnight, and climbed into her orange bed sheets in her orange bed. But every night was the same. The Sleepytime Express never arrived and Vondra Devoir never, ever, visited Dreamland. Sometimes she spent the whole night in bed awake waiting for a whistle or even the rumbling of an approaching train. Then morning would come and Vonnie would climb out of the orange bed sheets of her orange bed, feeling as if she was the only one in the world who missed the train to Dreamland. At school, she overheard the stories of other children who visited Dreamland. They would say, “And then, I was riding a huge dinosaur that crushed buildings when he walked,” or, “It was a whole world made out of candy!” Vondra Devoir did not talk or play with the other children in school. She sat in the back of the classroom, holding the orange crayon she carried everywhere, and drew pictures, read books, or just listened quietly. Vonnie had one friend, Hugo Salvare, and she would ask him about his dreams because he always had the most adventurous and wonderful things happen to him in Dreamland. Sometimes he was a brave knight who battled dragons and monsters, often in strange forests filled with weird sounds and obnoxious smells. Other times, he was a bird, flying all over the world over oceans and lands filled with odd creatures and marvelous cultures. Hugo always had a new story to tell and Vondra would come home from school wishing she too could dream. The neighborhood children would invite her to play games and share toys with them but Vonnie could do nothing but sit alone at the kitchen table, with her orange crayon, and read or draw until dinner. Every night, at exactly 6 o’clock, Mrs. Devoir would serve dinner and ask her daughter, “How was school today?” even though she always knew the reply. “It was fine.” Sometimes Mrs. Devoir would ask other questions such as, “Did they serve a tasty lunch?” or “Did you make any new friends?” Vondra always responded with a quiet, “No” and the two ate their dinner in silence.
Sometime in the middle of winter, the telephone rang at the Devoir home during dinner. Mrs. Devoir promptly answered.
“Hello?”
“Yes, this is Mrs. Devoir.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Saturday at 2 o’clock, you say?”
“I’m sure Vondra would be delighted.”
“Thank you, see you then.”

Before Mrs. Devoir could sit down again, Vondra asked very hastily, “Who was on the phone?” Mrs. Devoir replied, “That was Mr. Salvare, Hugo’s father. Hugo is having a birthday party on Saturday and would like you to come.” “ I am not going,” said Vondra. “But Vonnie, I’ve already said yes. I thought Hugo was your friend?” Vondra said nothing to her mother.
On Saturday, at exactly two o’clock in the afternoon, Vonnie and Mrs. Devoir rang the doorbell to the Salvare home. Vondra wore orange shoes, orange stockings, with an orange dress that had one pocket, which held her orange crayon, of course. She also carried an orange-wrapped present for Hugo. Mrs. Salvare answered the door, pushed Vondra into the party room, and led Mrs. Devoir into the kitchen with the adults. There were already many other children at the party who were running, squealing, and playing around in circles. Vondra stacked the orange present on top of the mountain of gifts for Hugo and then found a seat in the back of the room. Mrs. Salvare entered the doorway with a tray of freshly baked cookies. All of the children ran to take a cookie, except for Vondra Devoir. Mrs. Salvare saw this and quietly whispered something into Hugo’s ear. Hugo took two cookies and then walked across the room and sat right next to Vondra in the corner. “I’ll give you a cookie if you listen to the weirdest dream I’ve had yet.” Vondra took the cookie and said, “Tell me.” “Well, it was my birthday party, and it was exactly like it is now, except you were wearing an orange cape and orange hat with your orange dress. We were getting ready to play a game, but all of a sudden, a giant gift-eating ogre smashed through the door. He found us because he was hungry and smelled all of the presents. He had three big oozing eyes and razor sharp teeth. All of the other children screamed and ran away and we did not know what to do, but you took out your orange crayon, which had magical powers, and zapped the ogre over and over again until you defeated him and saved my party.” Vondra was shocked. “How could I have been in your dream if I have never boarded the Sleepytime Express or ever been to Dreamland?” Confused, Hugo looked sideways at Vondra, stood up, and shrugged, “I don’t know Vonnie, but that was the dream and you were in it. Did you ever think maybe you have had dreams before and you just do not remember it? Or maybe you spend so much time worrying about dreaming, that you never dream at all.” Vondra Devoir had never thought of that before, and if she had been to Dreamland, why has she forgotten?
That night, at exactly 8 o’clock, Mrs. Devoir poured herself a cup of tea and said, “It’s that time, Vonnie.” But for once, Vondra did not ask what time it was, but simply went to her bedroom. Instead of putting on her orange nightgown, she put on a blue one. She brushed her big white teeth but not her long brown hair. Instead of just kissing her mother goodnight, she also said, “I love you, Mom.” With tears in her eyes, Mrs. Devoir replied, “I love you too, my darling daughter.” That night Vondra Devoir did not keep her eyes and ears open waiting for the Sleepytime Express and oddly enough, that very night, Vondra Devoir heard a train whistle and felt her bed rumble as the Sleepytime Express approached.

Exerpt from my untitled novella

GOLF COURSE


Summers in Plainsboro were hot, drawn out, and boring. Even the smallest of adventures seemed epic. Walking to the local shopping plaza via the breezy hills of the golf course is both nostalgic and memorable. The rich, old men playing golf would watch you cross the course while you uneasily gauged their anger based on posture; some waved, some shooed us like old housecats, a few even shouted. The interaction was a wild gamble and even more than a shortcut, it provided us with sustaining, unpredictable entertainment. The apartment complexes barricaded the over-priced outlet for retired people and doctors like fortresses. Hordes of white, black, and Latino youths would exercise their adolescence as they skirted along the perimeter, much to the chagrin of the upscale owners.

A man-made pond on the golf course stood directly behind my bedroom window. I would often walk by and hear the frogs "ribbit" loudly then pop back into the pond with just the tiniest splash. The golfers never approached that side of the pond, so even the slightest noise disturbed the creatures’ quiet utopia. Their mating calls lulled me to sleep on more than one balmy night.

Only once, I can remember my mother's boyfriend hauling his telescope out onto the golf course. While we gazed at stars, I remember being thrilled by the forbidden, late night excursion in my pajamas, but also slightly afraid of outer space, -planets, stars, and all that existed beyond. Those enigmatic, glowing balls of fire were too real, too sobering for my tweenhood of boy bands and sleepovers. That night, two popular kids from my class, cigarettes in hand, wandered over to our position in curiosity. My mother, cheerful as always, invited them to look through the scope. I was mortified in their presence; there I stood with my family, fourteen years old, clad in a Looney Tunes nightgown on a golf course at night, terrified to even peek at the stars. There is something indecent and humiliating about classmates, especially popular ones, seeing you in your sleeping clothes. The only compensation was the darkness; the well-liked couple pretended not to recognize me from class. In retrospect, perhaps they were being kind by refusing to acknowledge me. A worse thought enters my mind; perhaps they did not recognize me. In any of our pithy conversations throughout school, we never, ever mentioned it.

Sometimes, usually at sundown, I would sit on the hills separating the golf course from the fortress of apartment complexes and write poetry, or what I believed to be poetry. In reality, the words written were stolen quips and half constructed clichés from readings or music liner notes that I found penetrating and impressive. Despite this, I felt serenity in those moments and serenity is a coveted commodity to any teenager. I was aware that my mother would often gaze at me through the window or door, but she never once interrupted my musings.

During the day, I would play pretend games with the smaller children in the neighborhood, including my sister. When I was thirteen years old, I was obsessed with the Chronicles of Narnia and created and acted out a complete fantasy world of wizards, fairies, and dragons. The younger kids were so into it; they followed me everywhere and, months after I lost interest, repeatedly asked if we could play “the game.” I was so mean to them; I shrugged them off and told them to go away. If they did not listen, I even yelled until they scattered like rats.

During those years, I appeared constantly solemn; my sister evokes the word depression to describe the period. She is specifically fond of recalling my fascination with clipping models from magazines and playing with them until I was 15 years old. For my sister, this example highlights the pinnacle of human misery and loneliness, but perhaps that is because it seems so utterly pathetic compared to her own life at that age. While I hesitate to label myself depressed at 15, I did always feel introspective and glum. Some summer days I never even left the house, but we all must remember, the summer was forever at that age and there was always the next day for anything -everything.

Poem from 2004

Blinding Sun

the air smells of change
its time to stare again at the blinding sun
open the blinds
start the car
away

5 strangers in an elevator
awkward silence
different trajectories
different floors
who will be the last one off at the floor on the top?
the top

completley uninspired
not angry not melancholy
rubbish scribed on dead trees
a waste

music echoes through a dark hall
a light at the end
a room of smart
beautiful
healthy urban professionals

they clap for me
but a strong gust of wind blows right through
away
they dissapear only to leave me
i am blinded by the sun"