(from my dream imagination)

My work blends experience, dreams, intuition, memory, and imagination. These stories, reflections, and creative pieces come from my personal point of view and artistic lens. They may read as truth, metaphor, fairy tale, or grounded reality sometimes all at once. Any depictions of adult themes, including alcohol or cannabis use, appear only as part of character experience and storytelling. Nothing here is intended as instruction, advice, or recommendation. This is my voice, my vision, and my way of seeing the world.

"The following account is a curated entry from the Outstages Cafe archives. It is a work of creative interpretation, exploring the themes of dream-logic and ancestral archetypes. This tale is a grand adventure designed solely to entertain and captivate audiences on this platform. Any resemblance to literal events is a reflection of the author’s imaginative lens."

Language has always been a slippery thing shaped by institutions, polished by committees, twisted by those who prefer certainty over truth. But a writer lives in the cracks between those definitions, where dreams, memory, and lived experiences refuse to shrink to fit official terminology. Equality, she believed, was not a slogan or a doctrine. It was the simple right to name her own reality, to speak from her own point of view, and to let her life be as expansive as the words she chose to tell it.

This intro sets the stage:

the character is sovereign, perceptive, and aware of how language is used to control or liberate.

“The Gentleman in the Gas Guzzler”

(from my dream imagination)

She had parked farther than she meant to the kind of distance that stretches a simple errand into a small pilgrimage. The sun was bright, the pavement humming, and the walk toward the Motion Picture Home office felt longer than usual.

That is when the old gas guzzling sedan eased up beside her, purring like a relic from another decade.

The man behind the wheel smiled as if he recognized her from a dream.

“Thought you were someone else,” he said, voice warm, familiar in a way she could not place. Then, with a gentle tilt of his head, “You headed to the office? I can take you.”

There was nothing strange about him at that moment. Just a kindness, the sort that arrives without explanation. She accepted. The ride lasted barely a minute, but something about him lingered, like a face glimpsed in a half remembered dream.

Inside the office, she mentioned the encounter casually.

The women behind the desk exchanged a look.

“What did he look like?” one asked.

She described him, the car, the smile, the soft old Hollywood politeness.

The second woman’s voice dropped.

“That sounds like Mr. Little Tool. He used to drive his wife everywhere.”

A pause.

A breath.

A shift in the air.

“He passed away years ago.”

She thanked them, stepped back outside, and let the sunlight wash over her. The world felt the same, yet not. A thin veil moment. A dream echo. A scene that required no explanation.

She smiled at herself.

Well, that was fun, she thought.

Cool.

And as she walked back toward her car, she felt that familiar flicker the lightning storm spark that always came before a story. The sense that she had just stepped through one of those dream doors writers carry inside them, where memory, imagination, and possibility overlap.

A multi dimensional moment.

A writer’s kind of moment.

The kind that reveals itself when she picks up her pen.

Later, she would think about how institutions loved tidy terminology how they trimmed the edges of experience until only the “acceptable” parts remained. But her life had never fitted inside those narrow definitions. Dreams, intuition, memory, and meaning spilled past the borders every time she picked up her pen. She came to understand that true equality was not something bestowed by those in power. She experienced the freedom to share her story in her own words, unapologetically, openly, and without restraint.