Some of you who have been reading my stuff know I don’t usually write prose. In fact, I have currently abandoned my “volcano” story. The characters simply aren’t that believable to me right now, and I can’t make them into something else at this point, so I’ve stalled while I’m deciding. It’s not exactly writer’s block; I have a lot for them to do. It’s simply that I don’t believe they’d do any of the stuff that comes into my head.
This morning, as I’m adjusting from somewhat-sleeping-in, I was having a very vivid dream. So this is part of it. It may go somewhere, my not, but here it is.
ON A BENCH
Brandy’s closed lids were immaculately painted with her best charcoal pen. Her creamy skin rouged, just a tad, and her pouty lips also lightly tinted, but bright red. Those lips curled in a minor snarl, as she dreamed something. Then one immaculate green eye opened. Then the other.
Her hair was pulled back in a sharp red bandana, her latest color suicide blonde. A brand new pair of jeans was rolled precisely mid-calf. She worked hard for her rockabilly status, and everyone knew it.
She sat up, and placed her backpack/pillow on her lap. Sleeping during the day was not working; it simply wasn’t. She would have to figure out something. Oh, and some food. Some food would be great.
“You’re only about 30 pounds overweight hon,” her mom would say, “Hard on the knees, of course, so you have to do something about that. We’ll take care of it. You’re such a pretty girl! Only people like me really notice your weight. Be careful of those croissants in Europe, you know. They’re killers!”
Brandy’s snarl was conscious this time. Thank God she had escaped. Thank God Thank God…
Just then Ralph came swaggering up. “Look what I found today, cherie!”
Of course. Croissants. Who cared she was starving. And it looked like he had coffee too. Real coffee. She inhaled through the lid of the cup he just handed her, then took a grateful sip. It was real coffee!
“Ralph, where did you get this?”
“Ah, a magician never reveals his secrets!”
“Gimme one of those croissants, too. I’m starving. Seriously, where did you get these?”
He waved his hand in a way that irritated her.
“Nevermind that. Nevermind…Let’s talk instead about why you came all the way to Europe to be homeless.”
“But I’m not…” Brandy started. But she was, oh yes, she was.
architect of life 
I say keep going. I like the way you painted such a vivid picture of Brandy. If you don’t write you’ll never know if the story has legs. What a dream!