My Dimensional Romance Chapter 1

My Dimensional Romance Chapter 1 My Dimensional Romance Chapter 1

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance


Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance



This book tells of a relationship between two people that spans time and even dimensions.



This book tells of a relationship between two people that spans time and even dimensions.

Chapter1 (v.1) - How it all Began

Author Chapter Note

My first experiences, and my encounter with the elf-child ...

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 29, 2019

Reads: 312

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: April 29, 2019





Author’s Note:


There is no reality, only perception -


This story takes place in two dimensions: Some of the events occurred in what many would call the ‘Real World’, whereas others are from the realm of dreams and visions. The question is, which one is real? When we dream, the images before us and the circumstances in which we find ourselves are so vivid that we think that they are actually there. Thus whatever we experience in dream-time can have the same impact on us as they would if they were happening to us physically.


Even in our modern age of medical advancement, we still do not fathom the reality that is dreaming. Many have tried to theorise about the meaning and purpose of dreams, not to mention what brings them about, but these remain theories. The fact of the matter is that it remains a mystery, one that we all experience. A common belief, one to which I hold, is that during our dream-time, our spiritual or astral forms journey to other realms, ones that we cannot reach because of the restrictions of our physical form.


Much of what I have written about also occurred during those times that I was in a trance state, an art that I have practised ever since I embraced Shamanism. I also learned the process known as ‘Lucid Dreaming’, of which there are two kinds: The one is very useful when one is having either a nightmare or just an unpleasant dream. It gives one the ability to change the essence of the dream without waking up fully. However the second form is more applicable here, as it allows one the opportunity of interacting with the circumstances and the individuals in the dream. Also it helps one to better recall the events that took place.


Using these tools that were at my disposal, I have been able to record the events that are in this tale ...

























Chapter 1: How it all Began -


When I was about three or four years old, my father bought a small farm just outside Salisbury, in a rural community known as Ruwa. He had built a series of rondavels, some with interlinking passages, which acted as our home while he was busy building a larger, more permanent house for us to live in.


My bedroom was separate from the main part, and doubled up as the place where my mum stored all her linen and other household stuff. This meant that the one wall was taken up entirely with shelves, one section of which was my cupboard. My brother shared the room with me when he was at home, but most of the time he was away at boarding school, as were my two sisters for whom my dad had built a small bungalow some distance away from the main area. This was made up of two separate bedrooms, the doors of which opened onto a central veranda.


Dad was away for long periods because of his work. He was a consultant geologist, and spent a lot of his time prospecting for various mineral resources around Rhodesia, which often left mum and I alone on the farm. Whenever he was not at home, mum used to move the two of us into the bungalow. The reason was, that unlike the main section, the bathroom and toilet was on suite. This meant that even in inclement weather, we could use the bathroom without getting too wet or too cold. She also said that she felt somehow safer there.


It was here that the ‘bad dreams’ began. Or should I rather say the ‘bad dream’, because it was always the same one. No sooner had I fallen asleep when I would feel as though my bed was moving feet first. All around me was a swirling mass of what seemed to be logs or rocks. They would come hurtling towards me, just missing me by a hair’s breadth. I would wake up screaming so loud that mum would come in, and move me into the room with her - taking my bed with me. She used to smoke at the time, and I would drift off back to sleep watching the small red glow from mum’s cigarette moving back and forth, and with the smell of tobacco in my nostrils. Looking back now, this was obviously not ideal, but at the time it made me feel safe, and at least the nightmare would not return.


I also recall that there was a round mirror hanging on the wall on the other side of the room from my bed. It was very ornate and obviously very old as well. In retrospect, I am almost certain that whenever the bed started moving, it did so toward that mirror. Later I was told that the mirror was a family heirloom, and had been in our family for many generations. Although I was never actually afraid of it, the mirror always made me feel a little uneasy. This became almost unbearable once the nightmares had started.


The year that I started school, mum had to go into hospital for some time to have her hip operated on. She had contracted osteoarthritis at a very young age, and had undergone surgery a number of times to try and treat it. This was before artificial hips were available, and most of the operations had failed dismally. As it happened, she was booked in during school holidays, so I was sent to stay with my grandparents, who lived just near the small rural town of Marandellas.


One night I experienced one of the worst nightmares I have ever had. I remember it so clearly even to this day: I was lying in what can be best described as either a trench or a foxhole. The sky was ablaze with fire, and there were loud explosions all around. As a child, and even now, I had an aversion to loud noise, and I was right in the middle of what seemed to be a ferocious battle of some sort. We did not have television at the time, and I spent most of my free time playing outside, so I had never heard - let alone seen - what a battle like this would look like. All that I knew was that I was in mortal danger. And that I was scared out of my wits!


I dared not move for fear that I would fall prey to whatever was flying over my head, so I froze. The next thing I knew was that there was a roaring sound above me that sounded like some kind of engine,. A bright flash of light burst all around me, and a sound like thunder filled the air. It was as if I was in the middle of it. I could feel the shock-wave from the explosion, and I felt as though my whole body was being torn apart. I woke up still in agony and screaming at the top of my voice. I had tossed and turned so much that I had actually fallen out of bed, knocking the bedside lamp onto the floor.


The first words that came from my mouth were: “It’s not fair! It’s just not fair!”


My grandmother came in to find out what was going on. When I told her, she took me to the kitchen and gave me a mug of hot chocolate to try and calm me down. I was still so upset that I could hardly hold the mug, and spilt some of its contents on the floor. I never told her what the dream was about, even though I recalled every frightening detail. Some of these were that I was wearing a tan-coloured uniform and a tin helmet, and that despite seeing myself as a child rather than an adult. I was also carrying an old rifle, rather like the hunting rifles my dad owned. He had a 7mm, a 303 and a shotgun. The weapon I had was more like the second one.


As I grew up, I was able to reconcile these facts because we were in the midst of the Rhodesian bush war. Barely a news broadcast would be heard without the announcement that so-and-so had been killed or wounded in action. I recall dad even telling us what we needed to do if our farm was attacked. So although I knew nothing of other wars, I was no stranger to the concept.


But it was the other elements that remained somewhat of a mystery to me: The war with which I was familiar was a guerilla war, whereas the situation I found myself in the dream was a more traditional trench war. At the time I had no knowledge of any other wars, let alone World War One!


Long before this I had begun to suffer from Nyctophobia, or a fear of the dark. Dad tried to offer some comfort by telling me that everyone is afraid of the dark to some degree, and that the secret was never to give in to it. After this latest dream, however, not only did I fear the dark, but I also began to dread falling asleep. I used to force myself to stay awake until I finally passed out from sheer exhaustion, something that at times still troubles me to this day.


Not all the shelves in my room were the same height, depending on what they had on them. Some were made to hold linen, while others were large enough to stand pictures upright. These were paintings that dad had bought, but there was no room for them just yet. These shelves were further apart than normal. We also did not have electricity, so we relied on gas and paraffin lamps for lighting. When he was at home, dad used to come and say goodnight to me, and put out the light. Paraffin lanterns were not very bright, which meant that beyond a certain point, there was just a slight glow.


One night I was still waiting for dad, when just in the half-light that shone on the shelving in front of me, I was almost certain that I saw the figure of a little girl sitting on one of the larger shelves. Her body seemed to be translucent, and I could see the feint pattern of the wood panelling behind her. Even though I was afraid of the dark, and could never bear to hear - let alone watch - stories about ghosts or monsters of any kind, I felt no fear at that moment, only a sense of curiosity.


I called out: “Hello - who are you?”


I don’t know whether I heard her reply audibly or in my head, but the only thing she said was: “I am friend.”


I was about to enquire more when dad came in to say goodnight. When he had gone, I looked for the figure again, but she had vanished. That was only the first time I saw her though, and looking back I realise that my ‘friend’ was no ordinary apparition, because when we met the next time, I was not even at home. During one of the school holidays, dad took me with him on one of his trips. It was to an area known as Shamva, which was well-known for the feature called Lion’s Head. It was a granite mountain that resembled a gigantic lion. It was also the most prominent landmark in the region.


Dad was investigating an old gold mine, called the ‘Old-Timer’s Mine’ by the local community. There were two other gold mines in the area: The Dodge Mine, which was no longer operational, and Madziwa Mine. According to the records, Old-Timer’s was the first prospect, and the reason for the development of the other two.


A shack was built out of burlap and poles, with a corrugated iron roof. The floor was made of compacted clay. The toilet was a hole in the ground with a wooden structure to hold the seat. It was quite some distance from the main camp, and was surrounded with sheets of corrugated iron.


One night, after we had gone to bed, I needed to answer the call of nature, so I took the torch that was on the table between my bed and my dad’s, and made my way to the ablution block. I noticed something moving in the copse of trees behind the loo. I shone my torch in the general direction, and spotted a familiar figure standing in the short grass just in front of the bush. The light reflected in her eyes, making them appear to glow, and I could see her face clearly. So much so that I was sure that she was smiling in my direction. Without saying a word, she waved to me. I returned the greeting and then she retreated again into the clump of bushes behind her, and disappeared from sight once more.


Whether it was just wishful thinking, my imagination, or whether it was real, I spent most of my time playing and talking to her until it was time for us to return home. I recall being more than a little concerned that we had left her behind, a fear that became even more acute when I did not see her or sense her presence for some time after we had arrived.


For about a month and a half before we went to Shamva, I had experienced a sharp pain in my stomach, which was especially noticeable after I had exerted myself. The next week after we arrived back home, mum took me to a doctor to ascertain what the problem was. It was discovered that I had developed a hernia just above my navel. It was not the first time this had happened: I was in fact born with one which was repaired soon afterwards. When I was three, another one appeared, so this was in fact the third. The difference was that it was a double, and because it had already become strangulated, I had to go in for surgery almost immediately.


The night before the operation, I was on my way to the bathroom when I saw a small figure standing in the corridor. This time I saw her clearly, or as clear as I could. The light from behind her shone through her transparent form, but it was enough to see her face properly for the first time. She was too far away for me to make out any real detail, like the colour of her eyes, but I was almost certain that her expression was one of sympathy, with a hint of concern. Again she did not say anything, but I felt a little less nervous than I had been before. As I came to after the procedure, I could almost feel her presence next to my bed, and her small hand holding mine. Even through the after-effects of the anaesthetic, I sensed that she was trying to offer me some comfort.


The next time we met, I asked her what her name was and told her mine. She replied that she still went by her childhood name, which was Sara, but that once she was of age, she would be given a new name, one which she would keep until she was considered to be aged, when another would be given to her by which she would be known until she was ready to depart from this world. I also asked if I could see her as she really was, rather than always being shrouded in mist, to which she answered that she was not ready to do so just yet, but that she would when the time was right.


Up until this point, most of the sightings of Sara had been at night, but that changed one weekend. I had gone for a swim alone. Having learned to swim before I started school, I was allowed to go to the pool without anyone supervising me, and in any case it was not very deep and I could stand in it quite easily. I had been practising swimming underwater for a while, and I was standing with my back against one wall while I caught my breath. That was when I saw her walking on the opposite side of the pool. Her outline was still somewhat blurred, but I could see her clearly enough to know that she wore pink knee-high pants and a white top with some kind of pattern on the front.


Then at last the time came for which I had been waiting! One afternoon I was resting in my room, when she came to me again. This time, however, I could see her clear as day. She had dark brown eyes and almost black hair which came down to below her shoulders. Her face was thin, without looking gaunt, and her chin somewhat pointed. I could not see her ears because they were covered up by her hair.


We spoke with each other for quite some time, until dad - who happened to be walking past my bedroom - came to see who I was talking to. The moment Sara sensed he was near, she vanished again.


When asked who it was, I replied: “Just my friend.”


Dad took it for granted that I was just playing a game and left it at that, but when I insisted that she was really in the room with me, he informed me that he had only heard one voice.


I had never been sure if I had heard Sara speak to me aloud or not, but it did not matter. I knew she was real, and that was all that counted. From that moment on, I was certain that we would be friends for ever. Often I would be caught daydreaming at school, and during recess I would rather spend my time alone than in the company of the other kids. The reason for this preference was twofold: Firstly because the other boys teased me - I was at a boys-only school - and secondly because I wanted to spend time with my ‘Special Friend’.


My second grade teacher approached my dad about these issues, and he spoke to me. He said that I had to stop dreaming and face reality. He also tried to convince me that my friend was no more than a figment of my imagination. His concluding words were: “Now - Just knuckle down, and I don’t want to hear another word about this - okay? Not another word.”


I had little choice but to agree with his instructions, and I tried my level best not to be distracted at school any more. I had changed schools in any case by this time, much to my relief. This was because it was discovered that I had a learning disability that needed to be rectified as it was hampering my education. So with the new start, I was able to make friends more easily, especially because - by and large - the kids at this school were much more accepting and the classes were also much smaller. I even went so far as to join the school’s cub scout troop, something I enjoyed immensely.




But when I was at home, it was different. Because I spent most of the time on my own, I still maintained contact with Sara. I figured that it would not cause any issues with my dad, as long as it did not interfere with my school work. After all, what I did with my spare time was no-one’s business but my own.


My father was well aware of what was going on, but believed that everything was just a game. What made him even more convinced was that I had become fascinated with the magical world of C S Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia, having been given some of the books by my grandmother, and had begun to re-enact the stories in my games. This was made easier because two major rivers ran through our farm, the Hunyane and the Ruwa - the latter being the smaller of them. There was a large island just in front of where dad was busy building our new home, and that became ‘Narnia’ to me. I put all my toys in a back-pack and crossed the river onto the island, where I was truly in a world of my own.


When it came to reading, I was always ahead of my class, and found that the reading books that we were given were boring and far too simple. So much so that my mother requested that I be allowed to choose my readers, rather than have them prescribed to me. The first school I went to refused point-blank, but the second one agreed much to my relief. By the end of the year, I had finished all five of the seven Chronicles of Narnia, and was given the final two for Christmas. I read both of them during the school holidays.

© Copyright 2020 Tristan Biggs. All rights reserved.


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