Another Dream
I had this dream some fifteen years ago or so -- it was one of the first 'oh my gods I have to write this down' kind of dreams. When my hard drive crashed on my first computer, I lost this -- but I'd never forgotten the dream itself. So, tonight, I decided to write it out to show. :) I hope you like it.
It always started with the scream, a woman’s scream of anguish and sorrow, and the look of horror in her eyes. His eyes snapped open, wincing as the sun beat down upon him, and instinctively clutched at his chest, feeling a phantom pain to a wound he knew was never there.
He sat up slowly, looking over his mussed up shirt and his jeans, worn thin in places from years of use. Everything was fine, and there was no blood, no injuries, and the man slowly got to his feet, looking around at his surroundings.
The sign said Carling Avenue, and the sun was out and bright, and there were few clouds in the sky. The air was fresh, and to his left, across the street, there was a park. The grass was green and freshly mowed, and there were a few sparse trees to provide shade to anyone passing through. A bicycle path ran alongside the river, which sparkled in the sunlight, and there were boats tied up in dock. The area seemed friendly, but there was no traffic on the streets, which seemed odd for such a pleasant day.
He headed down the street, keeping the road to his left, and headed east. There were a few shops on his right, mostly worn down and closed, the white paint peeling from the buildings, dull with time and neglect - a sharp contrast with the park just across the street. Not finding these interesting, he kept an eye on the park, and slowed as he saw a small trailer settled on the grass. Sitting there was a man with his dog, a big, brown one with floppy ears and a dropping mouth. It sat lazily at the man’s side, and the man petted it with an idle hand as he stretched back and enjoyed the sun.
He slowed, looking at the other in the park. They both wore the same jeans and the same shirt, and both had the same mussed-up brown hair. The only difference between the two was the man in the park seemed less worn down with time - his shirt was neat and his jeans looked fresh, but they were the same make. He knew this man, but spared him only the one lingering glance before continuing on his way.
He came across a pool hall. There were a number of motorcycles parked in front of it, and from inside he could hear music. He turned and walked in, stepping out of the bright sun and into the dim light of the hall. In the centre of the room was a pool table, and around the table were a group of bikers playing pool. They were mostly middle-aged men in black leather jackets, torn jeans, and thick leather boots. A few sported scraggly beards, and most were balding, their hair wispy or tied back. Only the leader was different - he was tall and thin, with sallow cheeks and cold gray eyes. He wore cowboy boots and a gray cowboy hat, and when he turned to look at the doorway, there was a flash of recognition in his eyes.
He stepped into the pool hall, and the cowboy gestured an invitation to play a round. They did not talk as they played, as if there were an understanding between them. It was only a matter of time before he won, at which the bikers got up, muttering and taking hostile poses. The cowboy held up a hand, letting him leave the pool hall before turning to them. “Let him go. I have business with him later.”
He continued on his way, heading down the street, until he came to a tiny mall nestled in by the side of the park. There, he saw the most lovely woman he had ever laid eyes upon. Her hair was dark gold, flowing loose in the breeze, and her eyes were a rich, warm green. Her complexion was roses-and-cream, and her dress was cherry red. He knew her immediately, and approached her. She smiled, surprised when she saw him, but did not recognize him. They spoke a while, and he knew exactly what to say to make her smile and laugh. It was love.
As he talked with her, the sun slowly set. They entered the mall and sat at the cafeteria, eating a pleasant meal in each other’s company. When the meal was done, he invited her to watch a movie with him, and she accepted with a smile. The film was amusing, and as they laughed and enjoyed the show, they held hands. She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
After the movie, they held hands, heading out into the parking lot. She smiled as she looked at him, and he smiled back, a sudden sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. As she turned to face him, her expression troubled...
... there was a clap of thunder, and his chest blossomed from the bullet.
He collapsed to the ground, and the woman knelt, a cry of anguish and sorrow escaping her perfect lips. He looked up into her eyes, seeing the horror there.
The cowboy stepped into view, pistol in hand. She looked up at him, seeing the cold look in his eyes. “Why? Why did you kill him?”
“Because,” said the cowboy. “He wants this day to never end.”
His eyes snapped open, wincing as the sun beat down upon him.
It always started with the scream, a woman’s scream of anguish and sorrow, and the look of horror in her eyes. His eyes snapped open, wincing as the sun beat down upon him, and instinctively clutched at his chest, feeling a phantom pain to a wound he knew was never there.
He sat up slowly, looking over his mussed up shirt and his jeans, worn thin in places from years of use. Everything was fine, and there was no blood, no injuries, and the man slowly got to his feet, looking around at his surroundings.
The sign said Carling Avenue, and the sun was out and bright, and there were few clouds in the sky. The air was fresh, and to his left, across the street, there was a park. The grass was green and freshly mowed, and there were a few sparse trees to provide shade to anyone passing through. A bicycle path ran alongside the river, which sparkled in the sunlight, and there were boats tied up in dock. The area seemed friendly, but there was no traffic on the streets, which seemed odd for such a pleasant day.
He headed down the street, keeping the road to his left, and headed east. There were a few shops on his right, mostly worn down and closed, the white paint peeling from the buildings, dull with time and neglect - a sharp contrast with the park just across the street. Not finding these interesting, he kept an eye on the park, and slowed as he saw a small trailer settled on the grass. Sitting there was a man with his dog, a big, brown one with floppy ears and a dropping mouth. It sat lazily at the man’s side, and the man petted it with an idle hand as he stretched back and enjoyed the sun.
He slowed, looking at the other in the park. They both wore the same jeans and the same shirt, and both had the same mussed-up brown hair. The only difference between the two was the man in the park seemed less worn down with time - his shirt was neat and his jeans looked fresh, but they were the same make. He knew this man, but spared him only the one lingering glance before continuing on his way.
He came across a pool hall. There were a number of motorcycles parked in front of it, and from inside he could hear music. He turned and walked in, stepping out of the bright sun and into the dim light of the hall. In the centre of the room was a pool table, and around the table were a group of bikers playing pool. They were mostly middle-aged men in black leather jackets, torn jeans, and thick leather boots. A few sported scraggly beards, and most were balding, their hair wispy or tied back. Only the leader was different - he was tall and thin, with sallow cheeks and cold gray eyes. He wore cowboy boots and a gray cowboy hat, and when he turned to look at the doorway, there was a flash of recognition in his eyes.
He stepped into the pool hall, and the cowboy gestured an invitation to play a round. They did not talk as they played, as if there were an understanding between them. It was only a matter of time before he won, at which the bikers got up, muttering and taking hostile poses. The cowboy held up a hand, letting him leave the pool hall before turning to them. “Let him go. I have business with him later.”
He continued on his way, heading down the street, until he came to a tiny mall nestled in by the side of the park. There, he saw the most lovely woman he had ever laid eyes upon. Her hair was dark gold, flowing loose in the breeze, and her eyes were a rich, warm green. Her complexion was roses-and-cream, and her dress was cherry red. He knew her immediately, and approached her. She smiled, surprised when she saw him, but did not recognize him. They spoke a while, and he knew exactly what to say to make her smile and laugh. It was love.
As he talked with her, the sun slowly set. They entered the mall and sat at the cafeteria, eating a pleasant meal in each other’s company. When the meal was done, he invited her to watch a movie with him, and she accepted with a smile. The film was amusing, and as they laughed and enjoyed the show, they held hands. She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
After the movie, they held hands, heading out into the parking lot. She smiled as she looked at him, and he smiled back, a sudden sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. As she turned to face him, her expression troubled...
... there was a clap of thunder, and his chest blossomed from the bullet.
He collapsed to the ground, and the woman knelt, a cry of anguish and sorrow escaping her perfect lips. He looked up into her eyes, seeing the horror there.
The cowboy stepped into view, pistol in hand. She looked up at him, seeing the cold look in his eyes. “Why? Why did you kill him?”
“Because,” said the cowboy. “He wants this day to never end.”
His eyes snapped open, wincing as the sun beat down upon him.