Dreams (go back »)

I sighed, crushing my 3^rd piece of paper into a ball and tossing it at the bin. It bounced off the others and landed on the floor.

            Nothing I’d come up with so far had worked. A story about God and the devil playing chess. A story about an invisible man. A story about dragons… I looked at the notepad.

             ‘There’s no point trying anymore,’ I said, standing up and letting go of my pencil, ‘I need a break.’ I switched off the lamp, switched on the Xbox360, played until my eyes were red, switched it off, got undressed and went to bed. I closed my eyes and breathed in… and out. In...

 

I was sitting on something pink and fluffy. A man sat facing me, wearing an elegant suit. A game of chess lay between us. He was arranging the pieces, as if preparing for a game.

‘Hello George,’ he said.

This was certainly a dream.

The guy facing me looked up. I gasped.

‘Yes, I look just like you, I know.’ He finished arranging the pieces, and gestured towards the chess board, ‘Let’s start playing before you wake up.’

‘What? Who-‘

Before I could finish he took a handful of the pink fluffy stuff and shoved it in my mouth. It withered and a sweet taste prickled my tongue. It was candy floss.

‘Play!’ he urged, ‘then you can ask questions.’

I didn’t know where I was, but knew I preferred candy floss and chess over assignments. I looked at the man who was my spitting image, looked at the chess board, and moved a pawn.

‘Thought you’d move that one,’ he grinned, ‘you always move the same ones first.’

‘I’ve never had a dream like this,’ I scooped a handful of candy floss.

‘Don’t eat too much, otherwise we’ll fall through,’ he said, scooping a handful.

            I looked around. There was neither a sound nor a soul in sight, just candy floss that went up and down like the waves of the sea.

‘Who are you?’ I asked after a while.

‘If you ask who I am,’ he said, moving his queen, ‘then what you really ask is who you are.’

I frowned. What was he saying? I took a closer look at him, and saw he was more than my self in an elegant suit. He moved with more confidence, more certainty. And his eyes seemed to hold more wisdom. I suspected he was an older me.

‘You’ve lost,’ he said, blocking my king with his queen, ‘Check-mate.’

            ‘I feel that there’s more to this dream than just candy floss and chess.’ I said.

            ‘You’re right,’ the man said. He made a gesture with his hand, and the chess game moved aside. A glass and a jug appeared between us.

‘There is indeed a lot more to this than candy floss and chess,’ he picked up the jug and poured milk in the glass. He handed it to me. I looked at the glass, then at him.

            ‘Why milk?’ I said

            ‘Because you are still a child, now drink.’

            ‘I’m not a child.’

            ‘Then stop giving up on assignments, stop losing on the games you play,’ he said, ‘and stop dreaming of milk and candy floss.’

            I grew confused then. Confused and angry. I threw the glass of milk. The milk spilt onto the candy floss and turned it white. Gradually, all the candy floss around us turned white. I stood up.

            ‘Who are you to talk to me like that?’

            ‘I am what you can become,’ he said, also standing up. He spread his arms, showing me the elegance of his suit, ‘if you work hard, and succeed. Wouldn’t you like to succeed, George?’

‘Don’t call me a child.’

            ‘Then succeed,’ he said, ‘Prove to me that you are not worthless, and succeed.’

            I looked at him. He looked back. He did not smile or look away, and I saw he was not intimidated.

            I looked away, ‘Easy for you to say, with your damn suit. You’re not the one having to suffer under the pile of work.’

            ‘I can only help you if you help yourself,’ he looked at his watch, and then came towards me with a closed fist.

            ‘You’re going to punch me?’ I said, frowning, ‘Why?’

            ‘You must wake up now, it’s the quickest way.’

‘Wait!’

‘Remember to take every opportunity.’ His fist connected with my face. Everything went black.

 

            ‘Where’s your homework?’ Mr Smart asked. The last students had left the room. I’d been kept behind. He twiddled a pen with his fingers. I was standing and looking at his desk, thinking of the dream I’d had.

            ‘I couldn’t do it.’

            ‘But you could have tried, George. You could have at least tried.’

            ‘It’s too hard.’

He sighed, took off his glasses, and mentioned for me to sit down. He crossed his hands.

‘What’s hard about it? What don’t you understand?’

I shook my head, ‘I just can’t write stories like before. Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen Creative Writing as a subject…’

Mr Smart raised his eyebrows. ‘You did so brilliantly last year, ranking amongst the highest results. Your short story was the best I’ve seen...’

That was true. But it was my older brother who had written it. He’d always been talented at stories. He was in the army now, and had little time for anything else.

‘Perhaps you need to get back to the basics,’ my teacher continued, ‘I am starting a workshop this evening that could help you. It would give you all you need to succeed. It is optional, but I advise you to come.’

‘A workshop?’ I repeated.

‘That’s right, a workshop, at seven.’ Mr Smart said. ‘Now go, I have to prepare for my next class… oh and George, one last thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘I hate to tell you this, but if you fail to do homework again, I will have to fail you.’

             I nodded and left the classroom. It was strange to be so close to failing. All my life I had succeeded without really working hard, but now…

 

            ‘What did he say?’ Mike asked as we got to the bus stop.

            ‘What do you think?’ I replied, looking at my watch, ‘Where’s Paulette?’

            ‘She’s already at mine.’

            The bus came. We got on.

            ‘I heard there’s this workshop happening for our course.’ Mike said.

            ‘Yeah,’ I said.

            ‘You going?’

            A part of me didn’t want to. I didn’t want to do any more efforts than I’d already done, even if I’d hardly done any at all.

            ‘Are you going?’ I asked him.

            ‘I’m going if you’re going.’

            ‘Well I don’t really want to go.’

            ‘Well we don’t have to.’

            Remember to take every opportunity.

            ‘Mike, have you ever had a dream where you were talking to yourself?’

            We had gotten off the bus and were in front of his door. He looked at me.

            ‘No, but I heard that it’s the first sign of madness.’

            ‘What about a dream where you’re talking to someone who looks just like you?’

            ‘Is that a dream you had?’ he asked.

            ‘Kind of.’

            He shook his head as he put the key in the lock, ‘Then you must be going mad, playing a bit of Xbox360 will get some sense back into you.’

            Television and games, that’s all we ever did. We used to meet everyday, little me Mike and Paulette, and play games and watch telly till our eyes couldn’t focus. But ever since we’ve left school and started university, we’ve had less time for it. And if I had to choose between a workshop and a good time with friends, I wouldn’t choose the workshop.

            We walked into the living room. Paulette sat cross-legged on the Berber carpet, her jeans more faded than ours. She was watching the Simpsons with Lloyd, who was slouching on the couch. Both heads turned at our arrival, nodded, and turned again.

            Before we knew it, we took turns playing a boxing game, and time went by like the double-decker buses that stopped at the stop just outside Mike’s house.

            ‘So George, you sure we ain’t going to that workshop?’

            I looked at the clock, annoyed. It was twenty past six. If we were to go, then we were to go now.

            ‘Let’s finish off this game and then we’ll see,’ I said.

And we did see. I beat the crap out of Paulette this round. Lloyd and Mike were watching, so there were witnesses. But she argued, saying I cheated, which was ridiculous. We settled the case with a rematch. And another. And another.

‘Enough!’ she said, letting go of the controlling pad, ‘You’ve knocked all the teeth out my boxer. You’ve won.’

In the midst of our excitement, I looked at the clock. It was seven. But I wasn’t going to let a workshop ruin our evening. And everyone seemed to have forgotten about it. We played and played until our eyes were red, switched off the Xbox360, got undressed, and slept over at Mike’s. I closed my eyes, and sighed. Today had been a good day. I breathed in… and out. In...

 

Again I was sitting on the candy floss. It was still white from the milk I’d spilt. A man sat facing me, but I could tell it wasn’t the same guy as before, although we had the same face again. He was wearing rags, and looked like there was no happiness left in him. A game of chess lay between us, and he was arranging the pieces, as if in preparation for a game.

            ‘George,’ he said, with a grin. There were a few gaps in his teeth, and most of them were rotten.

            ‘Are you supposed to be me?’ He really looked like a failure.

            ‘Yes, want to play some chess?’

            His eyes made a lump grow in my throat. He seemed so sad. ‘No, I want to talk. What happened to you?’

            The man made a gesture with his hand, and the chess board disappeared.

            ‘Let’s take a walk.’ He gestured again with his hand, and the candy floss started withering. I got up, alarmed, and started falling. It was as if someone was pulling me down with great force. I closed my eyes until the feeling subsided. I opened them to a field of bluebell flowers.

            ‘Before I answer your question,’ the man in rags said as we walked, ‘look around you, and tell me what you see.’

            All I saw was a field of bluebell flowers, ‘I see flowers.’

            The man nodded, ‘Exactly. That, George, is what happened to me,’ he ripped a bluebell from the ground, showing me its roots, ‘I saw flowers. Everywhere I saw flowers. All identical. All part of the same system. All of them pointing in the same direction, and growing in the same way. All of them seeking the sunlight like sheep.

            ‘This is what I saw with society,’ he said, ripping the bluebell and throwing it.

            I nodded, listening with great interest. Although he did not compare to the guy in the elegant suit, I liked his way of seeing things. If this was who I was to become, then I’d make sure to think like him, but get myself a suit, no doubt.

            ‘I didn’t want to be like everyone else,’ he continued, pulling bluebells from the ground, ‘I wanted to be my own man. Who needs university and grades? Why bother with jobs and interviews? I had better fish to fry and better cats to whip.’

            ‘So what do you do?’ I asked.

            ‘Don’t ask me that question,’ he said, his jaw clenching, ‘Life isn’t about doing. That’s what everyone does. They’ve been doing for so long that they don’t think anymore. They think they think, but they only do.’

            ‘I don’t understand you.’

            ‘Fool!’ the man in rags glared at me. He tossed the bluebells away, ‘Even you, you’re just like the rest.’ He looked in the distance, ‘And everybody’s the same. Nobody understands. Nothing changes.’

            He reminded me of me when I got depressed. I’d look at others and despise them for being better off.

            ‘But it’s good,’ he said, grinning, ‘it’s good that you didn’t go to that workshop.’

            ‘Why is it good?’

            ‘Because you didn’t want to go,’ he scooped up some bluebells, ‘You did what you wanted, and that’s good. But as long as you stay in university, you will waste your time.’

            I had the impression that the guy in the elegant suit would say otherwise. ‘That’s not what I’ve been told.’ I said. Still, a part of me agreed with him. I’d always longed to do what I wanted.

            ‘Forget what others tell you.’ The man spat, ‘they’re all flowers, but you don’t have to be. You can be a tree.’

            The man in rags looked at his watch, and immediately I grew suspicious. He came towards me with an open palm, I backed away.

            ‘Be careful!’ he said, pointing behind me, ‘you’ll fall off the edge!’

            The edge? I turned away, looking behind me. But there was no edge, only flowers. I turned back around to see the guy in rags, and his palm connected with my face in a mighty slap.

 

            I sat up at Mike’s house, and thought about the two dreams I’d had. I thought about it during the day at school. I thought about it on my way home where I got to my room and sat at the desk. I twiddled a pencil with my fingers and started writing.

            Perhaps this would work. A story about a young man having to make a story. A story about a young man whose dreams have indirectly influenced his story’s content…

            Sighing, I crushed the piece of paper into a ball.

In Short Stories and Really Short Stories