I awoke from a dream, agitated, sweating and unable to return to sleep. The dream was vivid, specific and simultaneously vague. I was holding the frail, bird-like hand of my grandmother as she led me room by room through a transparent apartment in the heart of London. The place was magnificent; white, polished and pristine; overlooking a lush, leafy green and fragrant Linden forest encased by walls of iron. Tables of glass lined the invisible walls of the apartment, adorned by numerous and varying picture frames wrought from precious silver, each protecting fading photographs of faceless people.
In a flash of blue I found myself roaming a house in Los Angeles constructed of stone and glass – a monument on a cliff, overlooking a luminescent treasure chest of ruby, sapphire, emerald, and diamond lights swaying in a warm breeze that tasted like pearls plucked directly from a reluctant oyster. I turned to see my grandmother just before she vanished, disappearing gradually into a pile of blackened sand; her face the first feature to crumble.
Both visions were inexplicably connected to a tall, dark-skinned man with intelligent golden-brown eyes, soft lips and a wide, toothy smile - a man of American birth; his true heritage forever lost in history, drowned at the bottom of the Atlantic, bearing the stigmata of steel shackles. He followed us, staying clear of the light, close enough to see, too far to touch. I tried to speak, to call to him, but the words refused to materialize.
The dream stayed with me, taunting me, a pithy pop-song stuck in my brain, its chorus bleeding into my every thought. Most dreams I recall are random and meaningless – like snacking on liver treats with a blue-eyed cat named Valentino; he was wearing a red and yellow Dashiki, with a matching hat, and a gold earring. Other times dreams can be a predictor, or carry a message, like the time I canceled my flight to Paris or awoke to the perfect plot for a story. This was different.
*
I rise from bed, brew a pot of coffee and step outside, pausing to ruminate at the edge of the terrace, leaning against the glass barrier that separates my house from the dry, rocky ravine below. In the distance I see the city of my dream, shimmering and swaying to the ebb and flow of a million sleepless souls. A warm breeze wrestles perfume from an invisible orange tree, rustles the palms, and scatters a small family of coyotes, their yelps carried by the wind follows them into the darkened canyons. Who is the man, I question, and why was he in my home? Why was my grandmother with him? I return to my bed and wonder.
Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved
I love this Mark! It is very dark and mysterious — the imagery captivating… so authentically dreamlike. The work is beautifully disturbing — rich with wonder. Just splendid writing!
Absolutely amazing. The detailed descriptions just force you to keep sinking deeper while you realise you need to come up for air. You’re an amazing writer.
“like snacking on liver treats with a blue-eyed cat named Valentino; ” sure made me smile, my dreams are pretty vivid too, except I never remember most of it when I wake up, which is a shame really, or I will be writing pretty weird things! Thank you, really enjoyed this read.
i waited with baited breath for something more from you… and as always it was wonderful….. thank you … i hope someday you meet,, the man of your dreams……
Good morning!
Rob, thank you for coming by. I am glad you like the story.
Manictastic - Thanks for noticing the details. My goal is to draw people into my crazy-realm.
UL - Daydreams count. Valentino was waiting patiently for me to finish this story, but his schedule must be kept!
Paisley - Thank you. I worry now - “what will Paisley think?”
The words are unusually beautiful and descriptive. The dream becomes totally visual while the mystery lies deep. Perhaps each reader will find parts of his/her own dream/mystery here.
I got lost in the dreams, smiling one minute, want to rush past the odd/horrid in the next and was entranced by the words.
I never seem to remember my dreams…The only way i remember if i’ve hads a nightmare or a beautiful dream is the mood in which I get up in
loved it!!
Hi Tumble, Mary and T.A - Thanks for stopping in. For me, dreams are fragments -snapshots really. Being a writer allows me the liberty to put everything back together. Nothing is exactly as it seems.
m
Who is the man? Wouldn’t you like to know? me too! Love your story and your site - hope to come back soon for a good look around.
Extremely evocative work, sir. I commend and applaud and salute you, all at once!
Thanks for coming by, SweetTalkingGuy. I appreciate the comments.
Thank you, Lord Likely. It is good to welcome you again.
Wonderful and mysterious story that does so well what dreams usually do - leave us with many questions and few answers.
Hi Annieelf - I am glad you enjoyed the story. Thanks for the comment.
Really well done Mark. Excellent story. I truly admire your work.
~JD
Thank you, JD. I’m glad you stopped in.
Movie Script Time.
anita marie
Great, thanks! You can e-mail me and I’ll let you know where to wire the $20MM so that I can get started!
Sounds like a littl of that Ol Black Magic could come in handy about now- cause the last time I tried to pull money out of my ATM it laughed at me.
you intrigue me
it seems you and I wander in similar frequencies of reality
your third eye is proggresively developed
If i gave you a freshly blooming flower, what would you do with it?
Wolf,
I would examine said flower, admire it’s attributes, enjoy it’s gifts, remove it’s petals, consume it’s heart, and seek then out another flower.