The Boy's Dreaming

A Story by J. Quinzelle

A boy refuses to wake from his slumber. Who's to blame him when dreams are so sweet?

His head slid from his neck, chasing the trail left from his morning drool. Breathing into consciousness, his thoughts beheaded, caged and rattled past his shuttering eyes, into a spiral of deja vu, the disdain of a sunlit rendezvous. A sting of the heretic morn, thrashing all myths from their lively ivory pillars, brought a takeaway to slumber and made the boy cringe the dew imagined. Green grasses, ample skies, faces less known with age, not to be envisioned. He refused the color spectrum. Too brittle, too real for the sake of glee, for such a boy to partake.

The stardust, in convulsions of fear and doubt, still beckoned the boy to pursue his dissipating fantasy. He was losing sense with each eye fluttered, and his creations, unsatisfied with the deceit of the wake, only craved the dream led by the stardust. They could not accept morning, as if the day were only to repeat the nightfall cycle and return him to this climax of disappointment. In exchange for heavy eyes from which the night accepted as offering, a prize of adoration and an eternity of possibilities bestowed upon his crown.

No, the sun and blue sky will not rape his dreams. They will not have him again, to abuse into a corner of worthless strife. The life in each ray from the blazing eye only furthered the boy's grasp to a capsule; one to vanquish all mornings.

Sweet little capsule, such a fabrication as in a false god, put the boy down.

This dream will never wake.