The Dreamer

A story about a boy and his obsession with dreaming

            Steve Aldan was a dreamer. Not in the sense that he had large, immense goals and plans ahead of him. Not a dreamer in the sense that he had hopes for success in the life he was bound to. Steve Aldan was a dreamer in the sense that for sixteen hours of the day, he escaped his mundane, do nothing life for the one of his dreams.

            Beyond a dreamer, Steve Aldan was a college undergraduate, but that didn’t get in the way of what really mattered.  Steve had planned his classes in accordance with his hibernation, he had bought a luxurious satin pillow to lay his head on (among the few reasons Steve left his dorm room, he left the room to wash the dried drool from his prized pillow), and he had created a vitamin regimen specifically for his unconscious life.

            In fact, all of Aldan’s waking activities were for the benefit and preservation of his life under his bed sheets. His life was an over-saturation, an obsession. It was comparable to that of a fat person, oh I’m sorry, please mind my political incorrectness, it was comparable to a person living a sedentary lifestyle who one day discovers that exercising does in fact have benefits. After that comes over-saturation; Sports bras, protein shakes, leggings, shake weights, gym memberships, and bicycles to pedal in the middle of the damn road. See also a sinner being saved; obsession and over-saturation. Steve Aldan was different, different in the sense that he had no need to push his obsession onto others. He did not push or drabble on about his fascination because he needed no companions in pursuing it. No one could join him in his sleep, so he was never like one of those a******s in jogging shoes telling you that running a 20 k was one of the most rewarding experiences of their life and you should run one with them. No, Steve Aldan indulged privately. And this made Steve the ideal lunatic, the kind of lunatic that minded his own business.

            Before I become an angry, ranting narrator, Ill return to the story. You see, Steve was going to find that Indian herbal extract eventually. It was only a matter of how long it would take him to brush through the amazon of online merchandise. Steve Aldan, like any normal human being with a debit card supplied with enough money to replace good judgment, was buying from online retailers nearly everyday and cursing the postal services when the package wasn’t delivered at exactly the estimated time. What did they take him for, a person who had time to lie waiting for a package?

            Steve had already scoured the Internet like a drowsy Genghis Khan for anything relatable to the betterment of his sleep cycle. He bought specialized headphones (he needed the headphones because his University neighbored a military base and the military, being on the same level of insecurity as a teenage girl, had to prove their potency by constantly flying bombers and other aircraft through the sky at all hours of the day, from 0 to 23) also; a custom dream journal, manuals, manifestos, vitamins, minerals, and CDs in which a soft voiced man quietly molested his ears. Now it seemed that he had run the eternal Internet dry and unfruitful.

            Unfruitful until the Indian herbal extract appeared on his computer screen. It glowed ever so brightly, but that’s mostly because Steve had his screen brightness at full. His index finger didn’t need any consulting with the brain before it clicked the add-to-cart button; click.

 

***

            It was a dark bottle, with a dropper and an extensive label. On the label before the warnings and ingredients was the image of a man floating to the moon and the stars. Steve thought it was corny and unnecessary, but he pushed that thought away and pulled his starry night pajamas on and rested his head on his fifty-dollar pillow. Steve held the bottle over his face and skimmed the label. Do Not Make Contact With Large Machinery During Use. Seeing as how Steve couldn’t drive, not even in his dreams, he did not worry that he would have any impulsive needs to operate or come into any contact with a motor vehicle, trailer, tractor, etc. And regarding the toxicity of the extract and Steve’s concern for his well being, let it be known that Steve eats food from his University’s cafeteria every day of his waking life and by that point, what he put in his body was only the concern of his voiceless colon. Also, what could be the harm in using a Native American herbal extract when they are so focused on spirituality and peace, Steve thought, they smoke a ‘peace’ pipe for Christ’s sake.

            Steve Aldan’s thought process was shuddered by the vibration of the mug on his desk; the planes were flying over-head again. Steve clamped his headphones and the room was silent. He dripped the extract on his tongue and the room was wavy. It was a bitter liquid, not like a black coffee bitter, but a raping of all his taste buds type of bitter. He ignored this, set the bottle to his side, it rattled in his hand for a minute as a plane’s passing reverberated through his desk, and he shut his eyes. 

            Immediately, the stirring of an oncoming dream was forming in his mind. He could feel it, hear it in the back of his head. It was like walking through the hallway into a movie theater, there was darkness, but he could hear the show, louder and louder as he passed through the empty hallway of his mind. He was passing faster, excitedly, the noise of it, the feeling.

            He had materialized a field of green, untouched by man from only darkness; buffalo grazed, herded on the shallow hills of grass. He was only viewing the field so Steve Aldan stepped forward to become one with the dream, but he slipped and fell out of his body. He somersaulted in the cramped space of his dorm; there was a force of ascension until he passed through the ceiling. He was turning, flipping as he rose. He caught glimpses of star clusters against an indigo sky. He laughed a silent laugh. Somehow he steadied his consciousness and continued his lift into the heavens. The stars were real and they were a shimmering beauty, some of them were even flickering, again and again in such a natural beauty. He rose faster towards the flicker, for they must be a signal to him, Steve Aldan the dreamer. He rose to those stars and was fatally struck by an airplane.

Author's Note

Don't dream too high

Reviews

[John E. O'Brien]

I especially enjoyed this story because of my past experiences with lucid dreaming. This was almost like a Shel Silverstein poem, if a Shel Silverstein poem could be morphed into prose.

[Vian]

Ha ha, that was great. Though it could do with a polishing edit. I liked the 'moral.' Great work, thanks for writing.

[thenightqueen]

loved this short, and how abrupt the ending sentence is. bravo

[Chadvonswan]

......CALEA ZACATECHICHI.......
this was a great short

[Marie]

This story held my attention from the very beginning. Steve Alden is a very interesting person with an interesting obsession. And there was humor throughout. Subtle and clever.

[ZackOfBridge]

I'm glad I entertained your attention, thanks for reviewing Marie