Two-fer Thursday
Faster & The Dream Is Always The Same
Stories in the Tiny Worlds Sketchbook are like a pencil sketch with words; loose, unrefined and not wholly a thing. But I like them and think there’s something here you might like, too.
A few snippets from ye olde archive, warts and all.
Faster (c. 2018)
I downshifted into the corner. The waving—no, vibrating—mirror barely held the image of my assailant.
He was gaining.
With a quick right, then a left, I was again a length, maybe two, ahead.
I leaned in, letting the wind flow over my immaculate machine. We were one, the bike and me. We held fast to the road, even as the frame rolled and flexed beneath me.
The ground almost seemed like light shag carpet as it flew beneath. But I barely had time to glance. In the mirror, I saw him gaining.
Then, he was beside me.
Our elbows were close as he edged up. He smiled at me—that toothless grin.
I leaned. He leaned. I turned wide, and he closed in.
I could see the checkered flag in sight. It would be a neck-and-neck race. A photo finish.
We both leaned down, the sound of our engines loud but I could hear his laughter. Giddy.
And all at once, he turned into me. The cardboard fairing crumpled. He leapt over the side and into my lap.
We both won that race. Maybe me a bit more.
Music to read by: Faster by Rachel Yamagata
The Dream Is Always The Same (c. 2016)
The dream is always the same.
It finds me, and I can’t escape the vision
any more than the enemy in it.
When I close my eyes, I see
a house draped in late afternoon sun—
a picket fence,
an old red farm truck,
a woman in a cotton dress
that lies whisper-close to her olive skin.
Dark hair shades her face from the setting sun.
I can’t see her details, but our lives are twisted together, rooted.
There’s a garden behind the house
where two children play among green sprouts.
They’re long out of diapers but not old enough to understand.
I stand between them—
my loves—
and the road beyond.
I perceive the dust cloud of an approaching vehicle.
It isn’t there, but I can sense the coming intruder.
Too much time has elapsed, and he’s due—
less a person than a force.
Pure evil, I think.
We’ve met before
in some previous life,
some alternate shade of reality
between the dream and the waking world.
He’s unstoppable.
Uncaring.
Unfazed by this world
I rebuild in each dream.
I gather new moments,
create a new life,
smile again,
and watch the sun set knowing—
waiting—for his return,
while impending fear claws at my insides.
Then I see it:
a haze in the distance.
I warn the woman of what’s to come.
I’ve told her my dream—that I must go,
if only to keep her safe.
The enemy,
the devil,
right behind me all along,
will never stop.
She doesn’t believe
until I am gone.
When I wake,
the dread is sweat on my brow,
the fear is in my eyes,
my quick and shallow breathing—
because I know sometime soon,
I’ll dream again.
And the dream is always the same.
Music to read by: Signals by Brian Eno