Where Dreams Are Made

He had the same dream every night. Well, almost the same. It always took place in the same city – not one he recognized, though. He had a sense that this city was somehow apart from his waking world cities. Also, he himself was apart. He somehow knew that he was dreaming, or at least that he was only there temporarily and he would return to his other life – his real life, whatever that was. He didn't know his name or what his job or interests were. He knew nothing about himself, yet this didn't bother him.

He would just appear – become aware of himself – strolling down the road, sipping coffee at a cafe, sitting on a bench in the park, never bothered, feeling totally confidant in his place in this world, even if he didn't know (had he been asked) what that was. He was a happy, incognito, interloper.

Sometimes in the cafes there were news stories on the TVs or radios that played, or he listened in on other people's conversations (no shame in eavesdropping here), or there was a newspaper he'd glance through, and he learned a little about the city.

It seemed like a pretty big city with tall buildings, but he never saw what he'd call skyscrapers. There were townhomes and apartment blocks. Things seemed peaceful, though, of course, there was the occasional crime – he once saw news of a bank robbery splashed across the front of a newspaper outside a train station (the city had trains, too, and buses).

As he spent more and more of his time there, he felt the atmosphere of the city shift. The people he passed in the street looked more hurried. The cafe patrons huddled more closely together and spoke in hushed voices. The news anchors' expressions grew weary and worried. Upon waking, he could never grasp quite why. But the skies grew darker in the dream world, and it left a pall over his waking day.

The people of the dream city began to mutter of a savior, and this talk was everywhere. He had grown concerned about his second home, and he asked people, “Who is this savior?”

The people all agreed, “They are strong! And smart! They can take on any evil!” But they didn't know who it was or how they would arrive.

One day, when the sun was only as bright at midday as it was at twilight, as he slipped away from the city and up through the layers to the waking world, he thought, “Why not me?”

He considered the world he knew awaited him, but that he couldn't remember, then he turned away. He returned to city of his dreams, and he soared.

These Things Happen

When Robert went out in the morning to pick up the Sunday paper from the mailbox by the street, he found his neighbor, Kyle, standing next to his adjacent mailbox and staring across the street. Robert followed his gaze.

“My Lord!” exclaimed Robert. “Is that a shark sticking out of Benny's roof?”

“Looks like,” Kyle answered.

“Poor Benny. Do you suppose it's real?”

“Could be. It's really stiff, though. I think it's dead.”

“Do you think it's stiff from being dead, or it's been stuffed.”

Kyle sniffed the air, then answered, “It doesn't smell.”

Robert, too, took a whiff. “Probably not direct from the ocean then.”

Snorting, Kyle said, “Ocean's miles away!”

“Oh, yeah.”

They continued to stare at the shark, its entire mid-section and tail sticking, stiff as a board, straight out of the roof of Benny's house across from them.

“Do you suppose Benny knows?” asked Robert.

“Hard to miss.”

“Well, sure, hard to miss from out here. But what about inside?”

Kyle flicked his gaze briefly to Robert. “So, you think we should knock on the door and tell him?”

“Wouldn't that be the neighborly thing to do?”

The men regarded each other for a moment, then returned their gaze to the shark.

“He probably knows,” said Robert.

“Yeah,” agreed Kyle. “Probably.”

Exactly Where the Table Should Be

Don't play in that house, they said. It's dangerous – unsound – they said. But she could see its bones, and they were beautiful.

She could see the frame and joists because the house was a real mess with crumbling walls and holes in the ceiling and floors. The house was naked, no longer trying to cover itself with paint, crown moldings, and pretty wallpaper. She loved that about it.

Her favorite spot was in the former dining room where there was a big, gaping hole. She sat at the edge, feet dangling into the basement where she could see empty, rotting shelves and dust-coated mason jars. A grimy chandelier dangled loose and free from the ceiling.

She liked to imagine the parties that once took place there. The grand feasts; the painted and prettied people gathered around the long table. It wasn't a terribly large room, but the table had to be long to fit all the diners. The chandelier was new and sparkled, sending little rainbows into the darkest corners. The conversations – the laughter! It all filled her mind and made the corners of her mouth lift just a little.

On to coffee served in the parlor, or something stronger if so inclined. Couples cozy on the sofas, tête-a-têtes by the window. And everyone agreed, yes! Yes! It had been a marvelous evening, hadn't it. Can't wait to do it again. They all kissed, embraced, and went home happy.

Then they stopped coming. She didn't know why. Perhaps it was because the house started showing itself. It became harder to patch the wallpaper, to fill in the holes and paint over them. The floors were too expensive to reinforce. Gaps formed, so small at first that they were easy to ignore. Until they weren't. No one could ignore the gaping hole in the dining room floor, exactly where the table – the table long enough to accommodate everyone – should be.

This hole, where she swung her feet.