Venti had the dream again. He was still slogging towards the beach, his back to the crashing surf. That figure in the distance was still a grainy blur. If only he could focus on him--her--then he might gain some kind of closure, or at the very least get rid of the damn surfboard.

The strangest part of the dream was him being aware it was a dream, but unlike most lucid dreams, he had no control over his participation, much less any ability to manipulate it. He was like a puppet; his actions were not his own to make.

Like the previous dreams, the faster he ran the greater the distance between him and the mysterious figure, and soon gravity combined with the lack of strength would drag him to the ground.

The cries of the sea gulls filled his ears, drowning out everything from his voice to the crashing surf of the ocean. He wondered if he could look up, would he see the birds overhead? Would they be innocently circling around him, or would they be of Hitchcockian intent, preparing for an attack?

He stumbled onto the ground. This time he did not regain his footing, and was reduced to crawling along the sandy beach. The drag of the surfboard slowed him down, but he was joined to it in ways that only dreams could cause. He dared not glance at it for fear he'd find himself merged with it, a Siamese twin of organic and inorganic material.

The figure waited patiently. It would always be waiting for him. All Venti needed to do--all Venti wanted to do--was to call out something. Anything. But what could he say? What would be the magic phrase to stop this scenario?

As he crawled he took in a deep breath, gathering the last vestiges of willpower in the hopes he would finally be heard, and bellowed:

"SHUT UP YOU STUPID SEAGULLS!"

He looked up at the sky and found only ceiling. He sat up and found himself in his bed instead of a sandy beach. It would be another sleepless night.

"Dammit," he muttered as he got up to make some coffee.

<<< PREV | FIRST | NEXT >>>