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| Next | Back | Home | Fiction | Non-Fiction | Poems | Book Excerpts | The Dream Non-Fiction by David Cannon We all experience strange dreams. I have had my fare share.
However, a dream I had one night has stayed vivid in my mind. Puzzling,
it left a lasting impression: - I walked along a dimly lit corridor confused as to where it led. I
was aware of movement over my head, looking upwards I saw a single lit
bulb hanging from the ceiling. In a pendulum motion it mysteriously
moved from side to side. Slowly as if time had given it a choice of its
own. The eerie silence disturbed me. My footsteps made no sound. No
doors lined the passageway. Walls dirty, gray, peeled, neglected. I was
surprised, as I came upon a small window, longing for a distraction. I
peered out expecting a view. No light entered, its pains cracked, and
broken, it was boarded over.
I continued feeling drawn. On, and on. As if from nowhere, I was
suddenly faced by an enormous door. Heavy, wooden its paint weathered.
It looked as if it was from another time. It bore no handle for which to
gain entry. No keyhole for me to intrude. A large brass knocker hung
once an image, a bull’s head, was coated with lime scale. Obscuring
any character or definition to its face. I longed to discover what lay
behind the door that barred my way. Yet, I feared what it was keeping
hidden. Hesitant, I reached, stretched to knock timidly. No knocking
resulted. Knocking harder, still no sound. Silently the door opened
itself to me as if inviting me to enter. Reluctantly, I stepped through;
no person stood to greet me. No visible hand to have opened the door for
me. Looking about me, I was blinded by a vast whiteness. Tall windows
blazed shafts of light. Gray shimmering particles danced amongst it.
Shielding my eyes from the overwhelming glare. I saw that I stood on a
wooden floor, polished and buffed to the extent that it mirrored the
windows. The deathly silence was broken, by a whimpering. A small
frightened child could only make that heart rending plea. Concerned,
vision blurred, I searched following the cries. In a corner a tiny boy
sat. His back toward me. His clothes seemed colorfully garish. Compared
to the sea of white. In his hand he held a toy car. He guided it back
and forth on the polished floor. I placed a comforting hand on his bony
shoulder. Wishing to console him. He made no movement, no sign to
acknowledge my presence. His body trembled beneath my hand with each
pitiful sob. I spoke "why are you crying?" no answer. Maybe
too shy, or too afraid to respond.
I shook him gently. His head turned slowly, it seemed like forever.
Until he finally turned his face to meet mine. I stepped back in shock.
No angelic, infant face greeted me, but the face of a withered man. His
face harshly wrinkled and time worn. His eyes opened wide to gaze into
mine. Vacant of color, milky white. His head tilted, and his small red
mouth stretched hideously into a leering grin revealing rotted teeth.
Yellow and tapering to pointed needles. Frozen, though wishing to flee.
I stared, compelled. The grotesque face smirked. Unaware of its
intentions, I felt in danger. But could not move, nor cry out. My blood
ran cold as I anticipated a grizzly death, as he reared his face closer
to me. Thankfully, I woke, my clothes damp with sweat and my heart racing. I
could not go back to sleep, my eyes closed with tiredness. Each time I
would be jolted back into reality by the lurking image of the gargoyle
that stained my mind.
David Cannon, contact: kmlcannon@ic24.net
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