EDIT: I've finally choosen "You will feel a dream" for the title~
I finished my short story yesterday night! I'm pretty proud of it, even though I did not write the end I had in mind on the first place.
Also, I'm still hesitating about the title: Colored enough to say goodnight OR You will feel a dream ?? Please tell me which one you prefer (;w;)
Besides, please take into account that English is absolutely NOT my mother tongue so there may be some mistakes, I'm sorry. ( ;w;")
*****
You’ll feel a dream.
You woke up sweating. Again. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, your limbs were paralyzed, and you could hardly breathe –or just did not want to. In your face was dread. You focused on the silence of your bedroom, waiting for something to happen. It did not happen and it will not, and unconsciously you knew it perfectly well. It was the third time this week you had had a nightmare. Once you were wide awake, you could not even remember it and you got upset. When you glanced at your alarm you read 4:32 am. You wished the digits might be a lie, that you had more than one hour left to sleep –but they were no lie and you got even more upset. You sighed. Now you had to choose between the two crucial and distressing decisions: one was to get up (and obviously jumping out of your bed that early was not often in your plan); the second was to try to fall asleep again. The first one would give you enough time to do some housework. Yes, that made sense. But it did not mean you wanted to. Actually the second choice was not too appealing either; everybody knew that you were even more tired when you resumed your sleep. It was all wretchedly masochistic. You sighed again, almost whining. You eventually crawled out of your bed, cursing God so that at least next time you will not be able to sleep properly, you would know why. Your feet automatically led you to the bathroom, in front of the mirror. These past days had been as awful as your face now showed you. Your complexion was as fresh as a corpse’s, you had bag under your eyes and you obviously needed a good shave. You just looked extremely tired. Life was tiring, work was tiring, even sleep was tiring –could you not find refuge in anything? You sighed again, more like a moan. Shower time.
Fortunately, according to the weather forecast today would be a sunny day; a –very –early morning walk might be nice, and so might be a yummy breakfast on a terrace. You opened your shutters and saw an orange, almost red sky mixed with several touches of pink and blue. This marvelous view made you happy, the kind of happiness that makes you want to cry. You wished the sky was your lover.
Once you got your things ready for work, you checked the clock again before closing the door: 5:28 am. You start work at 8:30 am. Nice. So you had plenty of time to spend, and you mentally noted to yourself to stop sighing. As you went downstairs you put your iPod on shuffle; you lived in a common but comfy apartment and your neighbors, as far as you knew them, seemed quite nice. Well, you were not a particularly sociable person anyway; sometimes people said you were twisted. Perhaps this is also the reason why you lived alone. If you were to go around carrying a placard it would read, “Please don’t talk to me - I fall in love so easily.” And on the back there would be, “any relationship with me is an unhealthy one” –in capital letters. Well, being alone did not have to mean being lonely, right? There would be questions that could be difficult to answer, so you simply avoided them; you preferred to focus on the sky and your random music, so random that you hoped no one would ask you what you were listening to. Actually, you would be unlikely to pass anyone considering the early hour: you looked around and you thought it was probably the first time you had seen that large street so deserted and calm (as calm as it could be while listening to your iPod, that is). You felt at ease and continued your way through a little but charming alley, deciding to take an unusual, longer path.
Your feet stopped in front of an art gallery and you could not restrain a rather bitter laugh. “That painting looks like ketchup on grass! –and for not less than 1060€!” You said to yourself. You already knew you had ruined your life working for a phone platform trying to sell high-tech vacuum cleaners, but to see this so-called-art-shit exposed in a windowpane at that price made your heart disappear into dust. Then you had an idea. An idea so crazy that your head would explode. Note to yourself: perhaps pooping on a pink canvas with a beautiful frame and trying to sell it for 2000€ was not such a good idea, really; but it made you smile. Actually, you did like visiting art galleries; it reminded you of when you were younger with imagination and creativity flowing through your head. You did not paint but you drew a lot on sketchpads, you were very good actually. Your family wanted you to go to an art school, but you refused because you did not want to mix pleasure and work. Maybe this decision was a big mistake after all, but in any case, the more you grew up the more blasé you became. Inspiration was dying step by step, and now you were definitely suffering from artist block; it was devouring your soul, making you an empty shell. You were thirty years old now and you could still feel it, the nothingness. There were no colors anymore, except in the sky and through the music, but your pens were dried and your sheets remained blank. An apparently endless frustration. What mattered now was how you decided to use the idea of having nothing matter. It could go either way. In the eventual end, you were dead anyway.
You went on following the paving stones of the silent passage when a ray of light shone out suddenly from a pane of glass, making you blind for a moment. When you opened your eyes you found you were unexpectedly facing a young boy. He was approximately ten, with brown hair hidden under a cap and wearing old fashioned clothes. His eyes, as far as you could see them, were of a deep blue and –oh yeah, he was holding multicolored balloons, something that obviously appealed to your curiosity. What the heck was a child doing in the street at –you checked your watch –at 5:59 am with dozens of balloons in his hand? No, more than that, when and how did he appear in front of you without your noticing him? The balloons seemed to glow, dancing with the wind; they looked like puppets on a string, which, maybe, was all they were to the little boy. A shiver went down your spine and you did not know even why. You just felt as if something was wrong, or at least, not technically right –you had never been comfortable with children anyway. You took your headphones off but before you had the time to say a word he suddenly smiled at you. You were nearly knocked off your feet by the effect. Being that cute should be criminal.
“Mister, choose a balloon.” Oh, so the little thing could speak? And what an adorable voice he had, as captivating as his eyes. But you did not fancy the idea of going to your office with a balloon, especially since your colleagues already thought you were weird. You knelt down and gave him an embarrassed smiled.
“Sorry lil’ guy, I can’t take one with me, I –“
“Please, Mister. Choose a balloon. One of them is for you; I want you to take one.” You were surprised by the sudden change of tone, a more serious one. But he was still smiling at you, a very warm smile…and that made you uncomfortable. You winced as he opened his ruby lips again, this time with a grin: “I’m a Dream Seller.”
If it was not the most surprising statement you had ever heard, might lightning strike you and your illegal song downloads dead. You could not restrain a heart-felt-laugh and you patted his head, but strangely enough, it felt as though your hand touched nothing but clouds. Once again, you shivered; maybe all that was due to the lack of your morning caffeine or maybe you were facing a Dream Seller for real. ‘Keep calm and have a cupcake’ was what your grandmother would have said to you.
“I’m a Dream Seller” he repeated, still smiling. But there was now something almost unrealistic about his sweet voice, about his smile, and about his eyes as blue as the ocean –and the longer you stared at them, the more you felt as if you were drowning. “Breathe, breathe, breathe!” you said to yourself as you tried not to hyperventilate. Second chances do not come often. “I’m a Dream Seller and I offer you a balloon. Please choose whichever one appeals most to your senses.” Always that smile that made your blood boil and your knees go weak. Your retinas became attracted by the colored balloons again –which one to choose? Orange? Red? Yellow? Blue? Apple green? You just wanted them all! You wanted the wind to push them into your arms. You wanted to feel a dream. You held out your hand.
“Have a Good Night, Mister.”
It was the last thing you could hear as your ears began to ring –or was it only a clock?
I finished my short story yesterday night! I'm pretty proud of it, even though I did not write the end I had in mind on the first place.
Also, I'm still hesitating about the title: Colored enough to say goodnight OR You will feel a dream ?? Please tell me which one you prefer (;w;)
Besides, please take into account that English is absolutely NOT my mother tongue so there may be some mistakes, I'm sorry. ( ;w;")
*****
You’ll feel a dream.
You woke up sweating. Again. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, your limbs were paralyzed, and you could hardly breathe –or just did not want to. In your face was dread. You focused on the silence of your bedroom, waiting for something to happen. It did not happen and it will not, and unconsciously you knew it perfectly well. It was the third time this week you had had a nightmare. Once you were wide awake, you could not even remember it and you got upset. When you glanced at your alarm you read 4:32 am. You wished the digits might be a lie, that you had more than one hour left to sleep –but they were no lie and you got even more upset. You sighed. Now you had to choose between the two crucial and distressing decisions: one was to get up (and obviously jumping out of your bed that early was not often in your plan); the second was to try to fall asleep again. The first one would give you enough time to do some housework. Yes, that made sense. But it did not mean you wanted to. Actually the second choice was not too appealing either; everybody knew that you were even more tired when you resumed your sleep. It was all wretchedly masochistic. You sighed again, almost whining. You eventually crawled out of your bed, cursing God so that at least next time you will not be able to sleep properly, you would know why. Your feet automatically led you to the bathroom, in front of the mirror. These past days had been as awful as your face now showed you. Your complexion was as fresh as a corpse’s, you had bag under your eyes and you obviously needed a good shave. You just looked extremely tired. Life was tiring, work was tiring, even sleep was tiring –could you not find refuge in anything? You sighed again, more like a moan. Shower time.
Fortunately, according to the weather forecast today would be a sunny day; a –very –early morning walk might be nice, and so might be a yummy breakfast on a terrace. You opened your shutters and saw an orange, almost red sky mixed with several touches of pink and blue. This marvelous view made you happy, the kind of happiness that makes you want to cry. You wished the sky was your lover.
Once you got your things ready for work, you checked the clock again before closing the door: 5:28 am. You start work at 8:30 am. Nice. So you had plenty of time to spend, and you mentally noted to yourself to stop sighing. As you went downstairs you put your iPod on shuffle; you lived in a common but comfy apartment and your neighbors, as far as you knew them, seemed quite nice. Well, you were not a particularly sociable person anyway; sometimes people said you were twisted. Perhaps this is also the reason why you lived alone. If you were to go around carrying a placard it would read, “Please don’t talk to me - I fall in love so easily.” And on the back there would be, “any relationship with me is an unhealthy one” –in capital letters. Well, being alone did not have to mean being lonely, right? There would be questions that could be difficult to answer, so you simply avoided them; you preferred to focus on the sky and your random music, so random that you hoped no one would ask you what you were listening to. Actually, you would be unlikely to pass anyone considering the early hour: you looked around and you thought it was probably the first time you had seen that large street so deserted and calm (as calm as it could be while listening to your iPod, that is). You felt at ease and continued your way through a little but charming alley, deciding to take an unusual, longer path.
Your feet stopped in front of an art gallery and you could not restrain a rather bitter laugh. “That painting looks like ketchup on grass! –and for not less than 1060€!” You said to yourself. You already knew you had ruined your life working for a phone platform trying to sell high-tech vacuum cleaners, but to see this so-called-art-shit exposed in a windowpane at that price made your heart disappear into dust. Then you had an idea. An idea so crazy that your head would explode. Note to yourself: perhaps pooping on a pink canvas with a beautiful frame and trying to sell it for 2000€ was not such a good idea, really; but it made you smile. Actually, you did like visiting art galleries; it reminded you of when you were younger with imagination and creativity flowing through your head. You did not paint but you drew a lot on sketchpads, you were very good actually. Your family wanted you to go to an art school, but you refused because you did not want to mix pleasure and work. Maybe this decision was a big mistake after all, but in any case, the more you grew up the more blasé you became. Inspiration was dying step by step, and now you were definitely suffering from artist block; it was devouring your soul, making you an empty shell. You were thirty years old now and you could still feel it, the nothingness. There were no colors anymore, except in the sky and through the music, but your pens were dried and your sheets remained blank. An apparently endless frustration. What mattered now was how you decided to use the idea of having nothing matter. It could go either way. In the eventual end, you were dead anyway.
You went on following the paving stones of the silent passage when a ray of light shone out suddenly from a pane of glass, making you blind for a moment. When you opened your eyes you found you were unexpectedly facing a young boy. He was approximately ten, with brown hair hidden under a cap and wearing old fashioned clothes. His eyes, as far as you could see them, were of a deep blue and –oh yeah, he was holding multicolored balloons, something that obviously appealed to your curiosity. What the heck was a child doing in the street at –you checked your watch –at 5:59 am with dozens of balloons in his hand? No, more than that, when and how did he appear in front of you without your noticing him? The balloons seemed to glow, dancing with the wind; they looked like puppets on a string, which, maybe, was all they were to the little boy. A shiver went down your spine and you did not know even why. You just felt as if something was wrong, or at least, not technically right –you had never been comfortable with children anyway. You took your headphones off but before you had the time to say a word he suddenly smiled at you. You were nearly knocked off your feet by the effect. Being that cute should be criminal.
“Mister, choose a balloon.” Oh, so the little thing could speak? And what an adorable voice he had, as captivating as his eyes. But you did not fancy the idea of going to your office with a balloon, especially since your colleagues already thought you were weird. You knelt down and gave him an embarrassed smiled.
“Sorry lil’ guy, I can’t take one with me, I –“
“Please, Mister. Choose a balloon. One of them is for you; I want you to take one.” You were surprised by the sudden change of tone, a more serious one. But he was still smiling at you, a very warm smile…and that made you uncomfortable. You winced as he opened his ruby lips again, this time with a grin: “I’m a Dream Seller.”
If it was not the most surprising statement you had ever heard, might lightning strike you and your illegal song downloads dead. You could not restrain a heart-felt-laugh and you patted his head, but strangely enough, it felt as though your hand touched nothing but clouds. Once again, you shivered; maybe all that was due to the lack of your morning caffeine or maybe you were facing a Dream Seller for real. ‘Keep calm and have a cupcake’ was what your grandmother would have said to you.
“I’m a Dream Seller” he repeated, still smiling. But there was now something almost unrealistic about his sweet voice, about his smile, and about his eyes as blue as the ocean –and the longer you stared at them, the more you felt as if you were drowning. “Breathe, breathe, breathe!” you said to yourself as you tried not to hyperventilate. Second chances do not come often. “I’m a Dream Seller and I offer you a balloon. Please choose whichever one appeals most to your senses.” Always that smile that made your blood boil and your knees go weak. Your retinas became attracted by the colored balloons again –which one to choose? Orange? Red? Yellow? Blue? Apple green? You just wanted them all! You wanted the wind to push them into your arms. You wanted to feel a dream. You held out your hand.
“Have a Good Night, Mister.”
It was the last thing you could hear as your ears began to ring –or was it only a clock?
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