Just About Does It

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Nick is at home trying to make sense of a dream he had. He isn't sure if it is an idea for a story, cause he has given up on writing. Or if it has other meanings.

Submitted: October 05, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 05, 2016



One of the things I have noticed is how the wind blows in Montana. It is truly unique in that it really isn't just wind. It is the equivalant of another person walking on the streets. You can hear it as loud as anything possible. I often turn off the music or all machines and just listen. It has it's own footsteps and prescence. 

Of course I couldn't help that the wind seemed to make it's prescence known the most at night when I was trying to go to sleep. That was when the howling and rattling of limbs and trees could be heard and more often than not felt. It seemed as though no matter what time I went to bed, it would start on cue. 

I fell asleep with headphones on trying to drown out the noise. I turned on the 1960's rock station on the internet radio. One of my favorite songs came on the radio:

"Secret Agent Man" by Johnny Rivers.

As a writer, when I listen to music I always look for a good story. It seemed to me that the 1960's music always had the best. No matter what genre. Country, Rock, Blues, even Jazz. It helped spark the creative process. Sometimes it is hard for writers to just listen and watch things as a fan. There is always that instinct of how can you draw something from this to improve or inspire your work. For me, I had made it clear for almost a year that I had no desire to write again. 

At first it was just supposed to be a temporary break from the craft. I loved writing and I supposed that I would do something like that again, but more and more I had no desire to continue writing. My thinking was, what else did I have to prove? I knew I was a capable and good writer. My prose wasn't anything along the lines of Hemingway and Steinbeck, but it was simplistic. Very workman like. Straightforward and to the point. 

All I wanted to do was sleep, but I couldn't so I put "Secret Agent Man" on and within a few minutes I was fast asleep.


The Dream

I am in a large office. Very formal. Almost as if I am in a Government Agency office. The walls are painted gray. There is a coat rack with a khaki color trenchcoat on one hook and on the other is a black fedora hat. I look around and try to start figuring out what this all means. I see a mirror and I walk over towards it.

I am wearing a blue shirt with a black tie and khaki pants. I have what appears to be a revolver under my right arm. My eyes are widened. My immediate thought is "What the hell is going on?" I hear a door open. I pull out my gun. It is a rather large revolver. I aim it at the door as it opens.

A man in his 70's. Close cut hair and neatly trimmed beard walks in holding a file. He looks just like Sam Jacobs. He looks at me.

"Really Scott, you should save the gunplay for your mission." He says.

I am not sure what to make of that, but I put the gun back in the holster. He motions for me to sit down. I sit in the chair infront of his desk. I see a nameplate.

"Director General Kevin McCall."

Kevin McCall? What the hell kind of name is this? 

"Have you seen the latest reports out of Washington State?" McCall says.

I shake my head no.

"It appears as though there is a rather strange hostage situation occuring." McCall says. He hands me the file.

I start to skim through the file. I see a man with a mask over his face holding what appears to be a machine gun at a crowd. Maybe three, four people in the group of hostages. 

"Do you know what year it is, Agent Scott?" McCall asks.

"1966?" I ask.

"You are right. You know what doesn't happen in 1966? People invading our country holding up hostages. It is unacceptable. The President wants this stopped. The Secretary wants all means used to stop this madman. Your work in Mexico was outstanding." McCall says.

"Thank you sir," I say. 

What the hell is going on? This has to be a dream. Son of a bitch! It really is a dream. I stand for a moment, trying to will myself to wake up. McCall stares at me.

"Is there a problem, Agent Scott?" McCall asks.

"No sir, just trying to see what contacts I might have available for this mission." I say. At this point I will just play along, see what happens.

"As far as the agency is concerned, you will have to go in blind. Take out this madman and any of his accomplices. You are authorized to use any means necessary to get the job done. Do I make myself clear?" 

I stare at McCall. "Understand perfectly." I say

"Excellent," McCall says. He reaches for a phone on his desk. "Mrs Harper, bring Agent Scott all the necessary files." 

The door opens and in comes a curvy brunette. Holly Harper. But is her name Holly in this world?

Her floral print dress is something extrordinary. The curves and the dress were a perfect fit. She turns to look at me.

"Hello Matthew," Harper says.


Before I could say her name I heard some knocking. I got up and went to check it out. As I was heading to the front door, the dream was stuck on my mind. What was the meaning of it? Why was I living a song? 

When I was in high school, I had an teacher tell me that if you write down your dreams that you would find the perfect way to tell stories. But more often than not I found that to not suit well with my perceptions of how I wanted to write. I never had any use for my own dreams and writing. I wanted to use different forms of the imagination.

I walked over to the front door. I opened it and noticed that there was a large branch in my front yard. I shook my head and walked over to my desk. I saw a notebook opened with an empty page. The familar urge started to creep back in. I walked over and grabbed the notebook and found a pen. I opened it and put it to the paper. I waited for a few seconds before I stopped myself and put them down. 

Went over to the couch and closed my eyes again. Sleep took over.

I am sneaking up on a couple of large bodyguards outside of a warehouse. I tap one on the shoulder and as he is turning around I punch him in the face. The other guard comes over and I throw a punch to the stomach. As he is clutching his stomach, I hit him in the back of the neck with a karate chop. He falls down. I pull out my pistol and walk into the warehouse. 

As I walk into the door I hear the switch turn on. I see two guys with guns infront of me. I fire a couple of shots at each one and they both fall in succession. I run across the warehouse looking for anyone. Good, bad or evil there has to be someone else here. I stop to catch my breath. That is the last thing I remember as some one hits me on the head.

15 minutes later I hear the phone ring. I get up from the couch and walk over to it. 

"Hello," I said.

"Hey Wordslinger,"

"Hello Elizabeth," I said. 

Elizabeth Howley was one of my oldest friends from Ridgeview. We had grown up together and reunited at her coffee shop. "The Electric Grind." Since then we had maintained regular contact with eachother. Letters and once a week phone calls. It was great to hear from her again.

"How's life of a Montana Cowboy?" Elizabeth asked.

"I am far from a Cowboy, but it is going great. How is life in Ridgeview?" I replied.

"Not bad, just in need of a good book though. You writing anything?" Elizabeth said.

Not this again.

"I'm retired from writing," I said.

"You are not. Shut up. You just need an idea." Elizabeth said.

"I am all out of ideas for the time being." I said.

"Pretty sure that you are capable of finding ideas," Elizabeth said. 

The rest of the conversation was just catching up with eachother. I promised her as soon as I had an idea I would let her know.

I hung up the phone. I went back to the couch and layed down. Once again, sleep came to help an old friend.

I am tied up to a post. I wake up and notice that I am tied up. I hear a clicking almost ringing sound. I turn my head to notice that I have a bomb right next to me. My eyes are wide open at the sight of this. I look around to see if anyone is in the building. I hear footsteps and I look up and see a man wearing a khaki fishing shirt and black pants. He resembles Chris Messner. The man starts to laugh. I wanna break him in half with my bare hands.

I feel a shift to the next scene. I see blood coming off of my face. I touch my right cheek and feel blood coming off of it. I instinctively fight back. After a few minutes of exchanging punches and kicks, the bad guy is down. I look at the bomb and notice that I don't have a lot of time. I sprint towards the nearest window and dive out. I hear the glass shatter and while I am in the air, the building explodes.

The explosion from the dream jolts me awake. I can't believe it. It was so vivid, it was an out of body experience. I sat up from the couch. I walked over to where I had sat my pen and notebook. I shook my head. I couldn't believe what I was about to do.

I clicked the pen open and started writing again. 





© Copyright 2018 Robert Logan. All rights reserved.

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