The Dreamer and his Dream

Status: Finished

The Dreamer and his Dream

Status: Finished

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The Dreamer and his Dream The Dreamer and his Dream

Book by: Burnest Hemingway

Genre: Flash Fiction

Houses:

Book by: Burnest Hemingway

Details

Genre: Flash Fiction

Houses:

Summary

A man has a most bizarre experience.

Summary

A man has a most bizarre experience.

Author Chapter Note

A man has a most bizarre experience.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: August 21, 2011

Reads: 29

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: August 21, 2011

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He and I, I and him rumbled and rolled and rollicked down the hill at full speed. It was a truly liberating experience for our sixteen-year-old selves, to behave like six year olds once more. Neither of us gave a care how silly we looked, tumbling down that massive hill. Interestingly enough, neither of us seemed to have any recollection of how we ended up there. Ah well it’s no matter. Happens all the time. Right? Green skies and pink trees. Completely normal. Irony. What a dramatic device. My companion that had been with me the whole time stood up once we reached the bottom and ran at me. He said nothing, and it was by sheer luck that I noticed him charging. My natural reaction to stop this was to extend my knee. I did, and he fell, dead on the ground. I had killed him. He was dead. It was all over.
Back at my house now. Queer. How did that happen? Teleportation? No. I saw my parents in the living room. They reassured me how this whole thing “wasn’t my fault,” as they put it. I had killed someone. Of course it was my fault. The sheer emotion began to overtake me, and I broke down and cried like never before. My dad tried to reassure me, and said, quite strangely, “you know, your friend liked St. Anger by Metallica.” What. What on earth did that have to do with anything at all? My mom made a kind of groaning noise after my father said this, as if he was cheapening the life of a friend I never knew, reducing his whole existence down to a single statement about his aesthetic pleasures. Not once did they address the death of this boy. They only tried to reassure me that it wasn’t my fault. It seemed as if I had made a jump in time, and skipped the immediate aftermath of his death. It didn’t matter though. The tears streamed down my face. I wiped them with both hands, and rubbed my now redeyes. Blurry now. Tears getting in my eyes. Both of them. Where are my glasses? Had them a minute ago, surely. Everything is becoming hazy. The table is disappearing. Now the chairs. Now my father. My eyelids jarred open. Dammit. Happened again. I looked over at the alarm clock. 8:36. Roll back over. Too hot for the comforter now. Best to get a few more hours. After all, it’s a busy day ahead of me.


© Copyright 2016 Burnest Hemingway. All rights reserved.

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