End.
This is a short story of sorts that might or might not be part of a larger cycle. If so, this is later in the cycle. Let’s say story 5 of 6 — right after “Lisa and her reflection.” This one is a bit rougher than the other two, but they are getting cranked out in real time, warts and all. Again, more meditations on emotions out there… Probably related to trust, since that is what I am reading a lot about these days. But let’s see where these stories go.
He was in his father’s apartment back in the city. It was the same basement apartment he had known his entire life – the window in the living room at head level (now that he was grown); his father’s recliner across from the television; the small circular throw rug; the shadowed corridor going into the back where there was his childhood room and his father’s room. Only all of this was quiet. It was the middle of the afternoon, and Sebastian had stopped by to pick up a collection of stones saved in a small boxfrom when he was a kid. He had moved out the year prior, moved out to his studio apartment where he thought that he might just grow up and become a painter – someone who saw…someone who really and truly saw. He prided himself on that. “Me, I am someone that sees. I really see things.”
Only this is what Sebastian saw in that moment. He saw himself cradling his frail father’s body on his lap. Again and again, he saw himself pass his hands over his father’s blank face, the rough unshaven stubble that covered sunken cheeks. He had no way of knowing when his father had died. He hadn’t been by for weeks. The doctors would say it had been a heart attack. But why then had his father been clutching the locket, the one with his initials on it: William Right? Sebastian had never seen the locket before, and opening it up, he saw a small photo. It showed his father as a young man. A smiling young woman beside him and sitting on her lap a child. He assumed it was himself.
That was it. That was all that his father had left him. A photo that he had never seen, and yet here he was sobbing his eyes out, cradling this man who had done his best. He had done his best. Hadn’t he? Hadn’t he done his best? Again and again these questions swirled around Sebastian’s head, until he wasn’t sure if he was asking about his father or about himself. Had he? Had he done his best? No, he hadn’t.
Sebastian was back in the tunnel. All was dark, and all was silent but for the two large eyes – cat-like and staring at him unblinking.
“I tried. I tried so hard to hold on to them.”
The eyes continued to stare at him without emotion.
“Didn’t I?”
Sitting in the dark before the dragon’s eyes a flood of memories passed before Sebastian’s mind. The memories swarmed and soothed. They probed and constricted and coated. There he was holding Lisa’s hand as they walked along the piers of the bay. There he was laughing with his father at a night baseball game. And even ever so faint there he was lying down as a small child, and a woman was leaning over to kiss him on the forehead. He had to hold on to this. Without these who was he? What was left? “It’s just you and me boy,” came the voice of his father.
Another voice, though, spoke. It spoke from the blackness that surrounded Sebastian, and it had no location.
“It is time to begin.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“Become the dream.”
The eyes stared at Sebastian unmoving and eternal.
“I don’t know how.”
“You do. Speak the words.”
“I don’t know.”
“What are the words?”
Once upon a time, Lisa and Sebastian had gone out to see a band together. Lisa had gotten pretty in a new dress, and Sebastian had put on his nicest shirt. They had arrived at the venue a little bit late, and it was crowded when they arrived, so that they had to stand towards the back. It didn’t matter for Sebastian, because he could see over the crowd. But he could tell that Lisa could not see, and as the crowd jostled, he became more and more angry, until an older dude had tried to push past them, carrying two drinks in his outstretched hands. Some had spilled on Lisa, and the next thing Sebastian knew he was pushing the guy in the back.
“What the heck, man?”
“You got a problem?”
“Yeah, I got a problem with you shoving through!”
“I said excuse me, asshole.”
Sebastian felt a tug at his sleeve.
“Sebastian, hey.”
“No, this guy can’t do that. Not on your dress.”
“Look at me. Look at me.”
With that Lisa had reached up, and cupped Sebastian’s face in her hands.
“Sebastian, hey. Come home. It’s ok. Let’s have fun.”
Then she had taken his hand and led him to another part of the crowd. As simple as that. This is what she had done for him.
From the present, Sebastian saw Lisa. There they were at the club, and her hands cupped his face as she looked up into his eyes. He saw her eyes concerned, but confident. He saw her mouth move, and he heard again the words.
“Are you ready?” asked the dragon.
“Yes,” uttered Sebastian, “I am ready.”
Once upon a time, the coiled serpent of dreams convulsed in its slumber. It rolled and coiled within the bones of a city that lived its life far above on the surface. There was a bay and a river, and buildings, and buildings and streets, and streets and unknown to all, underneath them the serpent with scales as thick as centuries and talons as sharp as truth held a young man in its grasp, held him and dug into his skin and pulp; peeling away and peeling it gave no heed to the young man’s cries, just as sleep does not care for the awakened. Slicing and cutting, its talons dug and dug, casting away layer after layer until all that was left was a small boy-like doll made out of straw. And then with a call of fire, the serpent engorged even this – though the boy pleaded and begged, pleaded and begged, before calling out to please stop, that this was enough.
“What are the words?” called the fire.
“Please stop. I am ashes, only ashes,” cried the many voices that were Sebastian. The voice of his father. The voice of his friends. The voice of a mother he had never known.”
“What are the words?” demanded the fire.
At that moment, an ember was born that rose dancing within the fire. The smallest of embers, colored like a rainbow, beautiful and pure. In the fire it grew, even as the multitude of voices continued their pleadings.
“What are the words?” pleaded the fire once more.
“Come home,” whispered the dream. And it was Sebastian’s voice that replied. “Come home,” whispered Sebastian’s voice. Then stronger, “Come home.”
And with that, the dream floated and shimmered color, and gathering speed it rose up through the tunnel it went. Faster and faster, bursting out into the light of the late morning. No one in the city saw it pass by far overhead, like a small star. Not the cars that continued to honk or the people who rushed this way and that. None of them saw the dream that was Sebastian arch over above on its way to possibility. None but one – a trumpet player standing by his window with his instrument to his lips saw a glint of color reflected on a glass pane. He paused his playing, squinted out at the morning skyline, and then for some reason that he could not explain, he smiled, before continuing to practice his music.
