The Wonderful Dream Leaves
I started this story last August, but its rather too whimsical nature deterred me from completing it. Well, that and extreme laziness and indecision of course. However, a Journalspace member whose birthday it is today, the 19th of June, asked – perhaps demanded would be a more suitable word – that I write an entry for that auspicious day. Now I have several entries which I have started but not completed, but this is a story, however amateurish, which made it seem more appropriate for a birthday present, so I locked myself in my room without food or water for two days and finished it. Any strange or incomprehensible elements it may contain are the result of sleep deprivation and dehydration, not the use of drugs.
I have to ruefully admit that she is a better and more imaginative writer than I, but, as the rather dubious saying goes, it’s the thought that counts. Whether she agrees with that is another matter, but it’s too late for that now.
A warning: this is not for the cynical. It contains scenes of sentimentality – mawkishness even. Anyone affected by feelings of nausea should lie down and read passages from The Grapes of Wrath or any work of a similar nature until the symptoms pass.
He lay in bed staring blankly at the ceiling. He could hear the loud ticking of the bedside clock. It seemed to be the only sound he could remember hearing. He turned; the luminous hands showed that it was 2AM. God, he wished he could sleep. He hadn’t slept properly since his girlfriend of two years had left him, and the insomnia was beginning to take its toll. Their relationship had been getting rather rocky, so her departure hadn’t come as a complete surprise, but what he hadn’t expected was how badly he would miss her. Her absence had affected him profoundly, and most of all at night. He couldn’t sleep without her being there. He considered himself lucky if he managed to get three hours a night. Sometimes he couldn’t sleep at all. And when he did sleep he no longer dreamed.
He couldn’t take much more of this – there must be something that he could do. Tomorrow he’d try to get something from the pharmacy down town; there had to be some medicine or other that would help. Hell, he hoped so. He sighed and despairingly turned over yet again.
It didn’t take him long to find that the only effective drugs required a doctor’s prescription, and a visit to the local surgery found him unable to get an appointment for another three days. Even he had to concede that his condition didn’t constitute an emergency. He was rather despondently making his way home when something occurred to him – wasn’t there one of those alternative medicine places somewhere around? He couldn’t remember where, but it was a small town and it was only a matter of ten minutes or so before he found himself entering a small but well-lit shop claiming to provide ‘natural health’. He looked around dubiously – normally he was highly sceptical about the effectiveness of any medicine, or indeed anything at all, that was described as ‘natural’, but right now he was prepared to give it a try. He stood there, lost among the welter of unfamiliar names, until a young woman came through a bead curtain at the back of the shop, alerted by the ring of the bell over the door. She smiled at him with a look of pleasant enquiry.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’
She was slim and delicate almost to the point of being fragile, and was pretty, with fine features, blue-grey eyes and shoulder-length, ash-blonde hair. Her age was hard to guess; she seemed to be in her early twenties, though her slight build probably made her look younger than she was. Suddenly he realised he’d been so captivated by her face that he hadn’t looked at her breasts – something startling in itself; normally the idea of a girl’s aesthetic appeal meaning more than her sexual attractiveness would have been alien to him.
He pulled himself together with an effort, then somewhat incoherently explained the situation to her before putting the crucial question: ‘Is there anything you can give me?’
‘I think so,’ she said, the pleasant smile remaining as she turned to the shelves behind her. He was still somewhat disoriented by such uncharacteristically friendly behaviour for a shop assistant – she was surely too young to be the proprietor – and any quip he might have made in other circumstances died on his lips.
‘Here you are,’ she said, turning back to him again, a glass jar of pills in her hand. ‘You should try a herbal remedy before you use prescription drugs. These are from the leaves of the woody ferntail. We make them ourselves – grind up the leaves and press them into tablets. They don’t just bring natural, refreshing sleep, they give you wonderful dreams as well – or at least they do me.’ She counted out around half a dozen of the pills, which did indeed have a somewhat home-made look to them, and carefully put them into a paper packet. She sealed it and, with another quirk of a smile, wrote ‘My wonderful dream leaves’ on the front. ‘There you go,’ she said, handing it to him. ‘Just swallow one before you go to bed. Fifty pence – a sample to see if they work for you. If they do then come back and I’ll give you some more.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she added with a mischievous look, correctly interpreting his doubtful expression. ‘They’re safe – we wouldn’t be allowed to sell them otherwise.’
Feeling rather embarrassed at how transparent his thoughts had obviously been, he hastily got the change out of his wallet and gave her the money. ‘Thank you,’ he said, picking up the packet. Recovering somewhat, he managed a more typical jaunty grin as he turned and left. ‘I’ll be back.’
He delayed going to bed that night for as long as possible, then, with a certain amount of reluctance, swallowed one of the tablets just before sliding between the sheets. He lay back, waiting to see if there would be any noticeable effect, half hoping there would be, so he could get his much-craved sleep, and half hoping there wouldn’t – to bear out his sceptical thoughts about natural medicine.
Then he realised he was standing on a beach; he could feel the warmth and grittiness of the sand under the soles of his bare feet, and he could hear the faint hissing sound of the sea breaking not far away to his left. To his right were dunes covered with thin, wiry grass, while the beach itself stretched out in front of him into the distance.
He was dreaming. But he knew he was dreaming. He felt a tingle of excitement. It was a strangely exhilarating feeling to know that he was lying in bed asleep, yet simultaneously experiencing a totally convincing pseudo-reality. Savouring the sensation, he started to walk along the beach, and as he did so he slowly became aware that in the distance there was a figure, standing looking out to sea. As he gradually drew closer he realised it was the young woman from the natural health shop – but by this stage he’d have been surprised if it had been anyone else. Who else could it have been? Unlike in the shop however, she was wearing a light summer dress, and was barelegged and barefoot, while her long hair was being flicked back and forth by the light breeze.
As he approached her he could see her expression of wistful sadness; she seemed wrapped up in her own thoughts though, and did not seem to notice him until he was a dozen or so paces from her.
Evidently becoming aware of him, she turned and, though she didn’t seem to recognise him, smiled warmly.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘you must be staying at the beach house – I heard that someone was going to be renting it soon.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. He always had been good at ad-libbing, and he wanted to go with the dream to see how it developed. ‘I’ve only just arrived – I was wondering who my neighbours were.’
‘Well, now you know,’ she replied, the warmth of her smile and friendly tone of voice making him feel better than he had done for a long time. ‘Would you like to come up to the house? If we’re going to be neighbours we ought to get to know each other.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘That sounds great.’ It was fascinating to have this degree of awareness in a dream; to be able to control what he did and said. It was also fascinating that a beautiful girl should be taking him to her home; he wondered what was in store for him once he got inside. His mind considering the possibilities, he followed her as she walked along a faint track between the dunes, heading inland. In a short time they emerged onto more level ground and a house came into view, standing among a group of stunted trees.
He was lying in bed, and sunlight was illuminating the room through the thin curtains.
‘Christ!’ he said involuntarily, as he realised where he was. There had been no feeling of transition; he could almost still see the house in front of him. He felt a sense of deprivation: he had wanted to go into the house; he wanted to know what would have happened next.
He grimaced. Perhaps he should be glad that the tablet had worked exactly as claimed, and not be ungrateful, but given the choice he’d have opted to remain in the dream. After all, he was on the dole: he could afford to sleep on as long as he wanted. But it had worked, and now he found himself looking forward to the next time he would use it. What would he dream of next?
Despite his impatience the day passed with surprising speed. He had expected it to drag, but it did not seem at all long before he was returning to bed – albeit somewhat earlier than he would normally have done – and taking the second tablet. He lay back expectantly, wondering if it would work as well again, and if so, where he would be taken.
He had a sudden, shocking sensation. There was someone in the bed with him. He felt his hair prickle as he slowly turned his head to look beside him.
In the dim light he saw that he was not in his own, familiar bed. And lying next to him was the dark shape of a person – at least he hoped it was a person. He had slipped seamlessly into a lucid dream again, only with rather more startling effect this time. As his racing heart settled, the faint light from the window brightened, presumably the result of the moon emerging from behind cloud, and he saw that it was the girl from last night’s dream who was lying beside him, her eyes closed, her face placid, her chest rising and falling slightly with her shallow breathing. The sensation of someone’s presence was due to her arm touching his: he could feel the pleasant warmth of her skin; her fine, long hair trailed across his shoulder.
She stirred, and, waking, turning her head and opening her eyes to look at him. She smiled that wonderful smile again and shifted over onto her side to face him properly, propping herself up on one elbow.
‘Can’t sleep?’ she asked. ‘I would have thought that after that you wouldn’t have any energy left to stay awake.’
Good God, he thought. What had he missed? Did it make any sense to say he had missed something – as if the dream was conducting itself in his absence, or at least his conscious absence? Was some part of his psyche continuing in the dream while he was awake?
‘What’s wrong?’ she teased, evidently having noticed his perplexed expression. ‘Have you forgotten already?’
Christ, he thought. What was he going to say if she started asking him for details? He couldn’t very well say he couldn’t remember because he’d been awake at the time. This was a nigh— like a bad dream.
‘I… I’ve been having trouble sleeping recently,’ he managed to answer. How much time had elapsed since last night – or should he say earlier that day? Or perhaps a longer spell had passed – it could have been days, even weeks for all he knew. He struggled to get to grips with what was happening.
Her brow creased with concern at his reply. ‘Insomnia?’ she said sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry,’ and she leaned over to give him a kiss on the mouth. The effects of the kiss, and the way of one of her breasts rubbed against his chest as she did so, were startlingly erotic; they seemed far more potent than anything he could remember in real life. Suddenly the philosophy of dreams seemed far less important.
‘Something on your mind?’ she asked. ‘That’s usually the reason.’ Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘What is it that’s bothering you?’
‘I can’t seem to get over my ex-girlfriend,’ he sighed, not worrying too much that talking about ex-girlfriends to new ones was not generally regarded as a good idea. After all, it was his dream, and he was presumably just talking to himself anyway. But he continued regardless. It still felt better to get it off his chest, for right now this strange dream seemed every bit as real as his other existence, and it would be interesting to see how she reacted. Would she be jealous?
‘Mmm,’ she said, an unexpectedly mischievous glint in her eye. She reached over with her free hand and trailed the tips of her fingernails over his chest, just grazing his skin. ‘Perhaps I can help you forget about her.’ He swallowed, finding his body responding to the subtle but highly effective stimulus.
Suddenly it was fully light again; he was back in his room. ‘Oh God, no!’ he cried out. ‘I don’t believe it. It’s not fair!’ He could still feel the wonderful tingling sensation running through him, and had an erection which had now become abruptly devalued. He felt almost like banging his head against the wall in frustration, but knew that he would be unable to return to the dream, or at least not until the evening. However at least there was some hope: he had returned last night, and now had confidence that he would do so again, or at least as long as he could get those dream leaves. It wasn’t just animal lust; he liked her, quite badly. In fact he had a suspicion he was beginning to fall in love with her, which created a rather bizarre situation. Psychiatrists would pay him to talk about such a strange state of affairs.
Gradually the tension left him. Now he was fairly confident it was just a matter of waiting till he next slept – at least under the influence of the dream leaves – he could cope with the idea.
Once again the day seemed to slip by. It seemed to be next to no time before he was back in bed, swallowing the next tablet; he had now used half of his supply. He’d better make sure he didn’t run out; he would have to go to the shop again soon. He wondered what it would feel like talking to the girl of his dreams as she stood there, unknowingly, behind the counter.
As he lay there, waiting for sleep – or rather the dream – to claim him, it suddenly struck him. He couldn’t remember what he’d done during the day. Nor yesterday. Of course being on the dole meant one day tended to blur into another, but he should surely be able to remember at least something. It was a little disturbing. Perhaps he should…
He was standing in ankle-deep, slightly damp grass, under some trees. It was pleasantly cool compared with the beach, and he wondered briefly if he’d ended up in a completely different place. But no, he was sure she was somewhere nearby. He looked around, and, lacking any obvious guide, set off at a slow walk, glancing from side to side among the trees as he went.
It was less than a minute later when he saw her. He had been in no doubt that he would find her. Indeed he suspected he would have done so regardless of which direction he had gone in.
She was standing with her back to a large tree, leaning against it. This time she was wearing a short-sleeved blouse and a wide, red skirt, about knee-length. He wondered why. Had he some memory of such clothes? Presumably his mind had created not only her, but everything else to do with her. It would be rather disconcerting to think some other agency could be at work in his dream.
Then she looked up and saw him, and, stepping over towards him, gave him that lovely smile again – this time he felt his heart lurch to see it. Swallowing, he walked over to meet her, studying her as he did so. He had the impression that, despite the smile, she was unhappy, as she had seemed when he’d first seen her on the beach.
‘Hello,’ she said, evidently pleased to see him. ‘I’ve missed you. I get so lonely here at times. So few people seem to come here these days. And when they do they’re only here for a week or two. I wish someone would stay for longer. And now you’re about to leave.’ She looked so forlorn it was almost painful to see.
‘People say that they come here to get away from it all, but they never stay for long,’ she went on sadly. ‘They always leave. Whatever it is they don’t like about their lives, they always seem to be drawn back to it.’
He was beginning to feel uncomfortable, as well as considerably out of his depth. Characters in dreams weren’t supposed to indulge in introspection, never mind to be talking about pasts which couldn’t have existed before his mind created them. Yet the realism of the dream left him feeling guiltily responsible for her distress all the same. ‘Cheer up,’ he said in a weak attempt at reassurance, and, putting his arms round her, gave her a warm – and highly stimulating – hug. ‘I promise I’ll come back. Do you think I don’t want you?’ And he meant it. He did want her. All the more so now her warm body was pressed up against his.
She looked up at his face, as if trying to read his integrity in his eyes. Then she smiled again; he had evidently passed the test. She reached up with her slender arms and, pushing her fingers through his hair, drew his head down to hers to kiss him.
It was dark. He could still feel the effects of her kiss, and the arousing sensation of her body against his, but she wasn’t there. The sense of loss was desperately acute, far more so than on the previous two nights. However the anguish he felt at being deprived of her presence was at least ameliorated by the thought that he could get back to her. Perhaps he could take another tablet now, and return to her tonight?
He fumbled in the semi-darkness to find the packet which he had left on top of the bedside table, but only managed to knock the alarm clock onto the floor. Exasperated, he reached down to pick it up, looking at the time on the luminous face as he did so. Still only 3AM. Well, there was still a chance… then, suddenly wondering what day it was – he’d made that doctor’s appointment for the 22nd, hadn’t he? – he looked at the inset date on the dial. The 19th. The 19th? He forced his sleep-fogged mind to concentrate. The 19th was when he had gone down to make the appointment, surely?
His heart sank. He knew it was. But not until 9AM. He hadn’t done it yet.
And of course there could be no half-used packet of tablets with the ambiguous message ‘My wonderful dream leaves’ written on it on the bedside table. His wonderful dream had left him, and he needed no reminder.
In the unlikely event that anyone is still reading this far down, I should just like to say this:
Firstly, happy birthday, Emily. I hope you enjoyed your day, and would urge you not to do anything silly. You are now a woman of mature years, and it would be unseemly.
Secondly, this entry was mainly inspired by the way I’ve had several dreams of being kissed by a girl, then waking in a mixture of intense pleasure at the lingering sensation, and distress at finding myself unable to return to the dream. It would be nice if you could, wouldn’t it?
It was also partly inspired by the excellent HG Wells short story The Door in the Wall, which I strongly recommend. It is more about missed opportunities than lost sleep, but they share a similar concept. There are also some similarities to The House on the Strand, by Daphne du Maurier, which is another good read, though somewhat on the depressing side.
As usual, I would be grateful for any comments, or at least any complimentary ones. Critical or insulting ones will be cut out and ceremonially burned in a huge sacrificial furnace specially constructed for the purpose.
NOTES
I retained the original introductory notes and footnotes in order to preserve the context of the story’s initial publication for Emily’s birthday. To me, they are effectively part of the story, or at least the birthday dedication is integral to it. I apologise for any bewilderment my readers may have suffered as a result. If the bewilderment persists for more than a day, you should consult a physician, or, if you are litigious in nature, your lawyers.
As will be gathered from my defensive comments in the original footnotes, I felt ashamed at writing such a sentimental piece. Looking back now, I am instead rather taken aback at the frankness in which I wrote of sexual matters. I wrote ‘erection’ in a story intended for a girl’s sixteenth birthday? How embarrassing! What on earth was I thinking? But as I sat, scratching my nose (I apologise – a deplorable habit) I remembered that Emily wrote far more explicit pieces of erotica in her own journal, which was why I felt comfortable writing in the way I did. But while it is highly unlikely I would be invited to write a similar story for a teenage girl now, I would tone down – indeed completely omit – such references. The world is bad enough as it is for teenage girls these days, without their feeling compelled to read erotica, and of stiff, erect virile members.
I’d known Emily since the spring of 2004 – only a few months after I’d created my journal at Journalspace – when she was still only fourteen. And no, there is no need to point out to me that for a man in his mid-forties to make friends with a girl thirty years his junior is a bad idea. I shan’t attempt to justify myself, as attempts at justification almost inevitably sound like rationalisation. So I shall just say that I am still friends with her, and that in 2009, at her insistence, I acknowledged her as being my illegitimate daughter. She still occasionally writes to me, despite now being in her late thirties and married with a child of her own, as well as being a staff sergeant in the USAF, currently based in Germany. She will remain thus in my mind until the findings of the court martial are made public. I remain convinced that the allegations against her are baseless, however compelling the evidence may seem.
If anyone reading this feels I should be described as a monster of depravity for forming such a questionable friendship, they should please do so, using the comments box down there ↓ (or up there ↓ if you are viewing this on your phone, and are holding it upside down). Such comments result in my becoming highly sexually aroused, and I welcome them.
The request, nay demand, referred to in the introduction was the result of… well, I shall quote from my own diary entry for 17 June 2005:
At Journalspace, I visited Emily’s journal, seeing she had updated in the night (in other words her Thursday evening – she lives in Spokane, eight hours behind us here). And among the other items in the entry she had written:
Now, onto more jovial matters, my birthday is in three days. Yes, three days, and it shall be my sixteenth birthday.
For my birthday, I expect lots of comments and something special from Simon, something special that's posted in his journal.
My first reaction was to feel flattered, the second was to feel slightly dismayed at the fact that I’d have less than two days to do it, for it was already late morning. However, when I read on, I saw that she also says that she’s going on a ‘Peer Mediation Camp’ (whatever that may be), and adds: I will be gone from 12:30pm tomorrow to 3:00pm Sunday, June 19th!. After a bit of head-scratching I deduced that means that I have till 23:00 on Sunday, which gives me rather more time than I initially believed. Nevertheless, as I answered in my comment, it takes me a day just to have a thought, so it will be a close-run thing. I shall have to do something of course – this may be the incentive I need to complete a short story I started nearly a year ago, but never got very far with, largely due to indecision.
I see from my diary entry the next day that the circumstances were somewhat unusual, at least for England, and for someone to whom an air conditioning unit was an object of fantasy:
The temperature in my room plummeted to 22°C in the night, but the humidity had gone right up, and after having a shower I ended up sitting at the computer without a shirt, and envying Scotsmen and their kilts.
I spent much of the day working on Emily’s story, and by bedtime was satisfied that I’d got it pretty near finished. It shouldn’t take long to complete now, though I will no doubt want to go through it a good few times, altering things.
But I did complete it the next day, and all was well. My honour would remain intact. I would like to say that I wrote Emily a story for all her subsequent birthdays, but in reality forgetfulness, mental confusion and idleness meant otherwise. All the same, I felt a certain sense of tradition had been established. Furthermore, at 3200 words, it was not only the longest short story I’d written to date, it was to be the longest I would write until Family Matters, which I wrote in June 2016 for Emily’s 27th birthday, long after Journalspace had ceased to exist. I mention its length not out of any sense of pride or, for that matter, due to feelings of masculine insecurity, but because it was something of a risk, as most people are deterred by a post longer than a thousand words. Indeed many women have assured me that length is of no importance to them. Well, some women have. Not all. I was unable to comprehend what they meant by girth, and was always too afraid to ask.
As noted in the original notes, there were a number of influences involved, but it is The Door in the Wall that is, in my mind at least, the most obvious one. The poignant tale of a man who, as a young child becomes lost, and, wandering around the streets, stumbles by accident upon a door in a wall that leads into a fantastical garden. As he grows older, he keeps trying to find it again, but only does so on occasions where more pressing matters mean he passes up the chance to open the door. I won’t spoil the story by relating more, but you will see the parallel.
The allusion in my original notes to Daphne du Maurier’s The House on the Strand is not so obvious, but is still at least somewhat relevant. Here the male character takes a drug that causes him to become detached from the present to find himself experiencing events in the past, though in the form of a powerful hallucination rather than time-travel as we usually think of it. The following is the opening paragraph of the book:
The first thing I noticed was the clarity of the air, and then the sharp green colour of the land. There was no softness anywhere. The distant hills did not blend into the sky but stood out like rocks, so close that I could almost touch them, their proximity giving me that shock of surprise and wonder that a child feels looking for the first time through a telescope. Nearer to me, too, each object had that same hard quality, the very grass turning to single blades, springing from a younger, harsher soil than the soil I knew.
For an amateur writer of short stories it’s always rather humbling to read novels by an accomplished author; the realisation that you yourself are never going to achieve that same quality, but you go on all the same. In The House on the Strand however the central character can see, but cannot touch anything or interact physically in any way with his surroundings. Here my story is distinct, as it depends utterly on his being in a lucid dream, with every sensation, both physical and emotional, being experienced by him.
In my story as posted on Journalspace the closing words were ‘It had left him, and he needed no reminder.’ Only one person noted the play on words – or at least remarked on them (Amanda, in the unlikely event that you should ever read this, it was you) – so I thought it better to change them to ‘His wonderful dream had left him, and he needed no reminder.’ for the second publication, to make it explicitly clear. I realise that it may seem condescending to treat my readers as fools, but if the title uses verbal ambiguity as a premise, I want people to bloody well know about it.
As an aside, when I put the story to Google AI to check it for typos and grammatical errors (please – I would rather not talk about that traumatic experience), it added its own comments on matters of style and structure. Its analysis of the closing paragraph led it to observe that ‘The lowercase styling of "wonderful dream" allows the verb "left" to carry the full thematic weight of the ending. The double meaning functions well without requiring quotation marks or further explanation.’ It obviously had far greater faith than I do in the human capacity to pick up such references. The closing paragraph remained intact.
Though I have experienced lucid dreams myself, they were infrequent – I probably only had three or four in my entire life – and brief. They were incredibly powerful though, not least since they were erotic in nature. As I’d never had sex in reality, thanks to having suffered from crippling social phobia since my mid teens, they were doubtless unrealistic, but that was irrelevant, which is the wonderful thing about lucid dreams. Thus the feeling on waking was a mixture of intense ecstasy and lingering euphoria, combined with a sense of loss, as I knew I would be unable to return.
Thus the unnamed male character not only experiences a profound feeling of anguish, indeed one of cruel deception, on ‘waking’ the first two times, but this feeling is particularly acute when he actually does wake, and realises the entire thing was a dream. He will never find that natural health shop, however often or how hard he tries searching for it in the back streets of the town, nor the girl of his dreams, as neither exists other than in his own mind.
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