by John Siwicki
AWAKE ASLEEP DREAMING DEAD
By
John Siwicki
Copyright © 2013 by John Siwicki
http://www.jsiwicki.com
[email protected]
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author`s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from John Siwicki.
Cover art by JBS
Editing by Brant Woodson
This novel is sufficiently abstract for readers who like to draw their own conclusions yet has enough plot to keep all readers engaged. -Andrew Miller
Sam Young's story and his eventual "freedom" will tomorrow once again stir my understanding of this extraordinary opportunity to imagine the choices during "the last flutter of existence". "Awake, Asleep, Dreaming, Dead" is two hours well spent. -Paul Alexy
It is the type of book that can make you rethink your own life and that is never a bad thing. -Samantha Grayson
WHAT IS TIME?
MORNING
A picture, waits to be captured, screams to be created, and the reward is seeing the completed work, either for satisfaction, delight, or solace. A significant sense of the human journey has occurred leaving images scrawled on the walls of caves, followed by sprawl left near and far, into, and over the earth. We find impressions and images pounded into stone with meticulous precision. Ruins and structures built ever since the beginning of recorded history tell a story. Bits of this puzzle we somehow know for some inexplicable reason, and if even through a blurred meaning, understand. Because we have the barrier of time to wade through, enlightening ourselves completely seems an impossible task. It’s a chicken and egg, Catch 22, he said, she said path that leads to a dark place spattered with points of light. It’s believed by some that if we follow the light we’ll see whatever it is we’re looking for, or that it will appear, and our destiny will be fulfilled. A picture is worth a thousand words—true—it’s a story frozen, a thought saved in an image for all time until the end of time. An image is power and energy made into a picture. Drawn, painted, shared, and taken from the recovered pieces that have been lost to the transparent canvas of our minds. The simplicity of a moment turns life into an event that tells a fresh story by gathering lost knowledge along the way to change our place on the stage. We single out the formless vague frozen images painted by time, and reflect upon fragments of riddles made in infancy. We decipher the foregone memories of youth lost in time, and try to pluck those old subtle fading echoes.
Every day, we live, sleep, and dream in a real or altered world. A singular dimension and spellbinding trance, filled with voices, heel-taps, vivid colors, grinding music, and roaring waterfalls. There are screams, laughter, and the ever-changing aroma of nature all around. It captures us completely. We are snared by powerful emotions, and deep-rooted impressions that have never been abandoned. They hold us together or tear us apart.
Our spirit hovers like a whisper, a casual tone suspended in the air, droning midway on the horizon between earth and sky. Warm sweet honey lingers above, then descends through the alternating intervals of space. It tumbles gently, caressing and feeding all life. Every moment is filled with overflowing waves of fresh morning song from the rousing, and serene invisible molecules flourishing under the broad blue heavens. We watch a morning sun paint trains of shadows across the land, savor a meandering wind, and the universal silence of butterflies. We watch them soar, flutter, rest on flowers, then vanish as we wake.
Asleep, alone, leaving, hoping to return another day, wishing for a dream to come true. Seeing and touching a face you love or have loved, reliving a memory that never dies, and a dream that never ends. The dawn and dusk of time, and the mysterious silence of our imagination takes a dreamer to a place that doesn’t exist in any form, until the moment it’s thought of—making it real. And when an idea becomes real, we see, we feel, we touch, we hear, we taste, we experience. We live in the moment, and the moment is however we measure time: years, months, days, hours, minutes, or seconds. We change, and are always different, then raised or lowered to another level.
Who sees the future, who knows the future, and who makes the future? If a wish or a dream comes true, is it ours? Where did it come from? Why do we want it? Is life simply a coin toss floating in time waiting to be snatched and held? Do we make it happen? Is it random, a snap of a finger instance choice, or can we choose which way to go? Is it magic, illusion, something made from nothing? In the end there’s silence. Peace after the last images of life fades from thought, and the whisper on our breath sounds a word. And, as the last word rolls off our lips into the eternal silence of a cool peaceful morning—it’s broken. This last flutter of existence will offer a choice: be awake, asleep, dreaming or dead.
DRIVER AWAKE
The driver stayed awake by listening to music playing at ear-splitting volume as he navigated the narrow country roads and nameless valleys.
I’ve got to make a pit stop pretty soon drummed in his head as he hammered the clutch to the floor and downshifted into 3rd gear. The engine growled up the palisades, then like an airborne lasso, swung around the rim, and latched onto a hair-pin corner. The driver’s eyes snapped open, and followed the steel guardrail stitched along the twisting asphalt vein.
Damn, I’m gonna fly off the road! he thought, and downshifted into 2nd gear as his field of vision moved from the road to the red-lining-tachometer. The car hugged and rounded the corner with no problem, landing at a section with a panoramic vista, and window, to a place that seemed to emerge from a land beyond.
Man— it’s like being in the theater at the beginning of a show when the curtain opens, he thought.
The Flame of Apollo, he whispered, and turned the steering wheel like a captain gliding and swaying on waves of morning breakers curling on a bow of a ship. He parked, and watched the blinding golden majesty bubble from the horizon. He let his worries go, turned off the engine, and waited to admire how the solar splendor would sprinkle life over the earth. Moments later a peaceful golden ray rose on the steamy rolling hills and valleys, illuminating the horizon, and opening the dark unseen corners of the world.
Look at that, he thought. I’m getting some shots of this.
The driver grabbed his camera from the seat, set it on the dash, and waited for the moment—just the right moment.
It’s . . . amazing, he muttered as he watched the jaw-dropping sky transform from dusk to dawn through the bug smeared windshield. Light’s the key, he whispered. The driver linked his thumb and fingers, and leaned out the window. He held his hand to his eye, and peered through the opening, adjusting the size like the aperture of a camera lens.
Light-is-the-key, he repeated while panning the horizon, generating random pictures, and rendering the visual ideas like a painter holding a pallet and brush. He raised the camera to his eye, and focused on a rolling dell that walked off into the horizon forever. These shots will look great! This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
I guess the light show’s over, he thought.
He put the camera back on the seat, and headed down the valley he’d just photographed. With the car in low gear he coasted into a tunnel of trees that funneled and filtered the early sunshine. It became dark all around with only flickering lights beaming from the sun. Crisp shadows danced on leaves, and reflected in the chrome metallic veneer of the car. The driver looked up to an open spot in the branches above and watched a hawk circle around and around. It s
eemed to be spinning away into vortex of blue, but fought, and held its ground floating between earth and sky.
It’s hunting for food, the driver whispered.
Being awake all night was catching up with the driver. His heavy eye-lids opened, closed, and blinked more and more. The flashes of sunlight trickled through the trees and created a hazy distorted vision as he drove under the green canopy. In the windshield he watched the shapes reflect, and roll up and over the windshield. Shadows covered the sky with loneliness, and a cold feeling surrounded him, so he focused on his destination, driving faster. Up and down looping roller coaster trails, left and right, riding a perpetual Foucault pendulum—swinging back and forth.
I need more shots of scenery for the magazine article, he thought, while concentrating on staying awake, watching the trees pass by, and keeping an eye on the road.
It seemed to be an unending course as the car penetrated the lofty trees. He drove through wooden walls of nature as scenery melted into a montage of foliage, meadows, and the occasional red barn blotch outline of a distant isolated farm.
The only decent pictures I’ve taken so far are the ones of the sunrise.
He meandered on the up-down trail in a quasi-delusional -delirium, unaware, with time idle and not perceptible or changing—just stuck in the moment.
I feel like I’m the only person on the planet, he thought, then scanned the terrain. I’m really in the sticks. Just me, my camera, car, and landscape. It sure looks serene with the sun coming up, though.
As he drove, warm sunshine fell on his face. Thoughts, images, and ideas, changed as fast as he blinked. A rainbow of images switched on and off, reminding him of strobe lights in a dance hall, bodies moving in slow-motion fashion, mechanical and machine-like.
Who’s in control? A creator? The environment? Me? he whispered. Is everything just a single solitary moment? Is time eventually used up, then gone forever? Where does time come from, and where does it go?
Gripping the wheel he steered into a stereo kinetic parade of images. He looked in the rear-view mirror. Man, are my eyes ever blood-shot, and I look like hell.
He bulked out a yawn as he studied his weary face. I’m drained.
Fighting to stay awake, he inhaled the minimal amount of oxygen needed to sustain human existence, then glanced at the speedometer with a head that bobbed like it had no nuchal ligament.
Eighty-five miles an hour . . . I’m moving at a pretty good clip, he said.
He stuck his face outside, let the wind smack him, and inhaled some cool morning air.
That feels good, he thought.
Momentarily refreshed he looked in the rear-view again, and focused on his mouth. Words of sincerity tumbled off his lips as the imaginary peal of church bells rang in his head.
When I finish this job I’m calling to pop the question, and buying her a ring, he said.
He watched the reflection of a blissful grin materialize in the rear-view.
The prettiest one in the store, he shouted out the window, then with satisfaction stared at his reflection in the mirror again. The grin turned into a big fat smile, and to celebrate, he jabbed at the horn—it blared. He yelled out the window again. And I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I give it to you!
The driver sat back in a hypnotic state. He focused on the disappearing center line, and watched it being devoured by the machine he controlled.
He looked up, and whispered, Why is this happening?
His smiling cast changed to a petrified glare. Every muscle in his body stretched to breaking point like over-wound guitar strings. His vision was binocular—zooming in—following the small animal as it jumped from the tall grass on the side of the road.
Harley! he yelled after seeing the animal stop and plant itself in the center of the road. It stood there gawking back at the driver.
In a glint of time, and nowhere to go, the small creature grew in size, filling the windshield. Its marble eyes stunned as it waited to be turned into ground meat.
The driver calculated the options.
A voice in his head screamed, Go left—go right! Go left—go right! He looked in the rear view, and said, I don’t want to be in this . . . place, then cranked the wheel, and slammed the brakes!
Tires screeched—the car whirled.
The scene in the windshield warped into a spinning whirlpool. With a tight grip on the wheel, and strapped in by the seat belt, the force still tossed him like a flag blowing in the wind. Instinctively he slammed the brake to the floor again—hard! His fingers throbbed. He steered the car through a montage of images, color, and what sounded like a concert of reverberating, out-of-tune musical instruments. Gritting his teeth, and opening his eyes broad, he rode the car down into the ditch, then out and across to the other side.
This is it, I’m a . . . dead man, he said in a voice that faded, and went silent.
Shit, was the last word from his mouth after seeing a fence-line with barbed-wire and split wooden posts.
He waited for impact.
Like baseball bats connected to barbed wire they bombarded the car. One after another the clipped posts flew in the air, twisting, flipping, and crashing into the car.
The driver raised his arms to cover his face, to block the flying broken glass, but there wasn’t any—a mysterious force kept the windshield intact. With both hands welded on the wheel the car changed directions, snapping and cracking like a bullwhip. Finally it waddled sideways, and stopped in the center of the road.
The driver sat staring straight ahead, trance like, breathing hard, his heart beating like a jack-hammer, pumping his face red. Both of his hands were clenched around the wheel in an iron grip. A calm silence passed through the open windows on a gentle breeze. He caught his breath, leaned forward, and rested his head on the steering wheel a moment, then sat back.
What the hell just happened? he mumbled. What was that? A little farther and I’d have gone off the cliff; right into the bottom of that gorge.
The driver blinked, and crushed the wild nerves that generated a shiver through his body. He cleared his dizzy head, then caught a glimpse of the animal as it pranced away, and vanished into the trees.
It looked just like Harley. Couldn’t have been, though, there’s no way. He closed his eyes, and caught his breath.
Man—was that ever close! Not a good way to start a trip, he said looking around, and confirming he was okay,
Definitely not a good way to start a trip.
He started the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled over to the side.
I was lucky, he muttered. It’s a miracle I didn’t go over the cliff.
His fingers were curled around the wheel, and he pried them away like they’d been glued there.
He turned off the music, the engine, and sat in silence—breathing in life.
Totaling this car is the last thing I need. I’ve got to slow down.
As he tried to get out of the car, it seemed his legs weren’t listening to his brain, and he had to tell them to move; had to actually say, Move legs!
In the quiet, he leaned against the car and looked out at the distant swell. He watched a herd of cattle graze in the vivid landscape while they slowly moved over a hill.
Looks like a Thomas Moran painting, he thought, then stared up at the blue sky. And those clouds up there a fleet of ships floating on an upside-down sea.
Calm, relaxed, and secure, and back into photographer mode, the driver searched for his camera.
There it is—this’ll be a good shot.
After focusing the camera on the scenery that spread through the rolling hills, up and down the valley, and all around, he realized the total silence. Nothing but quiet filled the void where he stood, no chirping birds, no breeze rustling the trees or leaves, no sounds of nature. Only the silent hush that comes before the applause at the end of a performance.
Panic raced in his blood again. What? That’s . . . strange, he said. Flustered like a shit-faced drunk, he look
ed left–right–behind, and spun 360 degrees as the car had a few minutes ago.
There’s no . . . sound! Then, as he thought of the sounds of nature, he could hear them. The world came to life. Birds chirped, the wind blew, and a moment later everything was back to normal.
That was a mind-blower. It must be a side effect from almost crashing, he whispered in a low uneasy tone.
Some sort of delayed shock—
He aimed his camera back in the direction of the rolling hills and horizon, panning, shooting in bursts. He turned to the car to get some shots of it, but stopped taking pictures, and slowly lowered the camera.
Now—that—is . . . weird!
He slid his hand across the hood of the car, and caressed the top of the front fender.
How can that be?
It looks okay under here, he said, crouching on one knee. He got up, opened the trunk, and as he looked inside thought, The same as when I packed it, then muttered, Why aren’t there any scratches or dents on the car? The fence posts clobbered it.
The driver heard his cell phone, and it rang again. He listened, and followed the sound, then found it under the seat, but too late. He read one new message.
Trip going okay? Tired? You didn’t sleep at all. I’m getting ready for work, talk later.
Should I tell her about almost having an accident, and the freaky thing about the car not getting smashed after driving through a fence, the driver muttered. Why worry her, he said, and sent a reply.
You’re right—I’m tired—stopped—eating the sandwiches you made.
He dropped the phone on the passenger seat, opened the cooler, and grabbed a sandwich when the phone buzzed with another message.
Call you later :-)
He set the phone back down, and grabbed an old highway atlas from under the front seat.
Now, let’s see. Where am I?
