"TALES FROM THE ASHES ARCHIVES"

Volume One...Issue 8...October 1, 2000

Published by "The Wizard of Odd"

-TO SLEEP...PERCHANCE TO DREAM!-

(-All items are the sole property of Wayne Brown. Use of my properties without my express written consent, is against the law-)

"NAVIGATION BUTTONS"

POETRY..... GAMES..… SPONSORS..... COPYRIGHT INDICIA

"NIGHTMARE"

by Wayne Brown...August 1981

The unwieldy, lumbering CDTA bus smoothed to a halt. The thin doubled doors opened with an ominous hiss. The little man stepped up, facing the gray-arrayed driver with his monthly pass.

"Yeah, I see it...get to the back, there's others waitin'." The driver spoke curtly, and extended his thumb.

The new passenger edged himself nervously toward the rear of the leviathan, carefully avoiding the other passengers' feet and parcels. Two young, long haired boys pointed to him and laughed at a shared comment. He found a seat near the rear door and sat down timidly next to an indigent, middle-aged Latino, who occupied the window seat. The man stunk of stale beer and dried urine, but seemed to pay little attention to his new companion.

Malcolm DeMarrest clutched his attache' case to his lap and carefully returned his bus pass to his tattered wallet. He then replaced the billfold into the inner pocket of his suitcoat, adjusted his glasses, and resigned himself to the discomfort of the ride to work. It would be ten minutes, before he arrived at the bank, and there was nothing for him to do, but wait.

Malcolm was a teller at the Third National Bank on Salem Avenue, and he had been there for the last ten years. Everey day of those past ten years, he had initiated the same routine, with little, if any variation. He had missed only one day within that tenure, and he would not have missed that, if it had not been for jury duty.

The elephantine bus slowed to a halt on lower Salem Avenue. As the light above the rear door came on, Malcolm pushed himself forward and out onto the curb. He then walked to the bank, where Jack Collins, the Security Guard, unlocked the front door and let him in. He walked quietly to the back, and with a singular "Good Morning" to another teller, supplied himself with his daily cup of black coffee. He sat briefly, drinking the bitter liquid and perusing the daily office memos. He then discarded the paper cup and strolled to the large vault embedded in the north wall.

He retrieved his cash drawer from the open vault, and brought it to his "cage". He carefully removed the colored bands from each stack of bills, counting each pile with experienced hands. He opened the rolls of minted coins, and again confirmed the count. After counting and recounting the bills and the coins, he established his readiness by allowing himself a short smile. The clock struck nine, and his business day began...

The long black hand of the Beltone clock clicked to 5:00 PM. Another day,...another dollar. As usual, the day had passed uneventfully. There had been the usual number of checks to be cashed, the usual number of deposits and withdrawals, and the usual number of complaints from the usual number of impatient customers.

Malcolm carefully removed his drawer and retired to the vault to cash out. As usual, everything was correct, and to the penny. He was soon ready to return home. He retrieved his attache' case, said a simple "Good Evening" to still yet another teller, and walked to the door, whereupon Jack let him out.

As he waited for his return bus, Malcolm peered disinterestedly into the milling crowd. He thought to himself that it was a bit warm and secretly wished for rain.

The bus soon arrived and Malcolm stepped on with much the same routine as morning. He rode quietly, ignoring the evangelical harpings of an old, black woman, who happened to sit next to him. When the bus reached his stop, he quickly got off and stepped to the newsstand, as was his custom, and asked for a copy of the "Dayton Daily News". He then carefully retrieved a folded dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to the vendor. The proprietor, a fat and ugly man with a penchant for equally fat and ugly cigars, then slapped the paper into Malcolm's left hand and rang up the sale on his register. He then handed him the change. Malcolm accepted the coins, inserting them carefully into a worn and feminine change purse. He then turned and made his way towards home.

As he walked along his street, as he had for the last ten years, his diminutive stature and solitary characteristics, once again became the targets for the sarcasm and insults of a group of young toughs.

"Hey Wimpy!...Hey Faggot!...We're talkin' to ya'...Hey, you Goddamn queer! C'mere, we got somethin' we wantta show ya!"

He ignored their profanities. He hated their jibes, but there was nothing for him to do about them. As usual, the boys hadn't actually threatened him, at least not physically, and so Malcolm ventured on.

As he approached his two-story gabled house, he noted that the grass would need cutting this week, and the shrubbery could stand a trim. He made a mental note to call his nephew and see if he would be free on Thursday after school. He walked up the seven steps of his porch and approached the door, fumbling with his keys. Finally, taking the middle one of three, he inserted it into the lock and let himself in.

The house was warm, so he turned on his window fan. He then went upstairs to his bedroom and changed from his suit into a robe, carefully folding and hanging the coat, vest, and trousers, back in the closet for the following day. He then walked down the stairs and switched on his radio. As usual, the dial was set for the same station specializing in what musicians candidly referred to as "Canned Music". He then sat down and slowly scanned the newspaper, looking for something worth reading beyond the headlines. He found nothing of specific interest, so he set the paper on the end stand, and laid his head back to listen to the music. His eyes slowly began to close, and then he...

...WOKE UP! He shook the sand from his hair and arose from the beach, stretching his finely tanned muscles with grunts of ecstasy.

"Christ! What an awful dream!" He thought to himself.

He began to walk towards the water. His feet left prints in the sand and the cool mud felt good squishing between his toes. Suddenly, he was running through the surf, savoring the cool, salty wetness on his skin. He dove between the waves and began swimming, out towards the light-blue horizon. He felt the water enter his mouth and trickle down his throat, filling his lungs. He was drowning...

No, he was falling now, down a deep, dark well. His eyes could perceive nothing in the darkness. It was as black as...

Space...and his suit had only ten minutes of air left. He checked the environmental indicators, they registered low, but everything would be all right, because...

Now...his armor would protect him from the fire-breathing dragon, with it's golden scales glistening like...

Her long, blonde hair. She was a beauty! She had plump, round breasts with dark-brown nipples and long, velvetine legs, and...

OH BOY! It was going to be a long day. He smiled and thought to himself...

"I've gotta start sleeping nights!"

-The End-

(I have made some minor grammatical changes to the original MS. -Wayne Brown)