.
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The dream storms continued. This time I caught two, and had a third. It seems my mind can only hold just so much, and there is no guarantee of even that. Another dream, sleeping, and waking are all tough on the fragile newborn, artificial memories. Dream, dream, dream though. I don't even remember sleeping, just seemingly dreaming start to stop.
In the first one I had, an old man and woman are rich beyond most people's understanding. It was later 1800's, or early 1900's. But, as an example, in a time when men made $1,000 as a yearly income, he had a million... actually... at least eighty of those, not to include his, and her, possessions, of which they had many. They had never been able to have children. He suspected she played some part in that. He simply wasn't sure he cared, other than that it gave him one more "right" to hate her. And they did indeed hate each other. Every word, or look, was a test and a challenge. A beautiful thing, in it's own way, should you be able to stay clear of it. Woe be upon the head of any man, woman, child, or nation, who or which got on the wrong side of one of them. The favored one did not protect their own pets, yes-men, or sycophants.
They had lived in this way for years, perhaps a decade or two. It is just how it was done. Old, ancient, especially for their time. But on they lived. Neither had truly deserved the hate of the other. They both fulfilled, to the letter, and other than this way in spirit, the letter of their marriage vows. As I said, it was as it was because it was. No more could be squeezed out of that lemon.
Then, one day, while hastening her servants in rearranging some area of the home with new pieces and flowers and all, the Mrs. slipped and hit the floor hard. She knew something was terribly wrong. Rather than struggle to get up, and knowing her servants were not of head or arm suited to tending her, she sent one of them to find her husband... probably in the basement tinkering with his toys. Surely enough, guilty as charged. He wondered, at the news, if this was some sort of charade. The woman was a one man drama club. Still, he suspected he best go see.
As he arrived, he could plainly see that his old prune dove was at least grounded. Further, the look of pain that spread across her once hatefilled face was genuine. She never was much of a crier, after he taught her that her tears were a thing of joy to him. Stone, he had turned his heart, and with relish. Still, sympathy moved him. He went to her, and even as an old man, he was strong. He sent one of the servants to fetch her doctor, then gently lifted her and carried her to bed. A broken hip was the announcement. Her damage, for him, his gentle care, for her, brought back the time before. And, so, they enjoyed the remainder of their lives as the friends they might have been... if an occasional spat was yet to be had, and shortly enjoyed as a trivial piece of drama when the friendship returned.
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The next dream stars the old man, after his wife passes. It was several dreams after it, but I don't remember the intervening dreams. This one was the third, the one I had thought forgotten. It came back while writing the first.
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After his wife passes, and while quite nearly a truly ancient man, more so for his times, the old man decided to adventure into oil. He acquired a much younger "partner", set up an account for the endeavor, and they set about buying land and equipment from which to wildcat. The old man mostly did the numbers, and looked for deals. The young man was the field boss, found a crew, and was involved with most of the labor issues. They had a million dollars to work with, he thought that was the sum of the old man's fortunes.
Time after time, drilling after drilling, failure after failure. They worked, and bought, and drove all over the land looking for new prospects. A few successes, but too few. After a few years of hard work and much labor, the younger man realized... their crapshoot was at an end. Nearly tearfully, he went to the old man. Explained what was already know... that the million was gone and what was coming in could not support further adventures. He apologized to the old man, even offered his share of the income as he could... find other work. The old man let him ramble, and offer, stoically. After the man had finished, and offered what he could, the old man finally looked up, with a smile, and said... "Dear lad. We are indeed broke. That account is gone and the income won't sustain, true. But when we started, I had eighty such accounts, and now have more. Lets... be off to Texas."
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The last that I remember was an odd one. We see a man, in his fifties, stumbling back into his home with a chihuahua hot on his trails. Neither is running, exactly. For some reason, both the man, and I as an observer, know the dog isn't just a dog. It is the form a pernicious spirit or entity of some sort. And, for some capricious reason, it has chosen this man to bother. Being a man of some small means meant nothing to the spirit or the situation. As the man entered, he closed and locked his door, saying a small prayer. The little beast just came right through the door, doing no harm nor opening the barrier. For a while, the man just sat in a chair beside the main entryway writing desk, looking at the creature, which just sat and stared back. It seemed to be deciding what delicious trouble to cause the man. The more it sat, the more he feared.
Finally, the dog came forward, took a pencil from the writing table, then went over to a sheaf of letters that were mean to go out. It grabbed a particular one, a reverse scrolled poem and letter to a particular young lady the man had befriended and taken into his confidences. The communication was opened partially, and on the back, plainly written, the dog wrote that the author was her father. He admitted to the affair with her mother that had brought about her birth, and that he wished to begin being more than a friend, but also begin being her father to the degree possible. Then the beast simply vanishes.
The man reads what the devil pooch has written. He could erase it. But would the dog come back and do something worse? Besides... he has been wanting to tell this young lady of their relationship. He has grown quite fond of his daughter, and hates the lies and games. So, he folds the missive up into it's original form, reseals it, and replaces it back into the sheaf of letters to be sent. The next day it is sent, as altered, without a thought.
At some point, several days later, the young woman arrives. They had scheduled time together, on that day, in any case. So the visit was not a surprise. She gives nothing away, so he cannot be sure if she received, or if she received has read, the letter, or what was written on the back. A game they play, as is customary on her visit, involves two rackets, almost as tennis rackets, connected by a net, with a ball connected by stretchable cords to the rackets. It is sort of like tennis, only you can't miss. And so the game begins.
As they are playing, she begins speaking. Initially in her typical way, but then progressively more angry. She feels cheated, betrayed, angry. As her voice picks up, so too does her play. She is battering the ball when it arrives for her serve. He, quietly, enjoys. He knows she cannot hit the ball hard enough to do any real damage, but doesn't wish to give her reason to do something more drastic. He hears her out, pretending a bit of nervousness in order, he supposes, to win her sympathy or wear her out at the least. At her crescendo, she seems to realize she will never be able to damage him with the ball. As she serves, her final time, and harder than ever before even knowing it means little, she adds a bit of of twist. She sends the well swung racket along during the serve. *duck?*
I don't know how it ended.
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I could smell the flowers being arranged, fragrances the women, and man, wore, see the marble tile, the engraving in the woodwork of the homes. The colors of the various items, the old clothing worn, the formality of the wealthy that remains to this day in some of the old money households. Details I do not add. The smell of the oil fields, even before a gusher, just from the machinery and hard working men. Certainly after the gusher though. A strange kind of stink that only oil has. So many details, but no real room for this quick set, and no reason to add it. I could write full short stories from these, including character backstories, the details, and more detail with the details given. But no time, and... really... the heart of the matter seems good enough. Plus, I wanted to pen them before I forgot, or forgot again in one case. Hope you enjoy.