Dream Revolver

What a dream! Paul half-thought to himself. He wasn't ready to wake up yet, and WHY did the sun have to come through the window and focus all of its brightness DIRECTLY on his eyes?! Paul rolled onto his back in his soft bed and threw his arm across his face to block out the sun. He grunted in frustration at the sand falling on his face from his sleeve and--SAND?!! What the...? Paul sat up as fast as he could in order to figure out what was going on, and quickly discovered that was a very bad idea. The sky, ground, and trees around him spun and distorted so badly that he fell flat on his back right where he had started. Once the nausea passed, he lay there for a few more moments deciding on a course of action. He considered calling for someone, but he guessed that no one would really hear him, anyway. His voice still felt weak from the disorienting experience a few moments before. Eventually, he decided to slowly maneuver himself into a sitting position. Paul took a deep breath and began to shift his weight toward his right, hoping to roll over onto his right side and see if his head spun this time. Every few seconds, he would have to pause and take a few breaths as he sensed the beginning of the nausea. Inch by inch, Paul managed to end up on his side. Here he rested before continuing the same process, movement by movement, until he was sitting up. The effort that it took to merely sit up vaguely bothered him, but he pushed the worry away for later--as in when he was sitting up. A few more panted breaths, and Paul made the final push to sit upright. When the world once again cooperated and settled down, Paul looked at his immediate surroundings, leaving his head drooped and starting with only moving his eyes so that he wouldn't fall back down and have to repeat the grueling process he had just completed. When his eyes had discovered all that they could on their own, Paul began to nudge his head slightly in order to see more of his world. Once he found he could lift his head, Paul started looking around, still cautiously to prevent another attack, noting the sparse vegetation that struggled and failed to prevent the sun's punishing rays from falling on Paul. As his eyes traveled around the small oasis, if such a parched thing could be called such, he caught small, discouraging glimpses of the desert beyond. Something seemed familiar, but he couldn't place what it was: Paul had never been in a desert...nothing should have seemed familiar, unless it was from a movie or TV show that he had seen--but no, that didn't seem right, either. What was it? Something flitted through his mind, but Paul was too disoriented to focus on it.

It was then that Paul remembered his dream...

He had been running, running, and he was in the very center of a desert. Paul didn't care what desert it was--it was a desert, and that was all he knew. That and he had to run away, away from those men chasing him. Who were they? Paul only seemed to know that they were bad, and that they wanted to kill him, but had no idea why, as if the dream had started in the middle. He had been riding a horse, a reddish brown mare...yes, that was right, he had been riding a horse to escape. The mare was a good horse, but none lasted forever in the unforgiving desert--bred for it or not. Paul and the mare had reached the end of their endurance, and had collapsed there in that oasis.

All of this flashed through Paul's mind in a mere few seconds. So, what, now I'm an outlaw? Paul thought. For a very brief moment, he considered that he wasn't yet awake, but nearly choked at the idea that this was the dream...it was way too real, and his head hurt too badly! In his confused state, Paul was unsure what to think about what must have really been the dream--the soft bed with cotton sheets and a wife and kids and construction job--but knew he would have to consider the situation later, if he lived that long out here in the desert.

Now that he knew more of what was going on, he now realized that the migraine, confusion, and dizziness were due to dehydration. With this knowledge, he also knew that he would die soon, if he was unable to find water or someone to help him. As desert survival techniques dribbled into his thick thoughts, Paul once again noticed that he was in an oasis...which meant water. The idea of something to drink, whatever it was, almost sent him flying to his feet, but he remembered just in time what his efforts to merely sit upright had cost. He forced himself to calm down and plan how he was to search for the life-giving water that he so needed.

After a few moments of thinking as clearly as his sluggish mind allowed, he was able to realize that running was impossible, and walking, although more feasible, would not truly be the best answer due to his unsteadiness. That left crawling. Since he was already on the ground, this idea wasn't as unlikely as his original impulse to run had been. He first twisted his head around slowly so that he could locate the center of the oasis, the most likely place for the water to be. Once he did, he turned and mimicked the slow movements of the earlier process until he was on all fours facing what had originally been to his right.

Slowly, so slowly he thought he would die before he could reach any sort of water, he crawled. The effort took its toll on his weakened, dehydrated body. His arms were clumsy, and nearly gave out on several occasions. His legs felt as if they were too heavy to lift, and seemed to drag him back and slow his progress.

Soon, he was forced to pause and breathe for a moment. As he willed the dizziness and headache away, he was listening for any hint of a mere trickle of water. When he was unable to hear any, he convinced himself that he was just breathing too heavily to hear the delicate tinkling of water, and even attempted to hold his breath to prove his point. However, this only caused his heart to pound more loudly in his ears, once again preventing any resemblance of the sound of water to reach him. He crawled another foot or so before being forced to yet again rest. As much as he wished to collapse during these breaks, something told him that the consequences for doing so would almost certainly prove fatal if he were unable to then resume his crawl, a very possible thing, if he were to collapse.

Another hand to lift and place unsteadily in front of him, another leg to drag one more foot. Now the next hand, the next foot. And the next, and the next. And always the incessant, increasing heat. All that he could hear was his own breath and heartbeat drumming in his ears, but they were off tempo, a fact that strangely annoyed him. Not to say that he should breathe at the same time his heart beat, but to say that it annoyed him that they didn't seem to be working together.

Whatever gave him this idea, who knows? But, by this time, he was nearing deliriousness due to his lack of water, and his thoughts were making little sense in the first place.

He was forced to pause many times, and was soon unable to curb his panting or racing heartbeat. He felt like he was expending the energy that a triathlon would require, but his body seemed to be moving more and more slowly as time progressed.

He was unsure how long he had been aware of it, for it had been edging its way into his consciousness for quite some time, but now, amazingly, the muted sound of gently rushing water danced in his ears.

Water! Water! It was all that his drained mind could comprehend. No longer did he remember that he couldn't walk: for now he was running--yes! running--toward that blessed sound of water. His tired body found the last burst of adrenaline to support his staggering, swaying dash to the small stream that fed the oasis. At last, his legs collapsed as he reached the stream, and his face nearly landed in the water itself. In fact, his hand did hit the water, at which point he drew it back and sucked on it. Belly crawling the last few inches,he made it to the life-giving water. He was so thirsty that he was barely able to force himself to stop drinking long enough to breathe occasionally, and only when absolutely necessary. Once he had drunk his fill, he skootched away from the stream in order to avoid whatever animals might come looking for a drink as well. He decided to lay beneath the nearest tree, hoping that it would provide at least a little shade. His thirst at least mostly quenched, he was able to doze for a while in relative comfort.

He dreamed of soft blankets and girly giggles for some reason. So bothered was he by this that he actually woke up. The chilliness of the evening surprised him at first, but then he remembered that many deserts alternated between the extremes of hot during the day and cold during the night. He realized that he must have slept much of the afternoon away. He was also glad to note that his strength was somewhat improved Putting his back to the tree he had previously selected, he pulled up the blanket around his arms--Whoa! How did I get this? His expression of surprise must have been to the extreme, for a girly giggle straight out of his dreams drew his mildly alarmed attention. One look, and his jaw almost dropped off. For there in front of him, stood the most beautiful Mexican goddess he had ever laid his eyes on. And then she smiled. He nearly passed out, and surely did stop breathing.

She gestured to the blanket and spoke, "You might need that. It gets rather chilly around here at night."

"Uh-huh."

She smiled again. "I must go now. Farewell."

Panic rose in his chest. "B-but--please, can I go with you? I'm lost!"

She shook her head and replied, "No. Only the dead may journey with me. You still have life, and lots of it left. And, no, you will not see me again when you die. I am only ever seen once by any mortal man."

He stared back, his breath caught in his chest, only able to grunt unintelligibly at her, his mind thoroughly confused.

With compassion in her eyes, she let her lips curl softly into a gentle smile. "Now, sleep." As she said the words, she brought her loose fist up and unfolded it to reveal a small heap of green and purple powder, then let her breath blow the sparkling dust his way.

With that, she disappeared, and he promptly fell into a deep sleep.

Paul groaned as he sat up in his soft bed. He was glad to truly be awake, for he hated dreams where you thought you woke up, but didn't. Man, that dream really made me thirsty!! He scratched his head as he got up to get a glass of water, and nearly tripped over something beside his bed. He looked back and saw a pair of sandy cowboy boots sitting there, one now knocked over.

But I don't have any cowboy boots... Do I?





Word count: 1991