Daymares: A Short Story Collection

Daymares

A Short Story Collection

Dave Bakers

Contents

WHERE DREAMS COME FROM

IN THE SHADE

CAPTAIN LOU & THE FLATULENT COWBOYS

MISTAKE

THE SUITED MAN

REBECCA’S PARTY

WORLD WITHOUT WATER

OF SAND & SKULLS

PIRATES’ PALACE

THE WISPY WAIL IN THE MIDNIGHT GLOW

Author’s Note

WHERE DREAMS COME FROM

1

HELENA COULD FEEL the heaters turned up hot tonight. The Dreaming Floor often got chilly when orbiting the northern hemisphere. She glanced up from her parchment, from the lines and lines of black ink she had scribbled across the sallow paper with her quill.

As always, the rows and rows of desks—much like a scene from a school hall during an end-of-year exam—were filled with animated bodies:

The Dreamers all scratching away at their rolls of parchment.

Making dreams.

Creating the dreams to send down to Earth.

At the end of the hall, there was a large clock. It showed Greenwich Mean Time—the measurement which they all used to keep track of their productivity.

A Dreamer who could scratch out a dream an hour was considered prolific, and Helena certainly wasn’t that. She was closer to the two-hour mark.

Helena glanced up to the abacus she kept on her desk to mark her progress. She saw that, in the current shift, she had managed just three dreams. Slow, even by her own standards.

She needed to get a move on.

Helena’s gaze crossed Ms Sorchess, arms folded across her chest, striding between the desks. Her flat-soled shoes made a squeak-squeak with each of her steps.

Just as Ms Sorchess always did while orbiting the northern hemisphere, she wore a thick jumper; pulled right up to cover her bony throat. She had a healthy rosy glow in her cheeks, and her leathered skin seemed to pull tight against her extremely skinny frame.

She caught Helena’s eye briefly, and Helena turned her attention back downward.

To the parchment spread out on her desk.

Helena gave the mint she had been sucking on one final go, and swallowed it down. She caught the minty freshness flowing out through her nostrils. There was something about that scent—that taste—which awakened her.

Which seemed to bring something to life within her.

Helena was sure she was making a good go of this one. For once, she seemed to have got the balance just right—something which, in her performance reviews, she was always informed that she struggled with.

That square-shouldered trio of suits would often inform her, in that pokey, distant room off to the side of the Dreaming Floor, that she had a habit of straying too far over into paradise dreams, or, on the other hand, too far into nightmare territory.

And, as Helena had picked up from her career thus far on the Dreaming Floor; those who created sub-par dreams, the ones who could not quite grasp the structure, would soon enough be tossed off the Floor, and into some other endeavour.

She had heard stories of some ending up in the Inspiration Department, or in the Aspirations Centre; neither of which attracted Helena in the same way the Dreaming Floor did.

Since the Inspiration Department, and the Aspirations Centre, had to do with only those conscious moments scattered throughout the day, there was something about writing people’s dreams—bringing them alive on paper—that sent a thrill through her that she, quite simply, couldn’t get anywhere else.

And she was determined to do her best to improve.

To make her own dream come to life.

In a frenzy, Helena scratched her way to the bottom of her parchment, and then, when she ran out of space, she smoothed out another long leaf from the roll, and carried right on as if nothing at all had happened.

She could hardly believe it when she finished.

She stared long and hard at the page.

The scribbled lines of black all blurred in her vision.

In the same haze, Helena rolled the parchment up into a tube, and then snatched an elastic band from the wooden pot on her desk.

With a neat snap she secured the parchment within its roll before depositing it into the plastic tube which ran alongside her desk.

Kind of like a drainpipe . . . with a hole cut out of it.

She watched on as the parchment hovered for a moment within the tube, and then, with a flurry of motion, skittered off into the Evermore.

Gone for now.

And, as far as Helena was concerned, gone forever.

Helena reached out, slid the bead of her abacus along its smooth, wooden rail and then, with a quick glance at the clock, told herself that, if she hurried, she could bring her work back up to somewhere resembling a respectable average.

She could always dream.

2

IT WAS NEAR NIGHT-TIME.

Twilight.

The end of a long summer’s evening.

Outside, birds chattered to themselves, fluttering about their nests, preparing for the short night to come. There was the hum of a lawnmower off in the near distance. Somebody taking advantage of the long summer evening to catch up on their housework. A slight smell of smoke filled the air. A barbecue crackling along. Meat sizzling on the grill.

I could feel myself wrapped up tight—in bed—the duvets all tucked in about the edges.

Not because my mum tucked me in.

No, I got past that at least by the time I was thirteen . . .

Just a sort of habit that I’ve always clung to.

I could still taste the sweet flavour of the tea I drank before venturing upstairs, to my bedroom, and to sleep. My heart was thudding gently, and I knew—tomorrow—there would be one final, great day of doing nothing at all.

Then the summer holiday would be over.

Back to school.

I stretched out my legs, and breathed in deep.

My bedroom was smothered in darkness.

I could almost feel it pressing up against my skin.

And sleep . . . sleep was coming.

3

THE ALLEYWAY’S DARK.

Yellowy-orange shimmers from streetlights illuminate the grey brickwork surrounding me.

A winter’s wind sweeps through the alleyways.

Frost lines the surface of the cobblestones beneath my feet.

I can hear the clip-clop of horses’ hooves approaching.

Without thinking, I know that I am somewhere . . . sometime in the past.

No idea where, though.

As I stand still, I realise that I wear a great coat. That I have a scarf tucked into my collar. And that, when I brush my hand down the front of my coat, that there’s something heavy in the breast pocket. I dip my fingers inside and remove the object.

A watch.

Its golden casing reflects the streetlights.

I hold myself still and regard the hands, try to work out what time it is.

But the hands seem to be constantly spinning.

Impossible to track.

I wish they would stop spinning.

The horses’ hooves become louder still and, before I know it, I see the bright, shining lights of the carriage. They beam on into the street, and I feel a prickling sensation through my chest.

Some sort of anticipation.

Should I be worried?

Should I be afraid?

I don’t feel afraid . . . but, then, I suppose fear can be something of a tricky feeling.

Hard to get a hold on.

When I shift my weight onto my front foot, my legs feel heavy. When I look down, I see that I wear well-polished, leather boots. That they have silver buckles. I can also feel something weighing down my head. When I reach up to touch, I feel the smooth velvet of a top hat . . . or, at least, that’s what I believe it to be.

The carriage trundles closer still, its wheels bouncing in and out of the cobblestones. The suspension springs bouncing the carriage all over the place. A pair of horses propel the carriage, and the driver—if that’s how he should be called—sits atop with a long whip lying across his lap, and the reins tight in his fists.

The carriage hops through the final cobblestones, and comes to a stop before me.

Before the tips of my boots.

I turn my attention upwards.

To the darkened windows of the carriage.

Something tells me that I should reach up and take hold of the door handle, help myself inside. To see whatever might be within.

But I hold back.

Even though I know this is a dream, I find it hard to take such a rash action, without truly knowing the nature of my presence here.

And then the decision is removed from my mind.

The door to the carriage creaks open.

A hand snakes out from within.

A lady’s hand.

It is wrapped with a flimsy, purple material about the wrist.

The skin is smooth, and white, and almost fluffy.

When I take a step forwards, I feel a snowflake—cool—brush my cheek, and by the time I have hauled myself upwards, onto the step, and stand in the entrance to the carriage, snow flutters down all around me. I take in the sight as it gradually comes to settle in a white layer upon the cobblestones of the street.

Then I enter the darkened carriage.

4

WITHIN THE CARRIAGE, the air smells lightly of lemon, and I wonder if— whoever owns this carriage —had recently had it cleaned. I wonder if in these days, these days that I have found myself encapsulated by, people are in the habit of cleaning out their carriages at all.

From some history class, I can remember things about people being sewn into their underwear, taking baths maybe once a year . . .

But this carriage, at least, seems clean enough.

The carriage bucks out of its place, and I’m thrown back, into the spring-loaded seat. My top hat falls down over my eyes. I tilt the brim up. The darkness within the carriage is compounded by the lights outside, which confuse my vision. When my eyes do finally adjust, I can see the figure sitting before me.

On the seat opposite.

The lady.

But her form is all I can make out—and only the snow-white skin of her hands clasped at her knee.

For several seconds I cannot raise myself to speak. I can feel her image blurring before my eyes.

For some reason, I just cannot straighten out her form within my mind. As if something is conspiring against me. Refusing my mind permission.

I decide now is the time to speak.

Hello? I say.

No reply.

I hold myself still, wonder if—perhaps—I might be able to escape this carriage if it comes to it. I eye the door handle, down at my side, see that it is a smooth, white contraption.

The shade of ivory, though I doubt it is really ivory.

Uh, I continue, where am I?

After another long pause, she replies, You’re in a dream.

I do not see her face.

The carriage buckles on, and I feel myself slipping down the upholstery. I reach out for the handle which juts out from the side of the carriage, and I do my best to remain upright. I find it frustrating that the lady before me can keep herself perched on her seat so effortlessly when I clearly find it a struggle.

It is then when she reaches across to my hand—the one which does not cling to the handle—and she says, You must help me.

Her touch is cool, and her hands are smooth against my own.

I wonder if I was wearing gloves before, or if that was only an imagining.

Is there really consistency in dreams?

I look into the darkness.

To her form there.

On the seat before me.

And I reply, Okay—I’ll help you. I hold myself still, feeling the throb of the carriage’s vibrations passing through the base of my spine. What’s your name?

Helena, she replies.

5

HELENA SAT AT HER DESK, still scribbling away at the parchment, doing her level best to get through with the next dream before her shift ended in a couple of moments.

She was well behind her quota.

Even if she did manage to finish the current dream she was working on, she knew that it wouldn’t be enough to see her through.

This would be the fifth time she had fallen behind her quota in the space of less than a month.

There would be a performance-triggered review.

There would be words spoken.

Offers would be made.

A ‘compromise’ would be struck.

And, Helena knew, in her deepest of hearts, that she would be taken off the Dreaming Floor—that she would be sent elsewhere.

Helena could feel the final quarter of an hour trickling away as her hand cramped up.

But she knew she had to keep on scrawling.

Had to do her best.

Her parents had always taught her that failure was acceptable.

As long as she tried her best.

Helena had just spooled a fresh page of parchment out when she felt Ms Sorchess standing over her. Looking over her shoulder. Doing the very thing which put her nerves onto tenterhooks. The very thing that killed any sort of creativity and—as a consequence—production that she might possess.

Helena’s hand paused. Her quill dripped ink down onto the parchment.

Ms Sorchess said, Stand up, please, Helena—we need to have a chat.

Helena felt her gut twist. A panic blasted through her. She knew that she had to fight back. That she needed to fight her corner. She wouldn’t simply accept them destroying her dreams.

She would fight for them.

But, when she spoke, her voice was reedy, shaking all over the place.

Please, Helena said, please let me finish—I’m almost through.

Stand up, please, Helena, Ms Sorchess repeated.

Helena glanced back down at her parchment, at the scrawled inky black lines that marched across it. The dream that she would never be able to finish. She wondered what would happen to the parchment. Would it simply be incinerated as her interaction with the Dreaming Floor was terminated?

Or would it be palmed off to another Dreamer for finishing?

Did it really matter?

Helena set her quill back down in its pot of ink, and, as Ms Sorchess commanded, she rose to her feet. She could feel all the other Dreamers’ eyes on her. She wanted to shout at them—tell them to get back to work. But she just didn’t have the strength.

She’d always had something of a nervous disposition.

This way, please, Helena, Ms Sorchess said, stepping between the desks.

Helena took one final glance back over her shoulder at her parchment—her half-finished dream—and then she followed.

It had been fun while it lasted.

6

ISTILL TRY MY BEST to make sense of the lady sitting opposite, and it’s