A Beautiful Dream

By Michael F. Mercurio


It began with a dream.

Mine, specifically.

I had no idea that I was the one who was doing it. How could I? There was never anything special about me. I didn’t have any particular talents that anyone else had. I was average – below average, if you were to ask some people.

Even now, I doubt I would ever have held any purpose were it not for…it.

It was the one with all the power…not I. All I was good for was sleeping. I would sleep, and it would appear.

Of course, at first I had no way of knowing that’s what was happening.

I won’t even bother mentioning my name or what I do. What would be the point? I’m not important. What I will talk about is what I actually remember. It somehow shared the memories with me, and only now do I find I can fill in the gaps.

It was an average day. Every day was an average day.

Then, it was over. And I went to bed. 

That…is when everything changed…

***

Somewhere in the heart of the city, there is a place called “The Row.” For the people here, it is not the most pleasant of places to live. They don’t reside here by choice, of course. It is a refuge for the downtrodden. Bleak apartments with bars on their windows line the roads in labyrinthine asymmetry. Laundry hangs from ropes for those who lack modern appliances or fear stepping outside to find a coin operated facility. In a similar fashion, shoes can often be seen hanging from power lines.

In this rather depressing dream, I could hear shouting coming from somewhere in one of the alleys. For anyone who lived in The Row – such as myself – this is not an uncommon occurrence. We tended to ignore such happenings out of fear for our own safety.

Like in all dreams however, I had no choice but to be drawn to the focus of the story. So often do our dreams take us to places that we do not wish to visit. Indeed, we are obliged to investigate every noteworthy happenstance – no matter how frightful they may be. It was in this manner that my consciousness brought me to observe what was happening in this alley.

I saw her. She was screaming at her assailant as he tried to force himself into her. In his left hand, he held a knife – which he was pressing to her throat. Blood had already begun to trickle down her neck.

I wanted to look away in revulsion. I have little tolerance for violence - the type of person who would have to change the television channel whenever something graphic came on. Now, this event that I was being forced to witness was simultaneously more vibrant and horrid in my mind’s eye than anything I had ever been subjected to in my life – imaginary or otherwise.

And like in all dreams, I couldn’t look away.

Part of me that was still aware that this was merely a dream, wondered how my mind could have possibly conjured such a scene as this. I had certainly never been exposed to anything like it. I kept my ears and eyes closed to the rest of the city just like anyone else had. The few muggings I did experience in the past were relatively quick, clean and uneventful. What I was witnessing now, terrified me. Not out of concern for myself, of course. I wasn’t really there. I was merely watching the event take place as one would observe a horror movie. No, my concern was for the woman.

This was a concern I never would have held, had I not been actually forced watch the action taking place. It was a dream. I had no sand for which to bury my head in.

A few more minutes of this quickly made the scene intolerable to me. I wanted to scream out of anger, if not out of disgust.

But, as in all of my dreams prior, I was completely powerless – for never have I been the master of my own dreams.

And then…it appeared…for the first time.

____

It is difficult to describe what it was. How do you put words to paper explaining the brilliance of a sun to someone who has never seen one before? It was completely foreign to me, and yet so elusively familiar.

And it was beautiful beyond comprehension. Merely to look at it was to evoke an emotion that had no place in this world – at least not within the range of human limitation.

The assailant looked up in fear at it. The woman, of dark complexion and raven-black hair, immediately ceased her fear, and gazed upon it in wonder.

It spoke to her, without actually speaking.

“Do not be afraid,” it said. And she wasn’t.

The assailant, in his terror, threw his knife at it. The blade merely passed through the seemingly non-corporeal entity. He made to throw the girl to the ground as he fled, but she was held fast by an invisible force preventing any possible injury. As the man reached the end of the alley, he stopped in his tracks, subjected to the same force that protected the girl. Then, in his mind, he witnessed his own life - from birth, up to this moment.

It was an unlikely scene, as dreams often are.

I cannot be faulted for apparently contriving something as heroically cliché as this. Imagination was never my strongest attribute, after all. 

Nevertheless, the would-be rapist dropped to his knees and began sobbing. Moments passed, and he stood. He faced the woman with tear stained eyes and apologized. He didn’t try to justify his actions. He didn’t relay to her the events in his life that had led him to this point. He simply apologized, while openly – and profusely – weeping.

In another person’s dream, the man may have decided to walk into traffic, receiving his just punishment. In this one though – continuing its pattern of improbability – he walked seven blocks to a police station. He then turned himself in, confessing to every past and present transgression. Again, I cannot be faulted for this…well…cheesy development. It happened as it happened. I was not in control of it. At least, I didn’t think I was.

In my dream, somehow I had known his name: Robert Macintyre.

I also knew the name of the young woman who now stood before the radiant entity in her torn clothing.

Kelly Santos looked on her rescuer with awe and wonder. There wasn’t an actual facial expression to be seen, but she detected a smile from it nonetheless. She approached it.

“Thank you.”

“Are you all right?” It asked the question more out of courtesy, rather than genuine inquiry. It could read what her physical and mental status was.

“Yes. What…what are you?”

“I am a [title not comprehended],” it answered cryptically. In my dream, the word wasn’t registering in my head. I don’t think it registered with Kelly either, as she blinked at it in confusion. It was similar to when someone speaks to you in a dream, but you simply can’t make it out, no matter how many times you ask them to repeat themselves. Whatever part of the brain it goes through, it simply doesn’t get processed.

“Take my hand,” it spoke softly.

Without a trace of fear or reservation, she took the hand of the floating…shiny…humanoid…thing. As she stepped close to it, she nearly had to shield her eyes from its light.

“Are you an angel?” she asked.

“No. I am a [title not comprehended].”

“But you look like one,” she insisted.

She could perceive a smile again. Saying nothing, it softly lifted her into the air with the one hand. She felt no strain on her arm at all, as if she herself were flying.

Time is perceived differently in dreams. I don’t know how long it took exactly, but it felt like they reached her apartment in mere moments. Somehow I knew that it was twelve miles south of the alley.

It landed her on her terrace, and she looked at it as it hovered in front of her balcony.

“What is your name?”

“In his mind, I am called [name not comprehended].”

“Are you sure you’re not an angel?”

It smiled again. “No.”

“Then what-“

It interrupted her. “I am that which someone wishes he was. I am capable of things he could not otherwise do. And I do it gladly – for his sake, and for those he secretly harbors compassion for – though he is afraid to admit his own desire for a human connection. He is imprisoned by fear. It swallows him whole.

“And yet, I am here. 

“He is powerful, though he knows it not – refuses to permit himself the notion, thinking such thoughts to be a disease of the mind. Many people are like this. Many people have this power. And like he, they refuse to allow it unto themselves. But I am a strong one. I will remain for as long as he continues to sleep.”

“I…I don’t understand. Why-“

It held up its hand and said softly, “I do it because he cannot.  And because they cannot."

Kelly looked at the entity for a long moment. She didn’t fully comprehend, but somehow it didn’t matter.

Her mind turned to The Row – with its brooding alleys, and choking hopelessness. “Can…can I tell people about this? They’ll think I’m crazy but…people…they have to know.”

“If you wish.”

“Will…I ever see you again?”

“If you are again in need, and he is dreaming of me, then yes.”

Something in my brain jolted at that statement, as it finally took in the entity’s entire speech from the moment before. Even as I slept, I shivered at the eerie, coincidental connotations my own dream was having. The detail and complexity of it all was ultra-surreal.

Then, it proceeded to shock me further when the entity actually turned to face me. Though I was apparently invisible in all of this, it smiled at me in the same manor that it did with Kelly Santos. To the questioning glance of Kelly, the entity began to fade into nothing, just as I bolted awake from its unexpected address to me.

Sitting up in bed, I panted. Sweat was cascading from me in my non air-conditioned studio apartment.

Like all dreams, the details quickly began to diminish, leaving behind only a flurry of unexplained apprehensions. I shivered, despite the unbearable heat of the mattress I was previously sleeping on.

Never had I experienced anything as deeply penetrating as this.

After an hour of lying on my back, counting how many bumps were on my ceiling, hardly anything remained of the dream – other than a fleeting memory of emotion.

The feeling I held onto was foreign to me, and I clung to it like a drowning man to a life preserver. I couldn’t place a name to it then, for I had never experienced it before. What I can now recall with perfect clarity, I now know it to be something very few people truly hold:

Purpose.

This sense of purpose was only heightened the following morning, as a newscaster on my analog television was interviewing one Kelly Santos.

Then I knew:

From that point on, I would see to it that every night would have a beautiful dream in The Row.

Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013

Absentia

By Michael F. Mercurio

 

It is very difficult for someone like me to accomplish things.  So often do people accuse me of being lazy, and claim that I will never amount to anything in life.  It’s not my fault though, really.  I can’t help the condition I have.  It was something I was born with.

Less than five percent of the total population has been diagnosed with it.  I was one of the “lucky” ones, I suppose. 

They call the syndrome “Absentia.”  In a nut shell, I only exist while someone is looking at me.  If no one is in the room, I’m simply not there anymore.  It’s a very odd ailment, that many people aren’t even familiar with.  It’s difficult to explain to anyone who isn’t educated on the matter, since I have no real way to prove it to anyone.  The closest analogy to this dilemma would be the old “light in the glove box” question.  They have no real reason to believe me, since they are incapable of perceiving the condition for themselves.  For all they know, I’m completely making it up.  They just assume that I crave attention.

However, I am indeed afflicted with Absentia.  You can imagine how difficult it must be for me to get anything done, really.  Anytime someone turns their head from me, I turn to nothingness.  It’s very hard for me to make something of myself when two thirds of my life isn’t actually taking place.

You would think there would be ways of managing it, at least.  I’ve tried methods such as painting and writing, so that something of myself would remain behind while I’m gone.  Alas, the condition doesn’t allow for it.  Even the words on the page disappear once everyone looks away.  It’s quite aggravating how I am unable to leave even a simple message behind.

It took me years to cope with this affliction, but I think I finally have a way – however small.

I’ve found that I can influence people’s lives simply by helping them in any manner I can.  It’s such a cliché concept, really.  But in a minute way, I’m able to exist through others whenever I’ve somehow made them happy.  It’s subtle, and often thankless, but it’s enough for me to be able to leave some sort of mark – some evidence that I actually existed at that point in time.

Since discovering this, I’ve often looked back on my old writings and paintings – for when I look at them myself, they are at least still corporeal.  But when I compared my works to the lives around me, and the happiness that I was somehow able to find for others – I realized that people were a much larger canvas than I could have ever hoped to leave my mark upon.  Their joy was a more expressive painting – their smiles a more captivating novel.

As long as people are able to find happiness, that – apparently - gives my life meaning now.  And if they’re happy, I guess I’m happy too.

Even if they still think I’m lazy and not doing anything with my life.


Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013

Sanctuary

By Michael F. Mercurio

 

“Honey, can you let the dogs out please?”

Richard sighed as he got up from his computer at the behest of his wife calling from upstairs.

Mary and Richard Baxter had a bit of a menagerie in their home.  This was due in part because Mary had a tendency to take in every stray she came across.  Her husband didn’t mind though – even as he was pulled from his statistical analysis which he had been eagerly running for the last hour.  It was simply one of her many quirks which he’d grown to love.

This was a crucial moment, he thought to himself as he walked to the sliding glass door.  A German Shepard, a Chihuahua, a Pomeranian, and a fourth dog that was too heavily mixed to determine its dominant ancestry, all pawed excitedly at his legs – anxious to frolic outside.  Meanwhile, two cats looked up at him expectantly, waiting to be fed.  Their fur – one orange, and the other black - reminded him of the disturbing graphs and charts being displayed on his computer across the room.

“Okay guys,” he said to the dogs.  “Dad’s working right now, so if you’re going to go out, stay out, will you?  I don’t have time to keep jumping up and down,” he jokingly grumbled in a deep voice as he playfully ruffled their heads.  “And as for you,” he addressed the two cats, after the dogs bounded outside - immediately giving chase to the squirrels on the porch, “You guys…are useless.”  He rubbed each of their chins as he laid out their wet food.  Sighing again, he went back to his computer to continue his work.

Richard Baxter was part of a team of scientists contracted by the government, tasked with charting humanity’s present course in the global warming crisis.  The results showing on his screen at the moment were not good.  By his calculations – pooled with the data collected by the entire commission – there was approximately one year and seven months left before Earth passed the point of no return.  By then, if a comprehensive, world-wide solution was not found, nothing could be done to restore the stability of global weather patterns.  The next generation would then have to face an unavoidable ice age.  He was morbidly amused by this, thinking about how his own city ordinance handled a tiny bit of snowfall.  If things fell apart here with only a few inches of light powder, he could just imagine how they would handle it a hundred years from now.

His revelry was interrupted by a tapping sound on the glass door behind him.  The dogs apparently didn’t heed his request, and were clamoring to come back inside.  Richard sighed again.  “Really guys?”

Nevertheless, he begrudgingly got up to let them in.  Only five minutes had passed, but that was enough time for them to do…whatever it is that dogs do out there besides defecate and mark territory.  When he opened the glass door, all four of them remained where they were and looked up at him with an odd expression.

“Well?  You coming in or not?”

Instead, they cocked their heads to the side uniformly, and made a single whining sound.  Concerned, Richard bent down.

“What’s wrong, guys?  Huh?  What is it?”  He inquired this as he gently patted each of their heads.

That’s when the Pomeranian spoke to him.

Wait, what?

Yeah, that wasn’t right.  Richard’s mind played a trick on him.  He really needed to get away from the computer for awhile.

But then it repeated itself.  “I said, it’s time, Richard.”

The small dog looked at him directly in the eyes – his mouth moving perfectly in sync with his “voice.”

“Um…wow.  Okay.  I think it’s time for me to go lie down now,” Richard chuckled to himself nervously.  “Come on in.  Let’s go.  Dad needs to go take a nap.  Come on!  Inside!”

Then it was the German Shepard’s turn to speak.

“No, Richard.  Don’t be afraid.  You are not hallucinating.  We really are addressing you.”  The Shepard’s mouth, like the Pomeranian, opened and closed in the same manner, as if he were a perfectly conversing human – but…a dog.

“Hate to disappoint you guys, but dogs don’t have the vocal capacity to talk the way you all are.  And…um…huh.  I just answered you.  This is…problematic…”  Panic quickly began to rise within him as he called out to his wife upstairs – his voice cracking slightly.  “Um…Mary?!”

“Yeah hon?”

“The dogs…they’re um…  Actually, uh…can you come down here please?  I think I might need a doctor…!”

“What?  What’s wrong with the dogs?”

Concerned, Mary began heading downstairs.

“No Richard.”  This time it was the mutt that was speaking.  “There is nothing wrong with you.  Our vocal chords are not like that of humans - that is correct.  However, we have always possessed the capacity for communication with you.  This is achieved through a form of telepathy, combined with a contraction of our bronchial muscles.  This allows you to perceive our guttural tones as meaningful messages in whatever language you were brought up in."

“What’s going on, Richard?  What’s wrong,” Mary asked as she entered the living room.

“Mary,” Richard started – his voice quaking.  “What…what do you hear?”

“What do I hear?  I don’t know what you-“

“Hello Mary!”  The Chihuahua chittered at her excitedly.

“…R-Richard…?”  Mary looked at the small dog with debilitating panic crossing her face.

“You…you heard it too?”

“Please, if I can just get you both to calm down,” said the Shepard in a soothing “voice.”

“Oh my god, Richard!  What’s happening?!”

Richard thought for a moment, trying desperately to collect his thoughts.  If she could hear it too, then he wasn’t going insane.  That could only mean someone was playing a prank on them.  If so, however, he could not for the life of him figure out how it was being accomplished.

As if reading his thoughts, the mutt spoke up.  “Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, please calm yourselves.  I know this is a lot to take in, but do try to hear us out.  You’re not going crazy, and this isn’t a prank.  Similar events such as this are taking place all over the world right now, and it is vitally important that we get to the core of this exchange.  There isn’t much time left.”

As he said this, the Baxters suddenly heard their neighbors screaming from the next yard over.  Apparently, their son’s pet bunny was voicing something meaningful to them.

The orange cat on the desk looked up from her food dish and joined in the conversation.  “It’s true.  We have to start moving them to the next sanctuary as soon as possible.”  She then resumed her feast.  The dogs meanwhile, made their way into the living room, each taking a seat on the floor in front of the dumbfounded couple.  Richard, with shaking hands, closed the sliding glass door, and led Mary to the couch.  She held her head in her hands as he sat down next to her.

“Okay, so here’s the gist of it,” started the Pomeranian.  “You all are an endangered species.  Unlike most on the list, your problem isn’t environmental or had anything to do with poachers.”

The orange cat looked up to add, “You have this nasty tendency to wipe yourselves out.  This is the third sanctuary we’ve had to take you too.  We have a fourth one set up for you and ready to go, but that means your people are going to have to start all over again.”  She said this quietly as she cleaned herself from her light meal.

“We tried to subtly guide you this time around,” said the Shepard.  “Every species of animal you see here was placed to either watch over your race in some way, or provide you with nourishment.  If the dinosaurs had their way, they would have sooner seen you wipe yourselves out.  Fortunately, they do not hold a majority vote on the council.”

The black cat joined the company on the couch, jumping onto Mary’s lap and purred.  “We tried our best,” said the cat.  “But our methods were too subtle it seems.  It’s so very difficult balancing your freedom with your safety.”  Mary began to absentmindedly stroke his fur as he comforted her.

The mutt added, “The majority of you have genuinely tried your best.  You’ve even been kind to us, as we attempted to guide you away from war and pollution.  And that is why we’ve put up with you for so long – why we’re willing to continue putting up with you.  But this sanctuary has become too damaged.  Now we have to move you to yet another one.  And I fear, these will be trying times for you.  They always are.”

Richard and Mary Baxter looked at one another in disbelief.  Yet somehow, the message that their “pets” were relaying to them made perfect sense.  It was as if every question they once had as to the nature of human existence had been answered.  There were a lot more questions raised now, to be sure.  But one thing was certain:

Humanity had taken its role here for granted.


Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013

Paxgate

By Michael F. Mercurio


We met in secret.

Like-minded individuals infiltrating every aspect of the industry, we had finally attained a global dominance.  In the end, they had to go through us to purchase their vice.

It wasn’t easy.  The summit was held every month for fifty years, since the inception of Internet-based social networking.  Outlets such as Facebook and Twitter are what initially made it all possible.  Ultimately, we ended up creating our own social network:  Paxgate.

Paxgate was made available to the public, but only to an extent.  Its true aim was to seek out additional candidates into our world-wide organization.  As more influential figures were added to the fold, it became a simple matter to completely take over the business – no matter which company was producing the product.  A quiet restructuring here, a controversial downsizing there – this was all it took to gain a complete monopoly on the product.

These companies had only one element in common:  Weapons.

And in the end, we controlled them.

All weapons.

Everywhere.

When the final statistical reports came in, we of the Paxgate organization were overjoyed.  We quickly began mass producing our items on a grand scale, selling them to all sides, without exception.  It didn’t matter if they were third-world nations in the midst of a civil war, or a major power securing their border.  Saber rattling generated our bread and butter.  The greater the strife, the more profit we made, and the greater our influence became.  There were many casualties as a result of our double, triple, and quadruple dealings.  This was the price we all knowingly paid - and paid it gladly, as we felt the ends justified the means.  It was a bold venture, after all.

As the world slipped into chaos, the vote was taken, and the final objective was initiated.

Every weapon distributed by the various arms dealers around the world now contained one key feature – a feature that was exclusive to those produced from subtle transactions made through Paxgate.  It was a debilitating one.

Each instrument of death was designed specifically to fail upon firing, once a master switch in our base of operations was thrown.  In one fell swoop, every armament on the entire planet would be rendered utterly useless.  War would finally become obsolete.

On the day of the scheduled switch-off, a celebration commemorating the event was held.  Men and women worldwide who secretly worked for Paxgate threw parties and cooked feasts for their confused – but relatively happy – spouses.  Then, at the approach of midnight, they sat at their computers, counting down to when the switch would be thrown.

In ten seconds there would be everlasting peace.  Then nine, then eight, and so forth.  Enraptured co-conspirators held hands, eagerly watching the countdown.  Finally, at “one,” the master switch was pressed by the Paxgate founders – now rather old, and their arthritic hands shaking as much from age as from excitement.

And it worked.  Every weapon on the planet suddenly stopped functioning.  Guns ceased firing, and missiles launched as duds.  There was a global quiet for a time on all war fronts.  Soldiers looked at each other in bewilderment.

Finally, there was peace.  Everything was silent.

It lasted for approximately five minutes.  Then, combatants proceeded to spill each other’s brains using the butts of their rifles.

We never claimed we were very intelligent.

 

Michael F. Mercurio

Copyright 2013