This dream I had

I don't have a son, but this still really messed me up.

I stare down my 11th grade math teacher. He’s not going to budge. His eyes thin with the kind of self-entitled resolve that almost covers up a primal fear. Almost. My friend starts to get to his knees, but he stops short. It’s like the  air is charged and he can hide from the lightning by staying low.

“You stepped over the line, he’s safe.” I say. I try to say it firmly, but with grace. It comes across pleading to avoid conflict. My friend stands up and brushes of his palms. For a second I can feel their sting. “we good?”

Mr. Pearson goes back to guard his flag. My friend pulls up on the skin of knee to see the damage. I can’t remember his name. We walk back to regroup with some more teammates and find out sort of plan. The other team has their flag in a corner, which is cheating, but we don’t want to point it out. It’ll just make us winning more impressive, it’ll be clear we deserve it, we’re practically King Arthur. Deeper down there’s another reason I don’t say anything. If we have them change it and we lose,  we’ll have no excuse. I don’t want to win,  I want to stay afloat.

We run to their side, run back chase them off, bounce back and forth around the border like  flirting third graders pulling hair  on the playground.

Mr. Pearson is on our side,  but  no one goes to tag him. I stroll over, trusting my sovereignty on this side of the line  to scare him off.

Twenty feet off he asks “where’s your son.”

My blood hits rush hour traffic. The air in my inner ear goes solid. Some meaty fisted kid pulls out my pumpkin seeds for Halloween night. There’s a  creek down a hill to the left of the road. i’m running before I can take a step. He’s there. his umbilical cord is ripped, and he’s caught on a lump of sand, bobbing to side like some awkward white boy waiting for the base to drop.

I hit the sand hard, probably. I’m scrambling to pick up the pieces, but his won-tons are falling open in the cold water. Bits of Mushu pork curve around my knee. The plastic bin is just out of reach and when I reach for it, pieces my lap had stopped flowed downstream.

I got maybe half of it give or take some green onions. I scrape at the sand of the bank. Tiny flecks of glass scrap my hands as I scrape out a tiny grave. I look up to the Russian boy at the top of the hill. I try to chew the words into bite sized pieces, but they still stick in my throat.

“My boy… I don’t know how…  I don’t have any poetry…  I know the kind you need.” I say, my eyes blur his face and he sinks back towards the road.

“You deserve this, we both do.” The sun grows warm on my back. The trees grow closer. The creek smells like urine. I bury a dead turtle with him, because there’s room.

Author's Note

Seriously, go nuts, your reviews don't even have to be strictly relevant.

Reviews

[Frecklewood]

It is not often that you read a story "about a dream" and the story is truly a dream. Most of them are narratives or descriptions about a dream. Your is the real deal! Dreams are fragmented, past and present meld, future possibilities become present reality and when you wake up - you are perplexed, yet, something deep inside understands the sense of it all, which is the way that I felt after reading it. Thank you for a truly intriguing write!

[Display Name]

I appreciate you taking the time to read it, and then going the extra mile to write a review. so thank you.