Dreams Gone Bye

Beneath the lamp at the desk in the corner of his studio apartment, Alan writes. Dreams, strategies, and plans fill the pages of his leather-bound notebook.

He fills page after page about how he will finally accomplish the things he has always wanted to accomplish and become the person he has always wanted to be. Not one more day will slip away with nothing to show for it. From now on he will be different, his life will be different and tomorrow he will stick to his plan: wake up at the crack of dawn, go for a run, eat a healthy breakfast, and write. Write all day.

Ass in the chair, words on the page, he writes again and again.

He sets his coffee machine to brew at four a.m. He sets several backup alarms, minutes apart, then turns the volume all the way up and places it in the bathroom so he won't be able to cheat his way out of waking up. With his running shoes ready at the foot of his bed and wearing his jogging outfit, Alan turns in for an early sleep.

His night is dreamless. Not due to a peaceful, pleasant sleep but from a complete lack of it. He tosses and turns, covers himself then kicks off the sheets. His mind races about what he will write. It will be exciting, thrilling, and even genius. A complete hit, a best seller. He imagines being interviewed on Fresh Air explaining to Terry Gross where his great ideas come from. During a bathroom break from his daydream, he discovers it is two a.m.

When his alarm blares from the other room, Alan's eyelids feel as though they have five-pound weights over them. Knowing his backup alarms are due to follow, he clambers to his feet, kicks his shoes aside, stumbles blindly to the bathroom, and rips the alarm clock out of the socket. His ears ring as he drags himself back to bed.

Before global warming made summers everywhere unbearable, Seattle had had an even-keeled climate. Hardly ever too cold, rarely too hot. Most apartments built in those good old days had no need for air conditioning and so had none.

Alan's apartment is in such a building.

By ten, the summer sun has turned his apartment into a volcanic vent. He kicks off his shorts and socks, splays himself on the bed, tosses and turns as he drifts in and out of sleep all morning. Going through waves of guilt and troughs of exhaustion.

Alan groggily re-watches episodes of Friends from his bed while scrolling through social media until noon. Then, deciding he wasted enough of his day off he rolls out of bed, sits in his chair, and prepares to write.

He twirls his pen and stares at the blank page as if hoping the words will write themselves. Spinning in his chair, the story forms in his mind, waiting to be written. While nibbling on his pen he decides he will be a better writer once he eats but, having no appetite for the food he has, he heads for the store. He remembers reading once that Neil Gaiman loves pasta before writing and so will he.

GOOOOOOONG. A loud ringing comes over the air as his door closes behind him but Alan hardly notices.

Low dark clouds have rolled in and a thin rain drizzles on the emerald city. While trudging up First Hill, Alan drifts into a daydream of himself being bold and charming to a pretty girl at a party he hopes to attend next week. The type of bold and charming that he only ever is in his imagination. Silently mouthing his pickup lines, he doesn't even notice the fog thickening around him.

Alan's trance is finally broken by the staring eyes of a man across the street with a baseball bat slung over his shoulder. The man, tall, muscular, pale, and familiar looking, watches him intently with eyes that appeared to glow purple.

"Strange trick of the light," Alan mumbles to himself. "Maybe they're some new light-up contacts. Amazon's version of Google glasses I bet."

A moment later he approaches a family of three; a young boy, a pretty woman, and a handsome man, who, other than his wire-rim glasses, looks identical to the man across the street. The trio laugh as a family but stop abruptly as Alan passes. They gawk at him, ghoulishly pale with shimmering purple eyes.

"The fuck you looking at?" Alan says under his breath as he passes.

"Hey," a hoarse voice shouts from the shadow of a nearby alley. His violet eyes crackle through the darkness as he approaches. "I see you. Always walking around, dreaming so much of living and doing so little of it."

Alan would normally ignore the man without a second glance but as he emerges from the shadow something familiar behind the man's gray beard and receding hairline gives him pause.

"Know what happens if you keep that up?" The stranger continues. The man haunches as he creeps closer, his fingers splayed like an eagle's talon. "You end up like this." The stranger grabs at Alan's arm but he's too quick. He dodges the mans grabbing hand and dashes up the hill. Alans' stride, even up steep hills, is strong and fast.

"Eat shit asshole," Alan yells back as he flees.

As he runs, someone jumps from behind a street-side mailbox, plunging their shoulder into Alan low and hard. Alan lands square on his back inside a large, covered doorway. He crawls, gasping for air. His arms, relieved of their strength reach for a wall to lean on. Blinking back tears he sees a tall man, with long flowing hair tied in a bun above a bandana with a Nike swoosh. He has the same ghoulishly pale skin, full nose, plump lips, and flickering purple eyes as the others. He is breathing angrily, scowling down at Alan, and has a white-knuckle grip on a tennis racquet.

"P-please," Alan wheezes. "D-don't." Alan can feel the heat from his eyes.

"Hey asshole," shouts another voice from the entryway. "Fuck off, I'm not done yet."

The tennis player raises his racquet like an executioner's axe but before he deals the blow, he is kicked aside.

"Come the fuck on kid, let's get out of here." Alan is hoisted up from under his arm and pulled into the rain. "What is that dipshit thinking. It's still my turn. I'll bet it's because you ran from me that's why. Running is probably the only thing you've ever been good at, but you can't run from this kid. Let's cut through here and take Madison," the man says, pulling Alan into an alleyway.

"What is going on?" Alan asks, his breath and strength returning to him. "Who are you?"

"What's the matter? You don't recognize me, kid?"

"I've never seen you before."

"Look closer."

The two stop in the ally beneath a fire escape. Alan takes a deep look at the man's face. There are differences, the gray beard, the flat-tire bags under his eyes, the unfortunate hairline, and his eyes are a dull purple. Yet the resemblance in the nose, cheeks, and lips is undeniable. Alan recognizes himself in the stranger's face.

"I don't understand. You kind of look like me, just older and uglier," Alan says.

"Ding ding ding. Well, except the uglier part. Little shit. I am you, or, well, a version of you. We all are. I am you after I, er, you. After WE, die."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, we've got to keep moving before the next gong or those bastards are going to come for you again," the man says pulling Alan along.

"Who is coming?"

"The other ghosts."

"Ghosts?"

"The ghosts of the dreams you have let die. The ghosts of the lives you could have lived but died when you decided to watch The Office for the twentieth time."

"Look," Alan says shaking him loose. "Thank you for helping me back there but I don't have time for this. I have to go write."

"You can't lie to yourself kid and I am yourself. You weren't going to get any writing done today. Just like you didn't yesterday, the day before and every day since deciding this is what you want to do. You are just going to diddle yourself and diddle your life away until you become, well, me."

"That's not true. I had –,"

"You are coming with me, whether you like it or not. I will carry you to the graveyard if I have to."

"Try it asshole," Alan says furiously. He squares up with the man and throws three successive punches which whiz right through him.

Alan stumbles and stammers. The man grabs Alan by the collar and hoists him into the air, one-handed, as if he were a child. He holds him there a moment, displaying his strength, then places Alan back down, but retains the grip on his collar.

"Let me explain something to you. This is a haunting and there are two ways out of it. One," the man holds up a finger. "You come with me to the graveyard, the spirits show you some shit and you change. Or two," he holds up two fingers. "You stay here with them and get the shit beat out of you. The first option has a much higher success rate and is far less painful. The second option you probably just live with regrets for the rest of your life until you become me. Up. To. You. But even if you go home and lock the door, after the second gong, you won't be able to escape them." The man gestures behind them.

Alan gapes at the man in shock and then looks behind him. Alan sees the silhouettes of the apparitions clustered together at the end of the alley, waiting their turn. Their angry purple eyes shine through the fog, and their ghostly bodies blend into it.

"So, you're telling me those guys are ghosts of my dead dreams?"

"That's right."

"And they want to beat the shit out of me for no reason?"

"No, not for no reason. Because you killed them."

"I must be tripping on something," Alan says to himself while running his hands through his hair. "Whatever, you then. I guess."

"Good. This way," the man leads them onto the street and around a corner, passed the St. James Cathedral.

"If you're me, do I call you Alan the second? But you're older than me so, does that make me–."

"If you have to call me anything, call me Al."

"Bleh, I hate being called Al."

"I know. I used to hate it too."

"Ok, explain it to me one more time. You're me but dead and from the future? Like some type of time-traveling ghost? Now I know I'm tripping, pretty sure ghosts can't time travel."

"Pretty sure? Jesus Christ, was I ever this dumb? Until moments ago you didn't even believe in ghosts and now you're telling me, a ghost, what I can and cannot do?"

"I'm just asking. And those guys back there," Alan looks over his shoulder. Dozens of his purple-eyed doppelgangers follow them a block behind. "Are me, but they're different me's and they hate me. And they didn't time travel. That about right?"

"Christ on the cross you're dense kid. Everyone here is a construct. A version of a possibility that never came into existence because of your actions or inactions. They are lives that may have been. I am the version of the possible life you are headed towards. A life you do not want."

"You didn't like your life?"

Al stops and turns to Alan. He looks the way he did when he emerged from the alley: wild and dangerous. "If I liked it, I wouldn't be here to prevent it."

"And you think taking me to a graveyard is going to do that?" Alan asks. The pair resume walking.

"Maybe. Listen, everyone has dreams that end up dead but many people have other dreams that end up becoming a reality. They get married and have kids, go travel, have fun and adventures. Not you though. So many of your dreams have gone unfulfilled, unchased, even, that a higher power has decided to try to get you to change."

"Higher power? What higher power."

"Christ on a stick, I don't know everything. If I were perfect, would I be here preventing myself from being a complete dipshit?"

"Hold on, if you're me from the future doesn't that mean you were once me in this exact situation right now? Which means I inevitably become you anyway? That my friend is called a paradox."

"Jesus goddamn motherfucking Christ. You've missed the whole point, haven't you? You do so little living that they sent me here to keep you from killing any more of your dreams."

The two walk in a brief silence, broken by the breezy wind and light patter of the rain. "So, you know your life's version of the future?" Alan asks interrupting Al's precious quiet moment. "Which may or may not be different from the future I'm going to live, right?"

"Sure."

"So, do the Mariners ever win the Series?"

GOOOOOOONG

A loud bell rings over the air, followed by a flash of nearby lightning and a crack of thunder.

"Shit," Al says frantically. "That's the second gong. We've got to run now."

"Why?"

"We're out of time. That gong means it's open season and those purple-eyed fucks aren't going to let us strut around now. Run," Al darts ahead.

"I thought you said I can't run anymore?" Alan asks, still walking.

"For fuck sake," Al groans, his voice fading into the distance growing between them.

Alan turns at the sound of dozens of feet splashing through the fallen rain. An angry mob bears down on him at full sprint. Alan turns and runs.

"Where are we going?" Alan shouts as he catches up to Al.

"The graveyard. Across the. Bridge," Al shouts back.

"There's no graveyard across this bridge."

"There will be. If you get. There before. The third gong."

"What happens at the third gong?"

"The gates close. You're locked out. I'm gone. And purple boys. Back there. Beat the shit. Out of you. 'Til morning."

"Ok, graveyard it i-," Alan falls face first, slamming his chin into the sidewalk. One of the ghosts had caught up and wrapped his arms around Alan's legs, holding tightly. The one with the baseball bat catches up, and raises the bat over his head, ready to bash Alan to a pulp.

"Die," the bat-wielding ghost yells.

"No," Al cries as he tackles the baseball player. Al wrestles the bat from him and cracks the ghost at Alan's feet across the back. The ghost wales and Alan is able to wriggle free. Al turns to the mob, keeping them at bay with wild swings of the bat, challenging anyone of them to approach first.

"Run," Al shouts. "Get across the bridge. Turn left into the graveyard. Now."

Alan scrambles to his feet and runs without question. He doesn't need to look back to know that Al didn't hold them off long and the others are nipping at his heels. Alan runs at a full sprint, throwing his arms and shoulders to propel him to a speed he has never reached before.

Alan crosses the bridge and his feet fly from beneath him. He floats for a moment, hits the ground, and slides. His momentum carries him through the gateway of the graveyard. Alan rolls to his back, fists raised, ready to scrap. The purple-eyed ghosts stand outside the gate, panting and pacing. Watching him angrily, unable to enter.

GOOOOOOONG, the third bell rings.

Lightning flashes above them, thunder crashes around them and the gate creaks shut. The light outside the boundary of the graveyard fades to black. Only the fiery flicker of their eyes pierces the darkness.

Inside the gate, a cold blue light glows off the hundreds of black marble headstones, as if by moonlight. But there is no moon, no clouds, no stars. Only blackness above him. Bare tree branches reach their boney wooden finger through the thin mist.

"Al?" Alan says, his voice carrying as if over water, but there is no response. "Now where do I go?" He mutters to himself.

In front of him, there is a path that splits in two. One end leads up a hill, passing dozens of large gravestones toward an even larger, solitary gravestone. An urge or an instinct lures Alan down the other path, which leads around the hill and winds downwards, passing dozens of increasingly smaller headstones. His shoes squeak from their wetness as he walks. As he descends the headstones become smaller and smaller. They are packed so tightly that some of them are touching. They are no longer their own plots so much as they are the markings of a mass grave.

Finally, he reaches a headstone that is no bigger than his palm. He crouches to read the minuscule writing.

Alan Bains

To protect his pride

He never really tried

Alan blushed. He has had an image of himself as a hard worker, as someone who does not give up and always does his best. But memories of every excuse he has ever made rush back to him. Every half effort, every time he had put it off until later or quit just as things became hard.

GOOOOOOONG.

Every one of the hundreds of gravestones sublimates into the fog simultaneously, which glows a pale blue for a moment before the entire graveyard turns pitch black. Where the hill was a moment ago is now a giant bowl with four large legs, each a head taller than him. There is a roaring purple flame in the center of the bowl.

The hair on the back of his neck stands on edge and he spins around. The dozens of ghosts that had chased him earlier clustered around, their violet eyes still aglow but the anger in them has subsided. For a moment, their pale bodies are translucent in the purple light, then one by one they slowly become flames and float into the air toward the bowl, joining the flame in the center. In the flames spiraling above his head, he watches snapshots from his past.

He is twelve years old and in his little league uniform standing nervously over home plate. "Easy out," shouts one of the players from the other team. Alan's father and a pair of his friends rally the measly crowd from the bleachers behind him to chant 'K, K, K'. The pitch comes, Alan swings with all his might, strikes out, and slinks back to the dugout. It was the last at-bat of his life.

He is seventeen, stepping to the service line at his Highschool regional tennis tournament. Down one match in double elimination, at the end of the tiebreaker set. He turns the ball nervously in his palm, tosses his second serve above his head, and hits it, aiming for the inside corner. It cracks against the top of the net and rolls back to his feet. It's the last tennis match he ever played.

He is twenty-two, watching his crush eat her lunch alone across the student union area. After several moments of building his courage, Alan takes a deep breath, wipes his sweaty hands on his pants, stands, walks toward her table, and right on past without saying a word. He hangs his head and leaves. The two never spoke.

Alan wipes tears from his cheeks as all the flames merge in the center of the bowl.

GOOOOOOONG

"See it yet kid?" Al says appearing beside Alan. His body is slowly becoming purple flames from the feet up.

"All I see is how much this sucks," Alan says sniveling. "I'm 27 and I don't have anything to show for my life. I have no girlfriend, barely any friends and I work a dead-end job. I've quit, made excuses, or chickened out at everything I've ever tried my hand at. But what am I supposed to do about it? I can't change the past."

Al puts his hands on Alan's shoulders and smiles gently, "Still don't get it huh? You are not here to change your past, you are here to change your future. Be brave kid, do your best, and no matter what, don't give up. No one can ask more of you than that."

Al's body finishes its transformation into flames and whirls into the pot.

GOOOOOOONG

The flames flare and roar, its heat singeing his cheeks. Alan covers his eyes from its burning light. Abruptly, the heat and light fade completely. He is surrounded by pitch blackness. He can see nothing and feel nothing. There is no air on his skin, even the ground beneath his feet seems to have vanished. He dangles, suspended in darkness with nothing but the sound of his breath and his beating heart. For a moment he feels fear. Then he feels a calming pulse guiding his thoughts. It leads him through the city, back into his apartment, to his desk, on the blank pages of his notebook. His next dream.

GOOOOOOONG

Alan awakes laying on his back in Sturgis park. He sits up in a cool puddle. Nine unmarked black marble gravestones sit below an identical one raised on a small mound with the Seattle skyline towering behind them.

Alan runs. He doesn't feel tired or sore, doesn't notice the extra weight from his sopping wet clothes. He just runs. Back across the bridge, up First Hill, and into his apartment where his fresh pen and blank pages await him.