'This is a dream.'
'How is this a dream? '
'Last night I dreamt that I was in a castle looking out at the stars from a tower. Then a prince gave me a magic wand.'
This was somewhat hard to believe even for me. We weren't technically in a castle or a tower, but we were at Castle Rock standing atop a lookout some hundred and fifty feet above the river. The stars (and their reflections off the water) had kept us silent since we had finished climbing the stairs. In those quiet moments I had finished whittling some kind of pointer, maybe ten inches in length. There was nothing at all special about it. I didn't even know it was a wand when I was making it. I was simply keeping my hands busy, maybe trying to mask a bit of nervousness at meeting up with this girl. Once I'd finished I offered it to her. Now I am not nearly a prince. I'm a peasant at best. But in a world where lookouts are towers and parks are castles and sticks are wands... I suppose perhaps I could be confused for one briefly. The story added up.
'So what happened after that? '
'The prince kissed me.'
So he did.
'It's a dream. It has to be a dream.'
It wasn't though. It was absolutely real. I don't know how long we stayed up there just watching the night sky, enchanted not only by it, but each other as well. Eventually we left and got in her car. We were traveling back to town in a round about sort of way, not ready yet for the night to end.
'Thump Thump! '
Then we hit a rabbit.
Both wheels on the driver side.
She pulled over and started crying.
The dream was over.
The real world back.
The enchantment, gone forever.
That was the first and last night we ever spent together. Did some angel send that poor rabbit in our path to warn me? To protect her? Or was it some devil who tried (successfully) to end this silly dream?
You know Mike, I think you will one day make an amazing writer of prose too.. You have an incredible ability to tell stories.. They are always fascinating and well-crafted and makes me want to read.. That is the sign of fine writer of fiction... You don't want to stop reading.. Whatever happens, you read to the end.. Wonderful my friend.
Well until only very recently I'd say 90% or more of anything I ever wrote recreationally was prose. I attribute my story telling (and any humouress I may have) to my Dad and my grandpa on my mother's side. They are masters of the craft. Somehow they'll manage to have you on the edge of your seat even just detailing something as mundane as their last trip to the grocery store. Thanks buddy
That was the first and last night we ever spent together. Did some angel send that poor rabbit in our path to warn me? To protect her? Or was it some devil who tried (successfully) to end this silly dream? Who ever he was, he did something nice.
Perhaps so. I'll even say probably. But one never knows... That is why the story still sticks in my mind. It's one of those things you wonder about from time to time. Thank you Akhtar
Nah, it was just a stinkin wabbit.: -) Interesting amalgam of fantasy and psychology. Your range in writing seems limitless. Some princess or duchess or milkmaid will be fortunate indeed to land you, Mike.
I thought about title-ing this one 'or was it just a rabbit' I might still change it. I had to look up amalgam. Leave it to Kelly to use a word I've never heard. It's tough to accomplish surreality without losing plausibility. This I suppose was an attempt at a balancing act. As to the final sentence of the comment, I think I'd pick the milkmaid. I love dairy and I've never been too fond of royal purple ;)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Kelly Kurt's comment makes you sound like a fish. A 'fish named Mike'? ? A pike? ? I agree with Souren, below in another comment; the story pulls one along to the end. Though sounding more like prose (but who decides what constitutes a poem) , I gladly add this to my/our May A Showcase For P H Poets, found in my list of PH poems. Thanks. I'll soon start June's showcase. Think about it! Bri :)