“Did either of you guys see where my disc went? I know it’s somewhere over here in the trees.”
Alex’s fingers closed around a large stick that he began thrashing back and forth through the brush and tall grass. The foliage rustled with each pass of the stick as he searched methodically for his bright orange frisbee amongst the muted greens and browns of the forest floor.
“I think you sliced it farther to the right than you think,” Brian replied, flicking his wrist with both power and grace that sent his disc soaring through the trees before finally landing within a few feet of the basket. “It’s not over there in the trees where you’re looking; it’s probably in the creek with about a dozen others that belong to you.”
“Damn it,” Alex exclaimed. “Steve, do you have an extra disc I can use?”
“I do,” Steve replied as he bent down to pick up his disc. “I’m not letting you use it, though.”
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do for the next nine holes then?”
“Sorry, Alex, but I’m not giving you my only spare,” Steve asserted as he trudged onward to play his disc that landed less than a meter to the left of Brian’s. “We’re taking a break at hole 10 anyway, so maybe you can just enjoy the buzz and the scenery instead of this fine gentleman’s game.”
Frustrated and embittered, Alex strode onward behind his friends as they took their final shots – each one landing in the chains of the upright metal goal with a satisfying clang that reverberated throughout the park.
“So, that makes two over par for me, one over par for Brian, and well…”
“That makes me the guy with a bunch of dick wagons for friends.”
“Hey, don’t bring me into your pity party, or you can just sit at the table and watch me smoke all this pot,” Brian replied with a wry grin as he patted the sandwich bag full of marijuana hidden in the cargo pocket of his shorts.
“I withdraw my previous comment. I want to change that from dick wagons plural to dick wagon singular.”
As they grabbed their discs and made their way to the tenth hole, Steve burst forth from the group playfully smacking Alex on the back of the head with the palm of his hand. Not allowing himself to be so easily disrespected in front of Brian, Alex ran after him in a show of mock anger hurling all manner of invectives and comical threats during his pursuit. All the while, Steve was in front of him flailing his arms and kicking up dust with exaggerated skips and hops pretending to be fearful of his childhood friend and his taunts. As he reached the much revered picnic table nestled behind a large pine tree and noticed an individual seated there, Steve ceased the comical antics and slowed his gait. Alex, too, ceased the obscenities and stopped in his tracks waiting for Brian to catch up.
“Brian,” Steve whispered. “Is that the guy?”
At the picnic table shaded by the large pine tree, a middle aged gentleman sat staring off into the distance.
“That’s the dude,” Brian replied. “Let’s smoke him out.”
The other boys smiled sharply at the idea. It gave them a certain amount of pleasure to witness members of the adult world – the world of authority figures, teachers, parents, supervisors – engaged in recreational substance use. In a way, it made them believe that they were privy to a glimpse behind the curtain of a world that had been for so long hidden and shrouded in secrecy. They were beginning to discover that adults they had known all their lives, even those they respected for their intelligence and outward success, were engaged in casual substance use, illicit activities, and various moral transgressions. The revelation that one could be mature, responsible, and also engage in illicit activities filled them with delight.
As the boys approached the solemn, middle-aged figure, they remarked amongst themselves on his unique clothing choices for the middle of June in the Midwest – a buttoned up green twill jacket with several rips and tears that had been amateurishly patched with random bits of mismatched colored fabric. Rather than the standard khaki shorts with cargo pockets worn by most frisbee golfers, the man was dressed in a pair of black jeans that had also been awkwardly patched to conceal several holes and frays. On his feet, he wore a pair of what appeared to be black combat boots marred by various scuffs, scratches, and dirt. Despite his peculiar dress and appearance, he had managed to assimilate into his environment and the culture of the park by partaking in the customary frisbee golf ritual of smoking pot at the tenth hole picnic table. As he drew in a long drag from a hand rolled joint with wisps of smoke already encircling his head, the three boys watched in awe as he exhaled a large cloud of smoke from his mouth and nostrils that temporarily obscured his face before slowly dissipating into the summer breeze. Approaching the table, the boys silently gestured for permission to take a seat with him; the man obliged with a nod of his head as he took yet another heavy drag.
The boys had seen this man several times before during their sojourns through the park, but they had always been reluctant to engage with him. It’s not that they were frightened of him; rather, their line of thinking was that they were teenagers and he was a middle-aged man. They somehow felt it impolite or inappropriate to intrude on an adult’s leisure time. Today, though, they felt that they had seen him, nodded to him, and acknowledged him a sufficient amount of times that now was the proper, perhaps even polite, time to introduce themselves and partake in a shared activity.
As the most outgoing member of the group, Brian took the lead by introducing himself and the rest of the group as he nonchalantly pulled out a bag of marijuana and a small glass pipe. As he began filling the pipe, he asked the man, “So what’s your name? We’ve seen you around here a few times since the start of spring. How’s your game going?”
“I am a traveler,” he said, staring off into the distance.
As Brian finished preparing the pipe, the boys waited with rapt attention for the traveler to provide them with his name or some information regarding the nature of his travels, but he only continued staring off into the distance taking copious drags from his joint. His striking deep blues eyes, which suggested a degree of charm and innocence, locked on some unknown scene in the distance stood in stark contrast to his weathered, wrinkled complexion and threadbare attire. His presence and aura was all at once intimidating, yet captivating to the boys.
After making its initial round between the three friends, Brian made an unspoken offer of the pipe to the traveler by placing it on the table in front of him. The traveler silently accepted this offering and took a large puff from the glass.
“So, you said you’re a traveler,” Brian interjected. “Are you from out of town? Are you here on business or something?”
“Across endless landscapes, I’ve danced in the skin of countless men enacting and participating in any number of narratives. I have been the devil to some, the savior to others. In less than a single breath, I have tasted the grit of peasant life and the luxury of kingship. At my core, I am but a player, scripted and staged, like all men. Each of us is nothing more than a player in the grand theater of existence awaiting our moment in the spotlight, our roles predetermined, our costumes carefully crafted, and our paths preordained by the cosmos.”
An uncomfortable silence fell around the table.
“A traveler does not seek to find his destiny; rather, it is thrust upon him. His origins are of no consequence. He wanders until he feels, in every fiber of his being, that the moment for which he was created, the climax of his very existence, if you will, is standing in front of him, and then, only then, he acts. He acts not out of emotion, not governed by any sense of reason, but with the consent of the cosmos.”
As he finished his final sentence, his eyes, previously gazing off into the distance, abruptly shifted to Steve; it was a penetrating, almost hypnotic stare. Unsure of how to respond to this cryptic, peculiar dialogue and uncomfortable behavior, Steve began rummaging through his bag aimlessly, Alex began to drink copious amounts of water from his jug, and Brian turned his attention to the dottle remaining in his pipe. All three desperately hoped that these actions would provide time. Time for someone within the group to conjure up an idea, a phrase, or some magic line of dialogue that would help extricate them from the lyrical, yet disconcerting gaze of the traveler.
Brian, the most gregarious and affable of the group, broke the silence with a casual, yet ingenious question, “Would you like another hit?”
The traveler shook his head in dissent as he broke his gaze from Steve and resumed staring off into the distance.
“Well, we better keep moving,” Brian declared with confident authority, knocking the ash from his pipe. “Best of luck with the rest of your game and thanks for letting us join you for a bit.”
Alex and Steve followed Brian’s cue and quickly rose from the table with disingenuous smiles for the traveler. With overwhelming relief, Alex and Steve, too, expressed their thanks for his hospitality and company. Steve, in particular, was careful to avoid making eye contact.
As the boys gained some distance from the tenth hole and continued the “back nine” of the course, they began to speculate fancifully as to the origins and identity of the traveler.
“Dude has got to be some kind of escaped convict or something. Think about it…he’s always here. When have we come here and not seen him?” Alex conjectured.
“No, a convict isn’t quite right. Think about the way he spoke to us earlier: he’s got to be some kind of cult leader or something,”
“Have you ever seen anyone with him? A cult leader has to have followers, numb nuts. The easiest explanation is probably the most accurate: he’s a homeless, burnt out ex-hippie who just bums around the country. I mean, he did call himself a traveler. The guy is obviously not a businessman or anything – he’s just a transient,” Brian asserted.
“What about all that weird shit he was spouting off, and the creepy ass way he was looking at Steve?”
“What of it? It’s consistent with what I just said. He’s a burn out. Obviously, he has a decent command of vocabulary, but nothing he said actually made any sense.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Alex agreed tentatively. “Listen, though, I don’t mind crossing paths with the guy, waving to him, or whatever, but I do not want to sit down, talk, or smoke bud with him ever again. Can we all agree on this?”
To this resolution, Steve gave a resounding nod of agreement. Brian, though, simply smiled.
***
“Man, I hope this summer never ends. Sleeping in, jamming on the guitar, smoking buds, playing frisbee golf – living the dream,” Alex exclaimed as his disc sliced through the air before skidding onto the fairway.
“Damn it,” Brian yelled as his disc came to rest several meters to the left of the green on the 18th and final hole. “Oh yes, you live such a full life, Alex: sleep, Doritos, Metallica, and porn. I sure do envy you.”
Alex stopped fanning himself with his frisbee for a moment to offer up two middle fingers in response to Brian’s jest.
“It’s all a growing boy needs. What else is he supposed to do? He hasn’t found himself a lady friend yet,” Steve chuckled.
The game ended in a predictable fashion with Brian dominating in terms of the score and the witty banter, Steve played second fiddle by adding punchlines and trailing Brian’s game on the scorecard, and Alex, resigned himself to his role as loser of the game and the butt of his friend’ jokes.
“Before we leave, let’s go back and talk to our new friend one more time” Brian exclaimed with a devilish grin.
“No, absolutely not,” Alex replied resolutely, his hand gripping Steve’s t-shirt as he prepared to guide him back toward the parking lot. A spirited disagreement ensued between Steve and Brian about the merits of engaging the traveler in conversation. Alex maintained his silence confident that Steve would find a way to discourage Brian from engaging the man who had leered at him so uncomfortably no less than an hour ago.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to tempt fate and bother someone like that again…”
The hushed, yet composed disagreement between Steve and Brian continued.
“Oh, come on. He’s harmless. This is our chance to get to know more about the guy. That way we can see which one of our theories about him is right. Don’t be…”
“You didn’t see the way he looked at me earlier. I…”
“Five minutes. No more. I’m serious. That’s it. Five minutes and I’m gone.”
Brian led the way back through the park towards the picnic table with Steve and Alex sticking close together. As they neared the picnic table, Alex felt his head begin to spin. He found himself caught between the dread overwhelming Steve and the curious, fun-loving spirit inherent to Brian’s nature asserting itself in this moment. Part of Alex wanted to leave, to side with Steve and insist they leave this place immediately never to return. Yet, another part of him hesitated. This part of him was afraid to express himself, to take a side, and risk losing favor with either of his friends. As he struggled to steady himself and cope with the vertigo, he felt a crushing foreboding of what was to come from his decision to remain a passive bystander.
“Good afternoon again, sir. Mind if we take a seat with you?”
The traveler gave a perfunctory nod, prompting Brian to take a seat straight across from the traveler with alacrity while Alex and Steve settled in cautiously at the far end of the picnic table. The two sat at the table tensely, ready to jump up and flee at the slightest hint of danger.
As Brian began loading his much revered glass pipe, he began his attempts to engage the traveler in conversation about everything from the weather, to his frisbee golf game, and even his interests in various aspects of popular culture. As to be expected, the traveler continued to stare off into the distance only responding to questions by providing half-hearted nods in assent or shakes of the head in dissent. As the traveler and the boys continued to pass the pipe around the table, it was clear that Brian was not satisfied with these simple nonverbal responses. He wanted some deeper revelation about the traveler, an opportunity to solve the mystery of his identity.
“So, what’s your deal man?” Brian inquired, his tone a blend of jest and irritation. “You say you are a traveler, but who exactly are you? How come you’re always out here?”
At the end of this line of questioning, Steve sprang from his seat at the edge of the picnic table despite Alex’s best efforts to grab and steady him. Caught off guard by this sudden movement, the traveler broke his fixated gaze on the horizon and methodically locked eyes with each of the boys in turn before replying to Brian’s inquiries.
“You do not find my replies to your questions sufficient because you do not grasp the essence of my being, just as I struggle to understand yours. One cannot understand his destiny or even his reality when he is encumbered by the clamor and illusion of free will. We are all prisoners of destinies preordained by the cosmos. The very idea of choices and the illusion of free will are the vain action of a prisoner rattling his cage. As I said before, I do not seek my destiny, it finds me. It is thrust upon me by forces beyond our comprehension. Because of this, I perform the act, the role for which I was born.”
As the traveler rose from the table, he withdrew from his jacket a sleek, gray weapon, a combination of what appeared to be a pistol and some kind of ray gun, and aimed it directly at Brian’s chest. In an instant, Brian vanished into thin air. Without so much as a second thought, Steve sprinted back towards the entrance of the frisbee golf park; Alex, though, was unable to summon the will to move. Instead, he waited in petrified horror as the traveler directed the weapon away from the spot of Brian’s disincorporated body to himself. Before pulling the trigger, the traveler declared, “All of your certainties stand upon sand.”
***
He ran. He ran past lively, carefree individuals unaware of the horror that had taken place in this once serene, idyllic spot. His breath came in rapid, shallow gasps as he ran harder and faster past them all – eventually making it through the parking lot, out onto the adjoining street, and into the neighborhood of his friend, Steve. The world around him had blurred into a swirl of images, sounds, and sensations. The single thread of clarity amidst all of the chaos enveloping his mind and body was the act of running towards a singular destination: Steve’s house. He ran past street after street of houses each replete with beige clapboard exteriors, neatly trimmed lawns, and front porches that echoed the same tired design. Each of a facsimile of the one before as if molded and stamped out by some invisible hand – a copy of a copy of a copy. He ran from all of those feelings which he felt were so actively and persistently trying to swallow him up. He ran toward sanctuary, understanding, safety, and security – the adult world of rules and order and authority figures. He ran toward those individuals and concepts that he so deeply believed could provide solace and respite from all that he feared and failed to understand.
His breathing continued in ragged bursts and his legs began to burn and pulsate as he staggered to Steve’s house just a few blocks from the park. An instant wave of relief washed over him once he noticed Steve’s car parked in the driveway – the Toyota Corolla affectionately known as “The Cloud Cruiser.” Finally, the world began to come into focus as he rang the doorbell and subsequently collapsed to his knees on the front step of his childhood friend’s home.
After a few moments, a soft whoosh of air escaped from behind the door as Steve’s mother, Charlotte, appeared with a warm, welcoming smile.
“Hi there, Alex! Are you doing okay? You look out of breath and white as a sheet – why don’t you come in and have something to drink,” she insisted warmly, ushering him into the vestibule of their home. The familiar sights and sounds within continued to allay the inner turmoil and terror that gripped him.
“Steve just came home a bit ago and was telling me all about the park. He said he lost you near the end there, but he’s been trying to call and text you. He was becoming a little concerned.”
Charlotte continued to stare at him, her eyes full of expectation, awaiting some kind of a response, but Alex could do nothing more than look around the home absentmindedly as though desperately searching for something to further anchor and steady his unraveling mind.
“Steve,” she called upstairs, an audible tinge of apprehension in her voice. “Alex is here. Why don’t you come downstairs?”
She furrowed her brow, bit her bottom lip lightly, and made her way gingerly into the kitchen. Alex found a seat on a nearby easy chair and ran his hands through his hair frantically before bringing them to rest on the back of his neck. As he leaned forward in the chair with his fingers locked together exerting pressure on the back of his neck, he struggled for the right words to describe to both Steve and his mother how the situation had unfolded at the park. From the kitchen, Charlotte prepared a glass of iced tea for Alex, all the while stealing uneasy glances over her shoulder as she anxiously awaited the arrival of her son from upstairs. As Alex became more and more lucid, he found himself perplexed by the even-tempered, upbeat tone in Charlotte’s voice – especially since she had just shared that she possessed some knowledge of the events that had unfolded at the park.
“Here’s a glass of iced tea, Alex,” Charlotte whispered, her hand resting guardedly on his back.
At that same moment, Steve descended the stairs and, seeing the scene between Alex and his mother, he, too, displayed the same furrowed brow and narrowed gaze as his mother. Alex, though, remained hunched forward in the chair organizing his thoughts and choosing his words with precision as he prepared for the inevitable conversation that was soon to follow.
“Hi, Alex!” Steve declared with a forced, almost mechanical chuckle. “What happened to you at the park? We were racing each other back to the car, and then I must have lost you. I called you, I texted you, and then I waited around for a good 30 minutes, but you never showed up. What happened to you? I was just telling my mom about that concert tonight, and she said…”
“Concert!” Alex raised his head suddenly. “What are you talking about? How can you be talking about some concert after what you and I just saw?”
Steve and his mother exchanged worried glances. Almost instinctively, he sidled closer to her and discreetly searched her face for answers or insight concerning the source of his friend’s agitated state of mind. Her eyes widened and her shoulders shrugged almost imperceptibly.
“Why are you looking at me like that? How can you not be talking about what happened to Brian before you ran off from the park? I couldn’t even bring myself to move or even think clearly until I got here. I mean, you didn’t even see the weirdest part. After he killed or made Brian vanish or whatever, he turned that gun on himself. And do you know what he said to me with this stone-faced, serial killer look? He told me…”
Steve eased away from his mother and tentatively moved a few steps closer to Alex.
“What are you even…?”
“He said, ‘All of your certainties stand upon sand.’ What does that even mean? I mean how can the two of you just be going about your day, pouring iced tea, and standing there like that when…”
Alex lost all composure, slumped back forward in the chair, and began to sob inconsolably. Steve and his mother drew closer, each bringing their hands to rest on his back in a comforting gesture. Charlotte exchanged a serious, yet worried glance with Steve, and then mouthed that she would head back into the kitchen to call Alex’s parents. Steve remained by Alex’s side, moving to crouch down directly in front of him, determined to meet his gaze and reach through the tears to uncover the source of his friend’s anguish.
“What happened out there man? We were racing each other to the car after frisbee golf, and then I lost you. I waited around for a long time, and then I didn’t know what to do. I tried calling you, texting you, but I didn’t hear from you. I just went home and figured that you would know to find me here. I’m sorry if something happened to you out there, but I…”
“What do you mean happened to me?” cried Alex as he lifted his head. His tear streaked face was a mask of confusion and anguish, and his eyes were filled with desperation as he searched for some measure of acknowledgement and understanding from his friend. “We were both there. We both saw him – the guy from the park: the traveler. We talked to him – all three of us were there. He killed Brian, or took him, or something. I don’t know. I don’t know…”
He returned to a state of distressed sobbing. Meanwhile, Charlotte returned to the area outside of the vestibule and surreptitiously signaled a thumbs up to Steve, an unspoken sign that she had managed to get a hold of Alex’s parents and they were on their way. During a break in Alex’s sobbing, he looked up at Steve again pleadingly.
“You keep looking at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about, or that you don’t believe me. How can that be when you were right there and saw what happened to Brian?”
“I mean, that’s what I’m trying to understand here,” Steve replied. “Who’s Brian?”
***
“Maybe I was out in the sun too long, or who knows, maybe I’m dreaming? I’ll just wake up tomorrow, and everything will be fine,” Alex whispered to himself, surrounded by the stillness of the night. He lay there, snug beneath the covers, with the comforter pulled up to his chin. His eyes followed the shadows cast by the window, flickering and dancing like the restless thoughts present in the corners of his mind.
“What if the traveler has something to do with all of this?,” he continued speaking softly. “If he can make himself and others disappear like that, then maybe he is capable of more. But how can he not only eliminate a person, but also the memories of him? See, that’s what doesn’t make any sense. If he could wipe out everyone else’s memories of Brian, why do I still remember him?”
“Maybe,” he faltered. “Maybe I’m losing my mind…maybe this is how it starts.”
For a while, he speculated about how a diseased mind might work – how a person could be unaware of their condition during its incipient stages. But as time went on, they might begin to realize, through interactions with others or small discrepancies in daily life, that the mind is fabricating pieces of reality. A slow, insidious stitching together of falsehoods, designed to satisfy some subconsciously buried need or desire, infiltrating waking life. One’s imagination, one’s dreams could become indistinguishable from reality.
“Ugh,” he sighed. “That just sounds like a crazy person trying to justify their craziness.”
As he continued reflecting and deliberating over the likelihood of a nascent mental illness, he ultimately dismissed the idea. His many vivid memories and detailed recollection of countless conversations with Brian over the years, including those of both a mundane and decisive variety, made this nearly impossible. Furthermore, he reasoned that if he was so far gone and so crazy, then wouldn’t he have just kept going on and on about the traveler and Brian’s disappearance earlier in the day?
“I mean, yeah, when mom and dad first got there I was talking about the park, the traveler, Brian’s disappearance, but I figured out pretty quickly by the looks on their faces that no one believed me and no one knew who the hell Brian was. I covered that up fast, though, by breaking down in tears and thinking up a new story,” he smiled to himself, pleased with his clever deception.
“I got mixed up,” he had told them in the car on the way home. “While Steve and I were racing each other back to the car, these guys jumped me and tried to rob me. One of them was named Brian, and when they realized I didn’t have any money or anything valuable on me, they just beat me up and disappeared.”
He revealed to them that he was upset, scared, and embarrassed that he had allowed himself to be victimized by his peers. In order to cover it up, he had invented a poorly put together story, replete with an abundance of falsehoods and fantastical elements, to explain his disheveled appearance and separation from Steve. He claimed, too, that he had simply misspoke when referring to Brian as a friend.
“That story wasn’t great – it hardly made sense and it certainly didn’t explain everything, but it kept me from being dropped off at a mental hospital…for tonight at least. At least now, I’ve got some time to think and just get through this day.”
Alex further appreciated how his parents had realized how worn out he was from the day’s events, and their decision not to press him on his story with all of its obvious inconsistencies and inaccuracies. Shortly after arriving home, he had asked if he could go upstairs and lie down – his head was throbbing, he told them. They had come in several times to check on him during the evening, but he lay there assured that they would hold off, at least until tomorrow, on questioning him concerning the veracity of his story.
As he continued to mull over and work to understand the day’s events, Alex shifted restlessly beneath the covers, unable to settle in comfortably. Frustrated, he sat up and began gently fluffing his pillow, trying to mold it just so to fit the curvature of his neck. With a weary sigh, he sank back down again, pulled the comforter up to his shoulders, and rolled onto his side. His gaze fell upon the digital clock, its numbers glowing a soft neon blue, situated squarely on his nightstand.
“Maybe this is just all a dream,” he mused out loud. “If this is a dream, though, why does everything look exactly as it should? In a dream, there is always something that isn’t quite right. There is always some law of gravity or physics that can be defied, and you can never read text or numbers in a dream. Everything just looks like an eight or a ‘B.’”
Upon quickly dismissing the possibility that it was all just a dream, a sudden thought gripped him. He sprang from his bed and snatched up his phone from the nightstand, his hands trembling. His fingers, frantic and desperate, began scrolling through his list of contacts. The names whirled by in a dizzying blur – but his contacts list went from Ben straight to Daniel. After calming his frenzied mind and hands, he engaged in a second, more meticulous search through each and every name, yet Brian was nowhere to be found. He then swiped his finger up, backed out of his contacts, opened his photos, and began a thorough review of each and every photo on his phone. While the two weren’t fond of taking pictures of one another, he reasoned that there had to be at least one in there somewhere, yet there was not a single trace of him.
He slammed his phone back down on the nightstand, nestled back under the covers, and stared up at the ceiling. His eyes returned to the shadows reflected on the ceiling swaying gently with each gust of wind, like ethereal figures in a languid, cosmic ballet. Sleep, he reasoned, was what he needed now. A good night’s rest might sweep away the stress, turmoil, and uncertainties plaguing his mind; a clear mind in the morning would allow him to better sort through the day’s events, the possible explanations, and arrive closer to the truth.
Looking up at the shadows on the ceiling, took his mind back to a simpler time, when he was just a small boy lying in the backyard with his father after a round of tag or game of catch. Side by side, they had collapsed down to the earth and stretched out on the grass, pointing up at the clouds calling out the shapes and figures that morphed into being under a blue sky. The memory warmed him, bringing a smile to his lips. He resolved that he would do the same now with the shadows reflected on the ceiling above him. Train, he thought to himself, his eyes traced the dark lines. Butterfly…castle…Mickey Mouse…dragon…
***
He awoke to the buzzing of his phone, as it skittered in erratic circles on the nightstand, its vibrations magnified by the glare of the midday sun pouring in from the window. He reached for his phone with a casual, almost mechanical motion and brought it sleepily to his face. “Call from Brian,” it read.
“Brian, is that you?” he answered gleefully, with a hint of incredulity.
“Yeah, man. It’s me. I was just wondering if you want to go fishing. My dad picked up some new rods and reels that he said we could try out on the lake.”
“Yes,” Alex replied with elation. “Give me like an hour. I was up late last night, and I had the craziest dream. It felt so real…like one of those lucid dreams you hear about. You were in it, and…”
“Uh, that’s kind of creepy.”
“No, it wasn’t anything like that,” he smirked. “We were at the frisbee golf park and that guy we met, the traveler – the one who’s always hanging out at the park, was sitting at the tenth hole picnic table. Well, we went up to him, and you started pressuring him to tell us who he really was, what he was doing hanging out at the park, and all that. Anyway, he reaches into his jacket, pulls out this weapon, points it at you, and then you just disappear. Steve and I are just scared out of our minds – he runs off, but me, I’m just standing there with my feet frozen to the ground. He turns the weapon to himself, then he disappears, and then I just book it back to Steve’s house. Then, when I get to his house, no one knows who the hell you are – not Steve, not his parents, not my parents. Anyway, there is more to it, but what a crazy dream.”
“Yeah for sure,” Brian replied. “That’s one weird ass dream, but who the hell is Steve?”
This story previously appeared in the anthology Thuggish Itch: School.
Edited by Marie Ginga
I am a high school and college English instructor by day, and a science fiction/horror writer by night (or during breaks from school). Anyone interested in learning more about future publications by me should contact me at jluther0516@gmail.com.