DreamLand

Mystic Ink, Publisher of Spiritual, Shamanic, Transcendent Works, and Phantastic Fiction

CHAPTER oNE

A fuzzy sensation blurred Tom’s thoughts and numbed his body.

His vision clouded as a cool gray haze enveloped him, soft and shimmery, like meadow mist, then his surroundings snapped into focus, sharp and clear. He smelled the fresh scent of pine, heard songbirds warbling in the conifer thicket across a sun dappled pond. A dragonfly, fanning crystalline wings, sunned on a twig at the tip of a half-submerged log at the water’s edge.

Tom filled his lungs with sweet morning air and grinned at the five-year old beside him. Handsome little guy. Thick, dark hair, like Tom once had. His mom’s blue eyes. “This is how you bait a hook, son. If you don’t do it just right, the fish’ll steal him.” He impaled a squirming night crawler on the barb of a fishhook.

“There.” Tom held the baited hook up for the boy to admire. “That’ll do the job.”

The five-year-old giggled, blue eyes twinkling. “This is fun, Dad.”

“Sure is, pal. Now, let’s get after that fish.” Tom tossed the line into the water, rippling the smooth surface. “Here, you hold it.” He handed the rod to the boy. “Keep your eye on the bobber. Soon as it dips underwater, tug hard and you’ll hook him.”

“Okay, Dad.” The boy took the rod.

Tears of happiness burned Tom’s eyes as he watched the small hands tighten around the grip. “That’s the way, son. Attaboy.”

“Later, can we go to the park?”

“Okay. We’ll play catch. We’ll have lots of fun, you and me.”

A flash.

Tom’s feet flew out from under him. His body tingled, and he floated in a soundless void, then as suddenly as he had gone, he returned to the pond.

“I love you, Dad,” the small boy said as if nothing had happened. “I love you too, son,” Tom choked. Don’t let it end now. Please.

“Let’s go to the park and ride the merry-go-round, Dad.”

“We will, pal.” Tom’s voice trembled. His legs felt weak. “We’ll do lots of fun things.”

Another flash.

Tom turned his face to the sky. “No! I’m not ready!” Again, the void swallowed him.

“Have mercy!” he shouted as he spiraled into a vortex, tumbling downward. “I need more time. Need to hear him say he loves me again. My little boy! I’m sorry, son. I wanted it to last longer. Tell me you love me, son. Please. Please.”

The boy’s voice grew faint. “Take me to the zoo, Dad. Wanna fly a kite, walk in the woods, wanna be with you. Please, Dad, take me to a ball-bb-ball-ballgame, ballgame, Dad, Dad, Dad.

The tiny voice echoed into emptiness...

A high-pitched tone pierced the shadows of a dimly lit room and the thin green lifeline on a life support monitor went flat. Rita Cariño’s fingers danced over a panel, triggering a series of beeps that silenced the alarm before lines of code flashed onto multiple screens. Did they get enough to verify? Would she have to bring him back? She faced Doctor Jackson with a second syringe primed, thumb on the plunger. “Nineteen seconds. Want me to try again?”

Her heart raced. At this moment, Morgan Jackson represented God and Rita his instrument. She held the power of life or death in her hand.

Morgan shook his head. “We have enough. Let him go.” The tall black physician placed Tom’s arm at his side. “We’ll need the usual reports.” He released the bony wrist and fumbled for his pen. “I’ll

sign the death certificate.”

Rita breathed an inner sigh and set the syringe on a tray, then handed Morgan the IPad containing the certificate and stats on Thomas Harley. Stepping around the bed, she removed wires from the temple and extremities of his withered corpse.

Petite and dark-haired, Rita’s soft-spoken manner had occasionally been construed as timidity, but her brown eyes flashed and spit fire when she spoke her mind about the things she cared most about. Right now her heart went out to the five-year-old boy with his mother’s blue eyes, forced to grow up without a dad. “Harley wasn’t much of a man, was he?”

Morgan looked up from his paperwork. “Worthless. This dream was probably the highlight of his miserable life. Spent most of it in prison. Drew his final sentence thirty years ago. Life without parole. First degree murder. Harley told me he thought about his boy every day for the past thirty years. Supplied us with an excellent description. Amazing details.”

Rita removed the I.V. “Has anybody talked with his son?”

“I thought you knew.” Morgan scribbled his signature on the death certificate. “Thirty years ago, Tom Harley came home drunk and beat his pregnant wife to death. His son was never born.”