"The Boy Who Dreamed He Could Fly"
By: Rob Allen
Now everyone at one time or another dreams they can fly. Well there was this kid, that grew into a young man...and he always dreamed he could fly.
Not in an airplane.
When he was a little boy one of the first dreams about flying he could remember was...he had a ball-point pen. The clicking kind. Every time he pushed on the end and clicked it...it lifted him up in the air. It took him right to the spot he wanted to be. Kinda floated him there.
Well there was this corner store. This was in the days when every corner had a corner store. This corner store was run by this fat-ass-dirty son of a bitch named, Mr. Tony. He always had a stained up tank-top tee shirt. He was also very ugly to this kid. I don't mean he treated him bad I mean he looked like hells shit. He lived in the back of the store. The store was also pretty dirty, but... it was close and the kid was still very young. The world was still this block he lived on. Also the store always smelled like they were boiling crap in piss for dinner. Anyway...off on a tangent....Once when the kid went in the store he opened up a cooler and the fucked up heavy ass door to the cooler fell off and hit him in the eye. Gave him a hell of a puffed up, purple black eye. Swelled shut. The kid had to clean the sleep bugers out of his eyes with Q-tips for days.
Well in this dream of his (when he was very, very, young) He went to Mr. Tony's store with his magic flying pen. He walked right in. Mr. Tony yelled from the back, "Be right there".
The kid didn't care he was filling his pockets with all the candy and stuff he wanted. When he finished that he started breaking things in the store. This brought 'ol Mr. Tony out of the back in a hurry. The kid runs out of the store with smelly Mr. Tony right behind him. Once outside the kid, Clicks" his magic flying/floating pen and floats right up to the roof of the store, by the sign.
Mr. Tony is surprised to say the least. He waves his fist at the kid and starts bitching. Now the kid being a child with parents that cussed like drunken sailors also cussed as soon as he was out of his parents sight. He told Mr. Tony, "Fuck you smelly bastard, fix them goddamn cooler doors"! Then he floated high up in the treetops and down the block.
There were a lot more childish dreams about flying but....remember this is a "SHORT" story.
Another flying dream he had five or six times....He had long arms and long fingers. There was a thin layer of flesh between his long fingers, and from his hands down to his waist. This was not a pretty sight in his dream.( Nor would it be in reality)...but...this gave him the ability to fly...like a bat. He needed a take off point for this, so he climbed on neighbors garages, Jumped off and flew around. He was very happy in these weird dreams. Much more bad-crazyness reguarding flying dreams happened...it was happening more often as he got older.
Well when he was about 17 years old he had this dream. He was walking down the beach with these big beautiful light grey wings. All the pretty girls were coming up to him petting his wings, asking if he could fly. Asking him if he was an angel. He loved this attention.
He told them, "God just gave me these wing, so I'm sure as hell meant to fly".
Fly he did. He flew all over. he flew over the water. he flew over the beach. He came down and picked up the jucyist, hotties of all the tender little lemon squeezers and flew them around. Some he even dropped in the water just for the hell of it.
Variations of this dream went on for weeks.
Then one day when he was getting dressed he noticed two small, faded scars on his back. He never thought too much of them before. You could really barely see them. He asked his Ma, "Ma what are these little scars on my back"?
She said, "when you were a baby you had a abnormal protruding growth on your shoulder blades, it wasn't much trouble for a Doctor to remove them".
This ate away at him for about two weeks. He thought...mother fuckers had quacks cut off my wings. Then one night he took a acid trip...boy he loved to trip. Then the "Brain Hour" came and he was feeling a bit freaky, on the edge...and he couldn't stop thinking about his goddamn mother and father having his wings cut off. He decided to find Ma's Valium stash and try to calm the fuck down. He looked long and hard at that brand new script...90 ten mg. V's.
The next night he drugged both his parents. Drug them in the basement, bouncing their heads all the way down the steps. Then ...his dad had 4 or 5 sheets of one inch plywood leaning against the wall. He got some 16D sinkers (nails) and laid his folks on two of the boards and just started nailing them all over the boards. He nailed their hands and feet first. He wondered if the Valiums had killed them 'cause they weren't waking up. He listened...yes a heartbeat.
By the time they came out of their fucked up stupor...he had them nailed through the hands, feet, arms, a lot of the skin down their sides, nails on one ear of each of their heads, between their fingers and toes, etc., etc..
Then he took all his strength and leaned them up against the basement wall...upside down.
When he thought they were awake enough to understand he started screaming at them about cutting off his wings till he was frothing from the mouth. Then while they whined and moaned, without enough left in them to be really heard...their heads turning beat red from being upside down. The young man went upstairs...took one Valium himself, ate a half a box of coco-crispies smoked his last "Fatty" (rolled in a strawberry paper) and crawled into bed for the big crash.
When he woke up he got all the cash together he could. Sold everything that was worth a dime. Picked up his backpack, sleeping bag, passport and guitar, he boarded a plane to Europe. He wandered to Romania where he worked in a fish market, he live in a small apartment above the fish market.
Then he went on to bigger and better things. Never looked back. never had any more dreams about flying.
All in All...he lived happily ever after.
Listening to: The sounds in my head.
Reading: What I'm writing.
Watching: The monitor.