Wayne Faust
My dreams are sweet. They’re the only sweetness that remains to me in this claustrophobic world of cold metal and plastic, of soft hums and beeps, of stale odors. Outside the small window it’s blacker than black, pierced by waves and waves of brilliant, twinkling lights. It would be pretty if it ever changed, even slightly. Or if I could go out into the vastness. But I can’t.
So I dream.
In my dreams she dances. She twirls and spins and pirouettes in an elegant, cream-colored dress. She looks like a swan, just emerging and finding her wings. It’s a gentle waltz and she moves up and down with the lilting beat, her feet gliding across the floor with achingly beautiful grace. Her dress reveals white shoulders that could be porcelain if they didn’t pulse with life. The place where her shoulders meet her neck is taut because she is holding her head high. The line of her chin is smooth and chiseled, and her smile is brighter than all the twinkling stars outside my grimy window.
As she dances before my eyes, coming closer and then gliding away from me, I reach out. But she is just beyond my reach. I long to stand, to approach her shyly, to offer her my arm. I ache to join her in the dance, to twirl her around, to find my own legs. But, like in most dreams, my legs are rooted in place and I can only watch. Still, it brings me a hint of joy, the only joy I’m likely to experience ever again.
From somewhere in the distance I hear the sound of cascading water – a fountain I think, and soft music. And then I hear the voice:
“This Government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet Military buildup on the island of Cuba. Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on that imprisoned island…
It was that voice which sent me on this journey – a faint hope for humanity, nothing more. Mars is likely just a bone-dry chunk of rock. But it’s human nature to strive, to never surrender, to defy the inevitable. It’s that fierce, indomitable nature which caused the conflagration I’m leaving behind.
I wasn’t supposed to be alone, for what good is it if I survive, only to grow old and die on a new and hostile shore? Didn’t Columbus return from the New World to show others the way? But I can never return, for there is only death and fire and poison where I come from. There was no time to train someone to go with me, no room in this tiny craft. So even if I can somehow make it to where I’m going and miraculously survive, I’ll be the last remaining seed, left to rot and die when my supplies run out.
And now the voice is back. It’s saying something else but I can’t understand. I’m tired of the voice so I think I’ll sleep. Earth has long since dwindled behind me and Mars is far, far ahead.
I know she’ll come to me again in sleep. And she’ll dance once more. I’ll feel the soft breath of her swirling dress as she comes close. I’ll smell her sweet perfume. I’ll hear the music of Heaven. But it won’t be Heaven. If it was, I could rise to take her hand. We could dance together. Instead, I’ll simply watch.
It will have to do.
#
The voice blared out from the small, black and white TV on the wall:
“I have today been informed by Chairman Khrushchev that all of the IL-28 bombers now in Cuba will be withdrawn within 30 days. He also agrees that these planes can be observed and counted as they leave. Inasmuch as this goes a long way toward reducing the danger which faced this Hemisphere four weeks ago, I have this afternoon instructed the Secretary of Defense to lift our naval quarantine.”
“Thank God,” she muttered as she turned her head away.
There were cheers from down the hallway of the hospital, most of them for the young, heroic President Kennedy, for he had faced down the Russians and they had blinked. But mainly they were cheers of sweet, blessed relief, for they would all live to see another day.
But she didn’t feel much relief. Yes, the world would go on, but for her it would be a lonely world. The doctors had not given her much hope.
“We can’t know for sure with comas,” they had told her. “We have no way of measuring if there is any brain activity. But your husband suffered a massive stroke. It’s not likely he’ll ever come back to us.”
She stared down at her husband lying on the bed and listened to the soft beeps and hums from the machines, as well as the quiet music from the transistor radio she had placed by his ear. He looked peaceful enough, and occasionally, a brief smile fluttered across his face. Where was he now? Was he lost in some alien world, like in the pulp science-fiction magazines he always read, the ones she had stacked on the floor beside his bed in case he ever woke up? Or was he simply gone?
It was morning. She knew from the past weeks that it was time for the nurses to go on a shift change. This section of the hospital would be quiet for a short while. She listened to the soothing sound of the fountain in the lobby down the hall. She again tried to imagine life without her husband. A stray tear leaked onto her cheek. All those years together, all that struggling, and now…
She reached over and gently turned up the volume on the radio. It was set to a dance music station and they were playing another waltz – her husband’s favorite.
She had donned the cream colored dress again, the one she had been wearing the night her husband collapsed onto the dance floor. She’d worn it all through those first few agonizing days, as her husband fought for life amidst the news flashes on the radio and TV about Cuba. And now peace had returned. But her husband had not.
She stood up and self-consciously glanced around the room and out into the hallway. She knew this was foolish. Anything she did now probably wouldn‘t make a bit of difference. But there was always a chance. And if her husband woke up, she wanted him to see her first, doing the thing he loved her to do.
So she danced.
Jnnuary 13th 2024
Wayne Faust is a speculative fiction writer from Colorado, USA. He’s had over 50 stories published in various places around the world. He’s also been a full-time music and comedy performer for over 45 years, playing in 40 US States, and in England, Scotland, Holland, and Mexico. (www.waynefaust.com). He has another story in The Best of Wyldblood.
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Wyldblood 14
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Nine great new short stories and two drabbles in a fine new collection from Wyldblood. #14 is packed with science fiction and fantasy from imagined worlds to gritty reality a clutch of adventurous, thought provoking and sometimes sligtly unsettling tales which should give you plenty to read though the long winter nights. Available in print and digital formats.
From the Depths
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