Original short literary fiction, including satire, remains one of the writing genres in my literary toolkit. I do enjoy creating characters!
Foreword by the Graveyard Whistler
Hey, Graveyard Whistler here again! Stoney has once again offered up a piece of pure gold, a piece that consists solely of conversation as it tells its story. This piece of short literary fiction may be classified a short story or maybe a little play, a "playlet"; it features only a conversation between June and Sue. This entry comes from that great treasure trove of the former website called "Stone Gulch Literary Arts."
In case you’ve forgotten who Stoney is: because he requested anonymity, "Stoney" is my nickname for the owner of the Stone Gulch lit site, titled "Stone Gulch Literary Arts"; the site owner gave me permission to use any of his essays and original fiction and poetry in any fashion of my choosing.
After I choose selections to post, I fiddle with them a bit, for example, I always change names. I don’t know if Stoney used names of real people or not, but as I use them, I plan to keep all entries purely fictional; thus, my fiddling is geared to remove as many details as possible that someone who knew Stoney might recognize. The last thing I can abide is to have someone from Stoney's milieu of folks to think he sees himself and then feel he’s in my crosshairs. Confrontations are not my bag (that is, forte).
So without further ado, let’s listen to June and Sue talking about "June’s Dream."
"I had that dream again."
"Do you wake up moist?"
"Well, yeah, always do."
"God, what man would ever believe that a woman could have a wet dream?"
"But Sue, it's not really a wet dream, that's why I call it a moist dream."
"But it's the same thing."
"I guess. How do I know, since I'm not a man? And besides you say you've never even had a moist dream. I don't get it. Why do all men have wet dreams, but not all women have moist dreams? Either you are strange or I am."
"Well, not really. You are just more interested in sex than I am."
"I'm not that interested in s*x. I dream about the same guy. Well, I think it's that same guy."
"Oh, you're not sure!"
"No. But I always feel that same way. It's s*xual, but I always feel engulfed in a wonderful radiant . . . something . . . I can't think what it is. It's like being in love, but that sounds too mundane. It's more than that."
"I don't think there is any more than that. You fall in love, get married, live happily ever after. Unless you get a divorce. Then you're free to do it all over again."
"Well, see what I mean. You've got to admit that's pretty mundane."
"Well, it's still just a dream. It's not like you glimpse a hunk on a train, your eyes meet, you tingle down to your toes, he asks you out, and then boom, you know the rest."
"But when you put it that way, don't you see how mundane that is too?"
"That's just because all I gave was the plot. You know. Your feelings fill it out."
"Yeah, I know. But none of this helps me understand this dream."
"Can you see the guy's face?"
"No, at least, I never remember it. I think I see him in my dream, but I never remember what he looks like once I wake up. I just remember having orgasm and then I wake up. I vaguely remember that I'm making love with someone, and it's just the absolute best s*x I've ever had. I love him. I know in my dream that I love him. I didn't just pick out a great-looking body to . . . you know . . . But I . . . it's so strange. I always feel so happy, almost blissful—but I can't see who it is. And I can't associate it with anyone I know. You see, I have dreams of having s*x with guys I know, and I always know who it was when I wake up. I usually just laugh, if it's someone I like or feel disgusted if it's someone I don't. But I've never had orgasm during a dream like that. Yet this dream always make me come."
"What does Jerry think about it?"
"Oh, I haven't told him. We don't talk about things like that much anymore. He's gotten to be so conservative and conventional. It's OK. I'd tell him if the occasion ever seemed right. But it never does. And I think I'm mature enough to feel that I don't have to tell my husband everything that's in my head. And that's where this dream is, in my head. If I planned to have s*x with someone—I mean really have s*x, I'd tell Jerry, and he wouldn't really mind. At least he didn't use to. Of course, with the AIDS thing, he'd probably insist I make the guy wear a condom. Damn, this conversation has gotten off track. Jerry has nothing to do with this. Our s*x is fine. This has nothing to do with it."
"Boy, I wish I had a Jerry. My Jack would not be thrilled if he thought I had dreams about another guy. And he'd kill me if he thought I'd actually had s*x with someone else."
"Well, that's not unusual. But really, haven't you learned anything in your psychology courses that could shed some light on my dream?"
"No, I can't understand it. Maybe I'll ask my prof. Or, next semester—I have a course in dream interpretation. Maybe I'll get something in that that will help."
"Well, it's no big deal. I ought to be able to figure it out eventually."
"Yeah, you probably will. I got to go to class. You got class now?"
"No, I have an appointment with a former student. You might know him; he's a psych major too—Brian Wolff—he writes poetry. He was a student in my freshman comp class last semester. When he found out that I had actually published some poems in lit mags, he started bringing me his poems and asking for criticism. He's good. A little rough. But he's got what it takes. He's going to be a great poet. And he's fun to talk to. He's so intelligent. Really tuned in to language. He even gives me some useful criticism on my own poems. I really enjoy these sessions. One hour with him is more productive than all the damn boring poetry workshops I've attended. He's just a dream. Hey, I better get going too. Don't want to keep Brian waiting?"
"Uh, June—you say this kid's a dream. You might want to think about that."
But June was in a hurry and decided to think about it later.
Afterword from Graveyard Whistler
Once again, I must acknowledge my gratitude to the late Stoney and his Stone Gulch Literary Arts. That treasure trove can last me my entire career—whether I teach standard lit courses, research techniques, or straight-up creative writing. A big thank you, Angel Stoney! Hope your heavenly digs offers you plenty time and space for remaining a literary stud.
Also, shouting out a big thank you to my readers. I do appreciation your many useful suggestions. I could, however, do without the grotesque dull-wittedness and the smears and that get slung at me—hey! I’m just a cat doing his job! I guess that's to be expected, though, by anyone who has the audacity to publish something.
The kindness and helpful comments are pure eye candy and music to my ears, much appreciated. Thanks for keeping them coming!
So for now, it’s "back to the drawing board," as the old saw goes . . .
aka The Graveyard Whistler
Some good whistlin' goin' on!! Enjoy!
© 2021 Linda Sue Grimes