Teach Me How To Fly a Plane: An Insomniac's Guide to Falling

dream desert (short story)

alone on the corner of two forgotten streets, a laundromat sat in the still fog of the early hour. parades of desert dust filtered down the sidewalk, tousling the cracks in the cement and gleefully making its presence known to the stranger plowing his way through the badlands. the sand shook itself through the boy's hair and eyes, under his clothes and under his skin. it dug through his backpack in search of stolen teeth.

the stranger, a boy generously named Henry Bellalane, shoved open the laundromat door and received greetings from the small bell above his head.

across the room, a saint sat atop a washing machine, heels clicking against its white metal frame. his hollow eyes flickered to Henry in appraisal but grew bored of the sight just as quickly, and turned his attention back to his bright cellphone screen.

Henry toed over the threshold and threw open a machine on the near side of the building, spilling his dirtied clothes inside. he dug through his pockets for suitable nickels, and pulled a soap bottle off the rack on the wall.

"that detergent won't work on blood stains," the saint spoke up from his perch, "i have bleach, though."

Henry glanced down at his jumbled laundry, knowing it was very clean of blood.

"not on those," the saint clarified, but didn't continue. Henry then looked at his hands, frowning at the man's insinuation.

"you really should do something about all this," the saint gestured vaguely around them, turning to sit cross-legged, facing Henry. "you could hurt yourself, it's not safe out here alone."

"who cares?"

"the living."

Henry's frown deepened, and the saint shrugged, beginning to look less like a tangible being and more like a phantom.

after a long stretch of semi-silence – fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and wind beating against the window front – the saint gave in, "and don't make yourself out to be some martyr, by the way. you died because you're an idiot, not for some righteous cause."

Henry scoffed, "what's it to you?"

"they want their teeth back."

"and they'll get their teeth," Henry fumbled with the coin slot, "as soon as they tell me how the hell i'm supposed to get out of here. yah know, it's a trade. eye for an eye, teeth for a secret."

"well, you'd better work on your negotiating skills; looks like you'll be needin' 'em soon."

startled, Henry turned back to the windows rattling in their frames. outside rested a handful of light-washed buildings lost to time, and in the distance, a writhing mass of dream things spilled out of the endless stretch of desert.

"oh... gods."

"don't you wish."

"what should i do?" Henry demanded.

"how would i know? they're your dreams."

"i thought i lost them, i've been running for days, i've been running–"

"in circles, martyr. you know what they want, so give it to them now or they'll take everything else," the saint hopped to the floor and joined Henry at the windows, jagged shadows dancing across their faces. the swarm was incomprehensible, a whirlwind of skin and claws and memories that left their owner shaken to the bones.

Henry forgot himself and reached to his discarded backpack, pulling loose a cracked bottle so grimy and clouded that its contents were obscured. he rattled it once – the sound a horrible clatter against the wind's white noise – and the saint cocked his head in reply.

"you think it's not too late to undo your mistakes?"

"oh, no," Henry laughed breathily, humorlessly. "i think it definitely is."

the saint finally disappeared, and Henry uncorked his bottle. the dream creatures crawled across the sky and blocked out the sun, leaving the desert town swallowed by darkness.