Oyster Man

Ok, here's another fiction piece. It's one I've been holding back for a while, because I can't quite get it right, but I think that maybe this is as good as it's going to get. It's not bad, but it's not as beautiful or as salty as it is in my head. Anyway, it's called Oyster Man, for no reason whatsoever:

In my dreams, I see the future. I don’t know how, or why, but I know that if I want to keep doing it, I have to stay pure. I know this the way one knows things in a dream, without needing to be told, without doubting the veracity. So I have my little rituals. I stay clean, I don’t touch other people, I only buy certain brands of clothing, that sort of thing. I always know what to do. A few of the prohibitions rankle me, but the reward is so very worth the price.
In my dreams, I am alive. Vibrantly, shiningly, gloriously alive in the way one can’t be alive in life. My life is Plato’s cave, but in my dreams, I see Truth. Everything I dream is true, comes true. Every single thing.

She came to me one night in my dreams. I stood on my balcony and She walked down the telephone wire to get to me. Her hair was black, Her lips were red, and Her eyes were the sea itself, liquid and profound. She wanted me for Herself. “Come with me,” She said, “Dream for me. I can give you freedom. Freedom to dream, freedom from purity,” But I don’t let Her finish. I turn and open the sliding glass door. I do not trust Her. I dream only for myself.
In my dream, the storm whips around me. She calls out my name, 3 times. “Amos! Amos! Amos!” I turn my back and begin to go inside. My vision blurs.
My dreams are never indistinct.
 Cold wind blows the rain into my apartment. Papers fly. Huge gusts knock over my bookshelf and send me sprawling. I turn my head to look back, shielding my eyes with one hand, and my vision clears. She drops her arms and the wind dies and she is gone. I wake in a sweat. I spend the rest of the night tossing in bed.

I go to the sea in the morning, to clear my head. The weather is reassuringly clear and the water is smooth. I buy a tour boat ticket. I have already taken this tour, but I like the motion of the water, and the sight of my city on the shore.
I wander into the passenger’s cabin, intent on a coffee. I can hear the radio playing from the tiny galley. The song ends and the announcer comes on. I order my coffee black, and I hear the radio announcer say my name. It is my mother’s voice. I can’t make out what she is saying, but then the girl brings back my coffee. I take it from her, careful to avoid physical contact, and when I turn my attention back to the radio, it’s just some female announcer inviting folks to the Mexican restaurant. I was imagining things.
When I glance up at the television, it seems that it is playing episodes from my dreams. But when I stop to watch, I realize it is just some show. Just a show.

We are far from land when the storm hits. It is sudden, the sky turning black in only a moment, the once glassy sea now enraged. The boat pitches violently as it tries to turn back to land, and the rain beats against the deck. I can’t hear a thing. As we all rush toward the cabin, the boat gives a lurch, and I am thrown from it into the salty waves. When I resurface, the boat is already far, heading back to land.

After an eternity of swimming, I reach a dock. I don’t know where I am. The salt water is in my nose and ears, in my mouth, my lungs, my hair and clothing. So much salt. I need to bathe. Someone rushes out and drags me from the ocean by my shirt. There is salt in my eyes. There are lots of people, and they pull me inside. It is a party. There is music and colored lights, people holding little plastic cups of liquor. They offer me some, to warm me up, or clear my head, or steady my nerves, but I refuse. I have to remain pure. I retch and shake, but eventually I catch my breath. I’m so tired.

The people around me are looking fearful now. They are staring at the ceiling, the walls, their alcohol forgotten. I look. There is water gushing through the seams between roof and wall, wall and floor, around the windows. Gushing. Everyone has backed up until they are in a cluster in the middle of the room. I stay to the side. I have to remain pure. They have dropped their cups, and the thin plastic floats around my legs. I hear the building creak, and I am terrified.
A window breaks. Then another. They shatter inward, spraying salt water and shards of glass. Panicked screams erupt behind me as the beach house begins to give way. The building collapses and those who aren’t crushed are swept to sea. I don’t hear the screams anymore.

I am sinking, or floating, I can’t tell which. Why didn’t I dream of this future? I see Her floating, dazzling in the water before me. “Amos,” She calls, so gently, Her red lips curved into a smile. “You came to me, Amos.” She drifts close, and places her hand against my cheek. Her lips brush against my ear. “I have you now, Amos.”