Dreams: A Compilation of Short Stories

Story IV: Always Sunday

It's finally time to go. I slip on my wooden sandals and head out into the blinding daylight. It is much too dark inside that old house, but it must be dark to keep the chills out. They come every Sunday. It's horrifying to witness...whole families get consumed-but not us. We ward them off with large lamps and emitters, and even those we don't really need. I look up to the sun, seeing spots in my eyes after looking away. It sure is bright.

I head down the street to pay my favorite person a short visit. He'll be home by now, I'm sure of it. I hurry as I approach the hut, for fear of being seen by someone. The outer walls of the hut are bathing in sunlight, but I know the deeper inside the home I go the darker it will get. It is small and humble, made of clay with large rounded holes that act as both shelves and windows. The shelves are lined with trinkets and plants of all sorts. Vines hang down the smooth, red-orange wall.

He is a collector of all things ancient and all things present, perhaps even future, which is what fascinates me the most about him. In this seemingly insignificant hut, you could find anything from old times and new. The old times were very long ago, when metal structures reached to touch the sky, and man depended on something that did not really help them out in the end- technology.

I lean through the clothed door before walking in. He is sitting on a small stool, gazing at a mellow fire in the hearth. The room is blisteringly hot, and the man is sweating profoundly. I will never understand the motives behind his strange demeanour, but nonetheless, I loved being here.

He does not hear me enter, so I take time to observe the room. I scan the walls, cluttered with strange objects- pieces of black glass with strange circles, panels riddled with complicated patterns of lines, and papers that speak about things that are anything but familiar to us now. A pile of trinkets sits on a shelf, and peeking out from underneath is a small, black box with a smaller red square attatched.

I find this intriguing, so I reach down and pluck it from underneath the pile, blowing off the dust and bringing it closer to the fire for inspection.

Abruptly, the man breaks his trance and jumps up out of the chair. He stumbles towards me, and I'm met with striking green eyes buried in an aged, wrinkly face. Those eyes stare me down and touch my soul, and an unsettled feeling washes over me.

"Press it," he says. His rough voice is persuasive and wise, though it has a layer of fear.

I look down at the object, then back up at him. I slowly set my hand on the red protrusion, and press.

    ***

They were killed. The chills came, and they were thirsty. They are still coming everyday now. It's really a shame, I was hoping this would happen later, but it's the button. It's killing us.

Now it's always Sunday.