Michael A. Ashton NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH Journeys in Mystery and Suspense through the Occident and Orient Preface. Turner Maxwell Books Free Publishing Free Books Free Literature Free Writers Turner Maxwell Books are an independent co-operative of new writers, committed to publishing inspirational literature. Turner Maxwell Books has over one hundred writers, producing original stories not seen in any other bookshop, Turner Maxwell Books has established itself as a successful and viable publisher. This achievement lies in its innovative and daring approach to establish a shorter supply chain that is simply focused on the requirements of the reader. THE DREAM Last night I dreamt a fearful dream. I dreamt that I was dead. Within the dream I yearned for all those I loved and held dear but I was alone, all alone in the darkness. There were no longer any doubts or ambiguities over whom were those that I loved, and I realised for the first time the true extent to which I not only loved them, but needed them. It was certain that they were near, not far from me, yet did not know it. All along I had to believe they were close by, but they could not hear me, could not reach me, could not save me from my anguish and despair. The darkness enclosed me like a coffin. I could see nothing and had no power of voice or movement. Nor had I a sense of touch to probe my body and the space about it. And if my ears could serve me there was nothing for them to listen to. In that sepulchral silence there was not even the sensation of my own heartbeat or the rhythmic flow of my breathing. Yet I still existed for how else could I experience such sickening panic. I wanted so badly to reach out and find someone, anyone, to terminate this most unendurable isolation. The real meaning of infinity struck me as never before. How could I accept this pitch-black place, this absolute void, for ever and ever? Was I never again to know contact with another - never? With desperate contortions of the one thing left to me - my mind - I struggled for a way out. And then miraculously, with the faintest suggestion, an idea asserted itself and filled my being with hope. It arrived like an angel of salvation and took the form of a question - what if I was trapped in nothing more than a dream, it asked. Wake up! Wake up! I screamed to myself for I had an inner voice, which I alone could hear. And then, thank God, I felt myself rising from this horrifying grave into the daylight. And there they all were - the loved ones that those immeasurable moments ago I had so desperately needed. The sunlight was streaming in through the windows of my bedroom. As I lay there, sure enough my wife, my two sons, my only daughter, my sisters, my brothers, my in-laws, and my closest friends were all clustered around my bedside. I must have taken terribly ill I thought. Their expressions, every one of them, were steeped in grave concern as they looked upon me. I tried to smile in appreciation, to speak, to comprehend all that had happened, but an instinctual warning halted me. The short-lived joy at the sight of my dear ones quickly evaporated for I sensed something ominous about that bedside gathering, though at first it was not obvious. And then everything came to me - I saw that those souls so precious to my existence were not here to comfort a man on his sick bed. They were all in mourning and here to pay final respects, to see me for the last time. My dream allowed me to see them. I did not wish to return to the darkness. I wanted so to stay among my mourners. I prayed that I would never awaken from this dream within a dream

NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH

Journeys in Mystery
and Suspense
through the
Occident and Orient

by

Michael A. Ashton

Preface
THE DREAM

    Last night I dreamt a fearful dream. I dreamt that I was dead. Within the dream I yearned for all those I loved and held dear but I was alone, all alone in the darkness. There were no longer any doubts or ambiguities over whom were those that I loved, and I realised for the first time the true extent to which I not only loved them, but needed them. It was certain that they were near, not far from me, yet did not know it. All along I had to believe they were close by, but they could not hear me, could not reach me, could not save me from my anguish and despair. The darkness enclosed me like a coffin. I could see nothing and had no power of voice or movement. Nor had I a sense of touch to probe my body and the space about it. And if my ears could serve me there was nothing for them to listen to. In that sepulchral silence there was not even the sensation of my own heartbeat or the rhythmic flow of my breathing.
    Yet I still existed for how else could I experience such sickening panic. I wanted so badly to reach out and find someone, anyone, to terminate this most unendurable isolation. The real meaning of infinity struck me as never before. How could I accept this pitch-black place, this absolute void, for ever and ever? Was I never again to know contact with another - never?
    With desperate contortions of the one thing left to me - my mind - I struggled for a way out. And then miraculously, with the faintest suggestion, an idea asserted itself and filled my being with hope. It arrived like an angel of salvation and took the form of a question - what if I was trapped in nothing more than a dream, it asked. Wake up! Wake up! I screamed to myself for I had an inner voice, which I alone could hear. And then, thank God, I felt myself rising from this horrifying grave into the daylight.
    And there they all were - the loved ones that those immeasurable moments ago I had so desperately needed. The sunlight was streaming in through the windows of my bedroom. As I lay there, sure enough my wife, my two sons, my only daughter, my sisters, my brothers, my in-laws, and my closest friends were all clustered around my bedside. I must have taken terribly ill I thought. Their expressions, every one of them, were steeped in grave concern as they looked upon me. I tried to smile in appreciation, to speak, to comprehend all that had happened, but an instinctual warning halted me. The short-lived joy at the sight of my dear ones quickly evaporated for I sensed something ominous about that bedside gathering, though at first it was not obvious. And then everything came to me - I saw that those souls so precious to my existence were not here to comfort a man on his sick bed. They were all in mourning and here to pay final respects, to see me for the last time. My dream allowed me to see them. I did not wish to return to the darkness. I wanted so to stay among my mourners. I prayed that I would never awaken from this dream within a dream – never.

Published by Turner Maxwell Books

First published 2008.
Copyright © Michael A. Ashton 2008

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