Dreams of a Child

7/28/2019 Dreams of a Child

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Sanjee Choudhuri

Mrs. Waldie

CTL-10

09/27/12

Dreams of a Child

I stand flush with the red brick wall behind me, spreading my arms out wide as if I was a bird

about to take flight, palms pressed against the wall. My fingers tremble slightly, as I struggle to hold my

composure in this warzone. Men and women pass by me continually, some giving me scornful looks,

bordering on malice, other looking with sadness. No face showing concern or compassion. A man

shields his child's eyes as they cross in front of me. Am I truly so hideous? Does my visage cause harm

to children? Apparently so. But, as my father used to say, Take pride in what you have, and take pride

in what you dont.

I subconsciously gather my torn old coat around myself, as I can feel the frost coming soon. The

precious days of sunshine will now give way to cold, heartless days, spent searching for warmth. The

beginning of fall is surrounding us, though there are no trees in this land to signal the change. Imagining

trees reminds me of my childhood, climbing trees when angry with my father, or myself. Up high, where

no one could see or hear me, nothing but air and calm.

I shake myself from these thoughts as I see two men, young and fresh as I once was, coming

towards me with smiles on their faces. The first act of kindness in this cold, cruel land. Maybe even sent

by God himself, to give me passage. One then throws a handful of change at my feet. I watch as the


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coins, shining and glittering, collide with my cracked leather boots and clatter along the sidewalk. I look

up and no longer see smiles, but sneers. Maybe you can afford a life now, he says to me, as his friend

claps him on the back. Now, many things are above my level of comprehension, but this truly vexes me.

Sadly, the time to contemplate has passed, and now more pressing matters come up.

Seeing a break in the crowd, I quickly gather up the coins. Not quickly enough, as the next

wave of insurgents quickly rush into me. After being bustled around for a few moments, I am eventually

sent back against the same wall like a ragdoll. I hear the voices in my head, an evil orchestra. They hate

you, the voices say, You are nothing. They hiss this into my mind, working their way in like parasites.

I fall to my knees and hold my hands against my ears, trying to silence the voices. I focus on the

outside. Footsteps pass by in quick succession around me. Honks from vehicles fill the air.

Conversation and laughter is nearby, but just far enough away so that I cannot decipher the words. As

the madness passes, my shoulders ease from their tensions, and my hand rest on my knees. My head

rolls back against my shoulders. I shiver quietly to myself, and stare into the grey sky above me.

I sit with my back resting on the wall behind me. The sun is going down, and the street becomes

less crowded. The people who now walk by never stare at me fully. I am given a quick glance, and then

I become a part of the scenery, nothing but a speck of dust on a wall.

A cool breeze flutters down the street and gently tickles my arms. I take delight in this simple

pleasure, the gentleness and impartiality of it. The beautiful noises it makes, rushing through the avenue.

Leaning against the wall, listening to the breeze, I succumb to sleep.

My dream is colorful and clear, in a happier time. I sit on my fathers lap, as he tells me stories

of his life. My enjoyment was not truly from the stories themselves, as they included proper nouns and


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many unknowns, but his eyes. When he told a story, his eyes would light up in a way unimaginably at

even the most mundane topics. I would rub my hand along his scratchy, unshaven beard, and watch his

eyes as he told me story after story of his life in the city.

But why, I would ask him, Do they call it the Big Apple? He would then, with a playful

smile on his face, only shrug his shoulders.

Oh, but you should see it! he would exclaim, his eyes lighting up, The lights, the riches, the

populace! Its the place where a man with nothing can become a man with everything! It was with

these stories, he had filled my head with ideals, and dreams. How I wanted to come to the city of cities

and become the man with everything. My heart yearned to see the lights of Times Square, or see a play

on Broadway. I was to become like my father one day, with a boy on his lap and stories to divulge.

Instead, I awaken suddenly and violently. The sky is cloudy, and only filtered light passes

through the clouds. In my sleep I had moved from leaning on the wall to laying on the sidewalk, using

my arm as a rest. Knowing that sleeping on the sidewalk shall only invite kicks from passing drunks, I

slide into the nearest ally, tucked between two red brick buildings. Narrow, with only a dumpster and a

dead end. Leaning against the dumpster, my scraggly jacket around my front, I head back into bliss.

My dreams bring memories of younger days, when the world was a beautiful and

compassionate place. Sitting on a couch, watching television. Eating dinner with my father and brother,

as our father gave us riddles to solve, and he would ask us in turn how our day was. The simple

treasures I had taken for granted. The sun shining through a tree. Sleeping in my own bed and having my

father tuck me in. The peace of living a simple life.

I again awaken from my slumber violently and involuntarily. I can feel the sun on my face, as it


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no pain. They throw me to the ground and strike me again and again and again. Yet I feel no pain. As

my eyes shut I dream of my childhood, and my father and my bed, and I make a final request to God

for no more unwanted awakenings.

Sanjee,

What a depressing story (in a good way, which sounds odd!) - I dont know if you meant to do this or

not, but you made me feel sorry for this fatherless, hopeless, homeless guy in New York. I like the detail

you use in your writing, and I like what you make your audience think about when they read this. The

biggest suggestion I have for you is to consider how you show the setting earlier - using words like

warzone and insurgents made me feel like your character was somebody poor in the Middle East

(or actually, I felt like it was the pauper in the movie Aladdin!), so when I figured out it was New

York, it threw me a little because I had to readjust the time and place in my head.

Nice first writing!

A, 47/50

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Dreams of a Child