My Little Flower: Part Four.

by | Mar 1, 2024 | Uncategorized | 2 comments

The stricken corpse of Notre Dame towered above them

That night, Steve had a vivid dream. His newly discovered siren was the star turn. Her presence didn’t fade following their second encounter, in fact it brightened in his slumber.

They were holding hands and walking along the busy footpath of the Left Bank in Paris. The stricken corpse of Notre Dame towered above them, a testament to French genius both in its initial construction and current restoration.

“It’s so sad, Habibi, the fire and everything. Do you think it will ever be the same?” Her voice carried genuine emotion of the most heartbreaking kind.

“Indeed, Habibti. Sad is the right word. However, I’m sure Paris will restore it to its former glory. You never know, it may be better,” Steve replied. As the words left his mouth, she turned to him. In the full gaze of the swollen crowd she took his other hand and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

“You always know the right thing to say. That’s why I love you,” she whispered in his ear.

An Italian tour guide had his entourage eating out of his hands as he delivered a non stop monologue concerning this construction of extremes. The young man’s voice faded along with Steve’s muse and the view of the giant cathedral – he woke up.

He was immediately shrouded in the darkest form of loneliness. It had all been a dream. The café, the station and now Paris! His throat burned and his eyes pricked as tears flowed freely onto the duvet. He managed to clear the tears away in order to find his bag. Through the blurred lenses of sleep and loss, his words focussed into view. Those words which confirmed that at least yesterday wasn’t a dream. Then he recalled the names they’d exchanged in the dream. Arabic for darling. Could he really get her to love him, using his new found gift? Was that even ethical? His rational mind came out of casualty and poured cold water on such thoughts. “Surely that wouldn’t be appropriate. Shame on you for even thinking about it!” Seve picked up the book again.

He read the ink off the page, while eating breakfast, promptly delivered by room service. Every word was now branded into his brain. He selected the clothes for his date with destiny. 

Cream Levi Chinos, his favourite pair, were his first choice. Everything else would take their lead from that. A white cotton collarless shirt under a cotton jumper the colour of his eyes, cobalt blue, followed along with brown leather Dune boots. Steve carefully arranged everything on the bed and took a long shower. He trimmed his stubble to a close number two guard. Dressed and groomed to the best of his ability, he was still punching well over his weight with this precious jewel of the desert. He took one last look in the mirror, shrugged his shoulders and grabbed the all important bag. As he crossed reception the young man at the counter called to him.

“Your post has arrived sir, and a parcel.” He placed his bag on the floor and collected the letters and package.

“Could you put them in my room please? I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He handed the mail back to the boy and recovered his bag 

It was a short stroll to the Niko Staow Cafe, the venue of yesterday’s fateful encounter and the location for the next. He managed to occupy the very same place too. Steve picked up his bag. It was open. He could have sworn he hadn’t left it anywhere. Then a recollection sent a current of electricity between his shoulder blades to the back of his head. It was empty and he had left it unattended. For several seconds, he’d placed it on the floor of the hotel foyer as he checked his post. The only items in the bag had been the book, pen and a bottle of black ink.

Only the ink remained in the top zipped pocket. His mind raced back and forth over the short journey like a shuttle on a loom. His mouth dried out as even his salivary glands stopped working. He couldn’t swallow, his throat clicking in protest. The twenty four hour deadline came and went. She didn’t show. Did he have to record it for it to happen? What with? Someone had stolen his book, their future! Without it, her promise was empty.


  1. Kenneth Childs

    Dreams are strange. I once read that they are getting closer developing technology to record them and we would be able to play them back on screen with sounds. Not sure if that would be a good or bad thing.

    • brian

      I’m writing another novel called Hypnagogia. You’re right. It’s a strange phenomenon.


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Receive an email notification for new posts