Someone Else's Dream by Colin Griffiths

sexual exploit in less than twenty-four hours. Whilst Marcia was certainly addictive and her enthusiasm could not be faulted, the one he will remember most was with Hayleigh. Their moment of Farewell, when they both finally went their separate ways; the faint hopes of a reconciliation no longer hanging but fully quenched. He wondered what the consequences would be and thought he might be the one to instigate those consequences. He felt good, in fact, he felt better than he had for a long time. He thought maybe it was because he hadn’t taken his tablets and whatever was in those pills were getting out of his system, turning him into the man he was about to become. His phone beeped it told him he had a message, it was from Marcia, it read.
     
    ‘ Just to let you know I could hardly walk home, you animal... lol, the flowers look lovely. I got an idea to save any awkwardness. If you fancy a shag just text ‘dinner’ and if I do too ill reply ‘dessert’ if I fancy a shag ill text ‘dessert’ and if you want too, reply ‘dinner’. Whadya think fuck-buddy?”
     
    Matt laughed out loud he texted her back. He thought it was an excellent idea; the simplicity of it had sent his head in a whirl. ‘Dinner’.
     
    His phone beeped again. ‘Animal!’
     
    He texted back; ‘Good night fuck-buddy.’
     
    ‘Nite Nite till next time.’
     
    His eye caught the two books he had bought earlier and placed on his book shelf. He picked up the book by Carla Reid titled ‘Charlotte’s Dream’. He admired the girl from Wales. He stared at the picture of the author on the back for a while and closed his eyes to imagine her naked, lying alongside him. He opened the book to the first chapter and started reading. It was two hours later before he put the book down not quite half way through. He’d got so absorbed in it, the time just flew by. It wasn’t so much the story that captured him, but the writing style. He wondered how a two-bit author, from a rain-sodden country, could have made it so big in the world of literature. He felt there was nothing spectacular about it, yet he couldn’t put it down. Now he was struggling to keep his eyes open and as good as it was or wasn’t, whichever way he looked at it, the words were becoming jumbled as he struggled to focus. He put his book marker in the book and laid it on the table, wanting the next day to start so he could continue reading it. For some reason he wanted to get inside this author, find out what made her tick. There was something about her that had got to him; something that just didn’t fit. Reading the book was just the first stage to finding out what.
     
    It took him less than a minute to fall asleep; a real deep, satisfying sleep that he hadn’t had for a long, long, time. His first dream was of Marcia and the wild sex they’d had. In his dreams they were trying it in all positions, but what started as a passionate dream quickly changed to violence, as he began forcing her to do things she wasn’t keen on doing at all.
     
    Then he dreamt of his wife, in which the dream was intimate and passionate. There was no sexual violence in this dream, just passion and he let out a satisfying moan as he slept. His next dream was a common dream; it was of his daughter, but this dream was different. It wasn’t about him pushing her on the swing, or watching her play with her dolls; his daughter was talking to him and she was telling him to write that book that he had always wanted to. She was telling him to stop mourning for her; that the angels were looking after her; that she was pleased for Mum and now she wanted him to move on also. ‘Write that book Daddy’ was the last thing he heard her say in his dream. He would not remember that advice when he awoke in the morning.
     
    His final dream of the night was about a lady in Wales. She had written a book, but that lady was being stalked by a disgruntled fan, someone who believed she didn’t deserve the success she’d