Bermuda Dreams

by Travis Godbold


Tom dreams of Bermuda.

Tom dreamt of golden triangles. They flew at him in shiny arrays, lighthouse beacons at their tips, framing views of opal colored seas below. He fell through the portals, spotting a silvery speck shoot across combers, and as he flew on, the glittery orb grew more recognizable, becoming a set of spread out wings against the white tube body of a passenger airliner. Suddenly he found himself inside this aircraft, idly lounging in a recliner to the left of the cabin's aisle way, a view of the cockpit in front of him breathing wide in his peripheral and then with a full gaze shrinking to a small indiscernible chamber. In his dreams these faraway areas had always been like invisible lungs, retracting to remind him of their non reality, then expanding only when they became a focal point of importance.

Above the aisleway, a digital sign, spelt out an enigma in red letters: Bermuda. The invisible lungs breathed in the title, bubbling it out to show the profundity in all its clarity, yet the announcement did not sail forth with blissful accord, rather, it flung a heavy anchor of worries into Tom's thoughts. Bermuda, a familiar haunt, a crescent island of rocks nestled amongst vast oceans of nothingness, boasted cliffs and hills of false sanctuary from troubles.

He cringed at expensive mistakes made in his last trip, with its frequent digs into his wallet to pay for drinks in Hamilton. The pubs on Somers Island, a stony octopus, clung to rich blood, sucking them dry for a living wage, but at the eye of the Bermudian hook, on a sister island, Saint George's, a respite came atop the dreadful tentacles with cheaper escapes. Even the eastern islands decor contrasted with the commercial obliquity of downtown Hamilton and its highrise patchwork of metropolitan madness skirting waterfronts crammed with yachts and angler boats, for in Saint George's, colonial modesty mingled with present trends. The old town's ancient dwellings and shops, limbs of an elderly mariner, wore vibrant vestments of pink and yellow pastels, like kisses of candy below hats of pyramidal limestone, and their joyful mascaras, hiding wrinkles suffered by natural afflictions, gave welcome even to pennypinchers. In this town, residents stood on friendlier terms, ready to house, and openly share their love of paradise with strangers.

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