October Dream

By Anastasiia Podhorna

About the Book
Dreams are really something special inherent in any living being. People, for example. The line is erased, leaving only thoughts and riddles related to the question: is everything seen true?
Why dreams? The minds of people in pain and internal struggle are filled with so many conflicting thoughts that they often don't know what the truth is anymore. What if even the most eerie things are true? Are they becoming more common? Those dreams are based on people's experiences, struggles, and thoughts. But who knows if they are only in our minds, maybe they have always been here…

About the Author
A novice author, Anastasiia Podhorna illustrates in her art the fine line between the worlds, the present, and the mysticism of the preternatural existence. The reality she observes is as if she were on a bridge, broadcasting on paper. In her narratives, humanity is eroded and shattered by stones, transforming into an entirely different entity. And the truth that she truly observes is given to creativity and the desire to share it with the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888125007

Book preview

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October Dream

Silence. Evening. The sky over the cemetery frowned, mourning hundreds of graves, hundreds of souls who had left their bones. The beat of large drops on the gravestones could be heard distinctly in any part of the cemetery. Near some graves, there were people in black coats with their heads bowed to the ground. There was no sun at all; it was hiding behind a thick coat of gray and, in some places, even black clouds. The day was noisy. It rarely happens that so many people are buried in one day. The feeling was as if in a crowded place when everyone was talking, and then at the moment, they calmed down. For a moment, it becomes quiet, literally for a split second. The silence is deathly, as if something had happened somewhere at the end of the corridor. At the same instant, the conversations resume and become even louder than before this fleeting pause. People turn around, paying attention to this pause, thereby feeding the fire of silence. It was the same today.

When the sky became very thick, and the rain seemed to start screaming:

Let them rest alone, let them realize their sins!

The cemetery becomes empty. There was not a single alive soul. It seemed that among the din of the rain, one could make out the speech of a young man, the quiet cry of an older woman, and the laughter of small children. Gradually, the sky dissipated, the clouds became thinner, more transparent, but all the same, not letting the sun’s rays warm the burial ground. The smell of rain inspired a melancholy mood, leaving a not entirely pleasant but at the same time unique sediment on the soul. The magic chanting of various birds was detected somewhere from the depths of the trees’ foliage and was clearly heard. After the rain, this singing was even more beautiful and melodic.

Perhaps it might have seemed that the cemetery was abandoned, but somewhere under an old, magnificent oak tree, an old man was sitting. His clothes were completely wet. His head sank to the ground. The old man was sleeping quietly under the massive foliage of a tree, under the blows of acorns falling from an oak, under the monotonous sound of rain, under the rustle of omnipotent foliage. The old man was dozing near the grave of his resting wife. In his shaking, wrinkled hands, frail with age, was a dark green bottle of red wine. The old man woke up from his dream, and in front of him, he saw a wet and slightly discolored grave. On his old, shabby clothes still had fresh bloody stains of wine were visible. For a moment, he completely forgot what he was doing here. Why had he been sitting for the fifth hour on a shabby iron bench, hiding under the shade of golden oak? Why was he drinking the third bottom again? The old man took a few more sips from his glass bottle before a voice called from behind him.

Grandpa? A  thin voice whispered.

Grandpa, are you all right? the old man did not immediately understand who started talking to him, and if to him at all. The old man wanted to turn around to see who was calling him, but he could not do it from a numb neck.

Forgive me, child. Grandpa has become very weak.

The voice laughed tenderly.

Grandpa, I’ve been watching you for a long time; you have been sleeping here for several hours, you have nowhere to go?

Oh, child, without her, my meaning is lost; both home and time are lost. Even I don’t remember how long… A heavy sigh followed. I’m sitting here.

The old man sat staring at the moss-covered grave. The granite, cold stone cracked with time and slowly, going underground, stood motionless. The pretty face of the woman, engraved on the stone, was almost impossible to make out, and only the old man saw how beautiful it was.

Oh, how beautiful she is, said the old man.

Who? Her face? t he voice asked. But it is almost invisible.

Yes, exactly, but unlike people and passersby, I remember how beautiful it is; I don’t need a picture to remember it.

A barely perceptible smile appeared on his wrinkled face. It was hard for the old man to smile, but his soul shone with the memories of her.

"My bright