Ben was a spy.  And when needed, an assasin.  

Usually he slept effortlessly, his sleep not even being
disturbed by dreams....

Tossing in his sleep, Ben dreamed.....

The Spy


Once there was a spy.

The spy spied for kings and presidents, for rulers both
good and evil.  To the spy, spy-ing was spy-ing.


The spy was very good at being a spy.  Gathering information,
watching people, reporting back.  Sometimes killing someone.

That is what spies do. 

What they are supposed to do.

One time the spy was assigned to kill an old poet.  It had
been determined that the poet (that most people had not 
even heard of) was a danger to the state.

For any ordinary person, it would be easy to simply take
out a gun and kill the poet.  But, as was mentioned before,
the syp was very good at being a spy.

In once case, the spy simply poisoned the snuff of a person.
That person took snuff. It was an "elegant" solution to the
problem.  In another case, disguised as a janitor, the spy
had applied just a little too much wax to the top of a stair
case, gravity had done the rest.

In this case, the old poet lived in a small apartment.  The
spy (disguised as a maintenance person), waited until the 
poet left for the grocery store. 

The spy opened the locked door with ease.  That is what
spies are especially good at.  Inside the apartment were
papers and such stacked everywhere.  Near an old record
player, records were stacked, leaning against the cabinet.

Books stacked and half-falling out of bookcases.  Books
on philosophy, art, music, and even one entitled "Soviet
Science".  The spy thought that it was no wonder the poet
was considered dangerous.

The spy went into the bedroom.  It was no different.
Next to a matress on the floor were sloshes of papers
and books.  

The bed, supposed the spy.  Just a matress on the floor,
covered with comforters and a couple of sheets.  

At the end of the bed, in the middle of the room was a
large wooden table.  On the end, facing the bed, was an
antiquated television set.  On the other end of the table
was a computer, its printer, and a chair.

The computer, thought the spy.  Just the thing to short out,
and electrocute the poet.  

The wire-ing in these old apartments was always old and 
dangerous.

The spy moved toward the computer, and noticed a sheaf of
papers.  On the top was a single-page story.  

The spy checked the time.  Plenty of time.  

The spy read the story.

It was called, "The Dream Maker".

As the spy finished reading the story, tears gently ran
down the spy's face.  

Place-ing the paper back, the spy carefully closed and
locked the door to the apartment.

The spy went home, packed a few things and headed to
the space port, never to return to Earth again.

The End.


Startled from the dream and sweating, Ben woke up.  He
was shake-ing.  

Such a dream.  

What did it mean?

Only half aware of what he was doing, he went to the closet
to see if there was some sort of mechanism in clothes 
closet.  

He searched.  

Maybe the dream meant that there was bomb in his own apartment.

A dream maker.


He did not sleep well that night.

But.

At least there were no more dreams.

Like that one.



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