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Southern Star, v. 1, issue 1, 1941
Page 17
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DREAMS COME TRUE by Harry Jenkins, Jr. - South Carolina - - Fiction - As Joker Jackson gazed into the merrily blazing and crackling fire, his thoughts wandered astray. Nervously, he shifted his gaze from the fire to the picture of General Lee above the fireplace, out instead of the kind, gentle face of the old gentlemen, IT was there. It wouod stay with him forever; never would that face escape him. He tried, as he had so many times before, to turn his thoughts into other channels, but other thoughts mockingly evaded him, and there remained only the picture of that weazened old hag. How anything could penetrate his sodden mind, he knew not. Yes, he was drunk, dammit! But not even the taste of whiskey could wipe away the witch's words. The wind howled its mournful song of death, and a loosened shutter joined in the deathly dedication by banging noisely up against the house. With an unsteady hand he reached for the almost empty bottle on the table beside him. Suddenly everything became hazy and misty, but the cloudiness that shrouded his mind and eyes disappeared as suddenly as it came. There, there IT was again! Leering at him from the shining neck of the bottle. Gloat over him, would she! Savagely against the stone fireplace. Again, this time from the orange flames, she smiled at him in a triumphant manner, and said with a ghost-like monotonous tone, "Remember your dreams, Joker, remember your dreams, they will always come true!" The worried Joker ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, and leaned back against the chair, breaking into a halting, fanatical laugh. Dreams, yes. Hah -- hah -- hah! Hell, yes, his dreams had come true -- too true. Just as the old gypsy fortune-teller had prophesied. She had said that all his dreams would come true, and damn her lousy hide, they had come true. He had dreamed of the big market crash, and two days later it came. Fool that he was, he had not paid any attention to the old woman's prophesy, and had lost fifty million dollars. That on dream had almost broke him. Lord, what would come next! Staffering and threatening with every step to collapse, he fought his way toward the last bottles of salvation. An inner rebellion was going on inside him, as evidenced by his facial contortions. He conquered the urging to turn and flee wildly into the blackness of the night, screaming to high heavens to protect him. At last he stumbled to the table, reached inside and withdrew a bottle of Scotch. He fumbled with the cap for a few minutes and then in a fit of anger broke the neck off the bottle against the table. The glancing firelight showed his sleepless, bloodshot eyes and haggard face as he turned the bottle upside down, and swallowed thirstily from it. Momentarily relief came to him, and he sighed and swayed gently , as the weeping willow does on a windy night. Then the moon coming over the distant hills spoiled all this by forming a hideous shape on the neighboring wall. Furious, he threw bottle after bottle at the wall until there was nothing more to throw. Exhausted by his bottle-smashing, he yielded to the exhaustation, and slowly crumpled to the floor, overcome by sleep.
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DREAMS COME TRUE by Harry Jenkins, Jr. - South Carolina - - Fiction - As Joker Jackson gazed into the merrily blazing and crackling fire, his thoughts wandered astray. Nervously, he shifted his gaze from the fire to the picture of General Lee above the fireplace, out instead of the kind, gentle face of the old gentlemen, IT was there. It wouod stay with him forever; never would that face escape him. He tried, as he had so many times before, to turn his thoughts into other channels, but other thoughts mockingly evaded him, and there remained only the picture of that weazened old hag. How anything could penetrate his sodden mind, he knew not. Yes, he was drunk, dammit! But not even the taste of whiskey could wipe away the witch's words. The wind howled its mournful song of death, and a loosened shutter joined in the deathly dedication by banging noisely up against the house. With an unsteady hand he reached for the almost empty bottle on the table beside him. Suddenly everything became hazy and misty, but the cloudiness that shrouded his mind and eyes disappeared as suddenly as it came. There, there IT was again! Leering at him from the shining neck of the bottle. Gloat over him, would she! Savagely against the stone fireplace. Again, this time from the orange flames, she smiled at him in a triumphant manner, and said with a ghost-like monotonous tone, "Remember your dreams, Joker, remember your dreams, they will always come true!" The worried Joker ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, and leaned back against the chair, breaking into a halting, fanatical laugh. Dreams, yes. Hah -- hah -- hah! Hell, yes, his dreams had come true -- too true. Just as the old gypsy fortune-teller had prophesied. She had said that all his dreams would come true, and damn her lousy hide, they had come true. He had dreamed of the big market crash, and two days later it came. Fool that he was, he had not paid any attention to the old woman's prophesy, and had lost fifty million dollars. That on dream had almost broke him. Lord, what would come next! Staffering and threatening with every step to collapse, he fought his way toward the last bottles of salvation. An inner rebellion was going on inside him, as evidenced by his facial contortions. He conquered the urging to turn and flee wildly into the blackness of the night, screaming to high heavens to protect him. At last he stumbled to the table, reached inside and withdrew a bottle of Scotch. He fumbled with the cap for a few minutes and then in a fit of anger broke the neck off the bottle against the table. The glancing firelight showed his sleepless, bloodshot eyes and haggard face as he turned the bottle upside down, and swallowed thirstily from it. Momentarily relief came to him, and he sighed and swayed gently , as the weeping willow does on a windy night. Then the moon coming over the distant hills spoiled all this by forming a hideous shape on the neighboring wall. Furious, he threw bottle after bottle at the wall until there was nothing more to throw. Exhausted by his bottle-smashing, he yielded to the exhaustation, and slowly crumpled to the floor, overcome by sleep.
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