Confrontation
He was here again. The place he had been to every night for two years now. Every blade of grass, every stray rock, every gust of wind. It was just as he remembered it. But those had been dreams. When one is having a dream he doesn't realize he's having a dream. But when one is living every day life and he wonders if he is not, in fact, actually in a dream, he always knows, deep down inside, that he is definitely not having a dream. Such was the case now. Much as he would like to believe he was dreaming, he knew he was not. He worked the muscles of his mind, trying, in vain to recollect the events that brought him to the field he now stood in. He decided it was a useless way to spend his time, so he instead turned his gaze up to the spot he knew so well. On the rocky hill there always stood a man at the mouth of a cave. The features of his face were always obscured in a dream-like haze. All but his devilish grin. He would always take two steps forward, his bald head reflecting brightly off the sun, his bare chest heaving mightily, as if the task of breathing was some great trouble, and at the same time, some great pleasure to him. His long trench coat would flap wildly in the wind and his smile would broaden. It was with a certain feeling of dread that these things played out once again, detail for detail, as if this was but one more dream to add to the collection. He considered simply walking away from the man, though he knew it would be no good to do so. He considered walking towards the man, but couldn't bring himself to do so, so filled with dread was he. So instead he stood, looking for all the world like a deer staring intently into the headlights of a large truck with a cargo of oranges or some other fruit. And, just as in the dream, a sword appeared from seemingly out of nowhere in the man's hand. He jumped down, his trench coat flapping like some bizarre bird behind him. He reached the bottom of the hill and ran, the grass seeming to part before him. And suddenly the two men were mere feet from each other. The man with the trench coat raised his sword, and for the first time, his eyes glinted wildly in the light. And then the sword came down, and in one clean shot the other's head was gone. The swordsman stood there for a moment. Slowly his grin started to fade as he stared intently at the body lying before him in the grass. It finally worked its way into a frown, and he dropped the sword into the grass. The grass moved all at once, as if alive, by the force of the wind, and the man blew into dust, and the dust rose upwards with the breeze, and spread it all over the field.