On The Wings Of A Dream

Song Title Fiction Challenge: John Denver

I step outside of the apartment and immediately feel the warm rays of sunshine on my shoulders. It’s been over 10 years since I last took a vacation. I put a lot of thought in planning for this one, but it’s safe to say that I am over-prepared in the best way possible.

I try to brush off the guilt I feel for saying “no” to a bunch of things that drain me. I tried to use my secret project as a means of justifying this trip — as in, I would be actually working on something and not just laying around by the poolside or drinking margaritas with strangers (plus, I’ve never been the type to do that anyway), but I should get over the need to justify myself to people that dismiss my dreams as idle daydreams.

But enough of worrying. I’ve carefully planned these days off for years. Now is the time to prove that with killer rhymes and reasons to live for art’s sake, I can be more than anyone could expect I could ever be. Even when I fall short of every nearly impossible ideal in my mind and in the eyes of others, nobody can take my dreams from me.

I decide to fill up on gas and stop by Starbucks.

“Good morning, what can I get started for you?”

“Just two shots of espresso please,” I reply.

After fueling myself with enough caffeine, I take an exit and I am now on the road. I’ll be heading a little further north, for nothing is as crisp as wild Montana skies.

I start singing “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” at the top of my lungs. I probably look crazy to people driving, but I don’t care. Highway driving is pure exhilaration, a journey in looking for space, where I get to ponder for hours how I want to live.

I pull up to a street with rows of cabins, and there is gravel on the ground. It amazes me how much my spirit has lifted already, and I begin taking my stuff out of the car, which wasn’t much — just one suitcase, one backpack, and a guitar.

Now, this old guitar may not seem like much, but it is dear to me, for it is a source of comfort and a vessel that carries all of my memories.

The cabin is quite small, but the space is sufficient enough for me. The amenities have been provided and I know this is going to be the best vacation I’ve ever had for two reasons alone — it is the first time I’ve traveled without my family and I am here to work on something I’ve been postponing for too long.

I immediately set up my gear on the wooden desk in the bedroom. I place my journal full of meticulous notes, drafts, rewrites, and scatterbrained thoughts next to my laptop.

But I have to admit that I am a bit tired and hungry. I’m notorious for being the coworker who forgets to eat. I was so eager to hit the road that I didn’t even have breakfast this morning.

After looking up a few local spots with 5-star reviews, I decide to have dinner at Calypso’s.

“Welcome to Calypso’s! My name is Amy and I’ll be your server tonight. What would you like to drink?”

“Um… I would like strawberry lemonade.”

“Perfect, I’ll get that right out for ya. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

I peruse the menu and opt for baked salmon, garden salad with homegrown tomatoes, roasted Brussels sprouts, and glazed carrots.

I scroll through my phone as I wait, but when I look up, I see a strikingly familiar face.

Oh my gosh… is that… Dallas? I nearly spit out my lemonade.

I don’t think he’s noticed me yet, but in that moment, I wish I wore something else other than leggings and a t-shirt.

I haven’t seen Dallas for the past 12 years and out of all places I could’ve seen him again, I’d never in a million years expect it to be here.

We weren’t exactly friends. We weren’t enemies. We were definitely more than just acquaintances. Hell, I am not even sure what we were, but a part of me was always convinced that he was into me. We had English and music together, conversed a few times, and even worked on a few group projects, but we never got too close. He was a loner just like me and maybe he wanted to stay that way for a while.

I kind of hope that he sees me. I kind of hope that he doesn’t. As usual, I am the epitome of indecision for both significant and insignificant things.

At that moment, he meets my gaze and our eyes lock.

To my dismay, he walks over to my table and slides into the chair across from me.

Oh shit. I begin to panic. Stay calm and act cool. Okay, maybe not cool. Just don’t be weird.

“Hey Sierra.”

“Uh, hey. Dallas. Nice to see you again. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah. So what brings you here?” he asks casually.

I don’t know how to politely ask him to go back to his table and a part of me doesn’t want to if I’m being totally honest with myself. The waitress arrives.

“Oh, are you two together?” she raises an eyebrow.

“No” was at the tip of my tongue, but Dallas interjects, “Well yeah, actually.”

She gives me a knowing wink. “Of course! No problem at all. Your food will be out in just a moment!”

I chuckle nervously. “So… uh. It’s kinda a secret. I’m just here to work on something. I don’t mean it’s a work trip. Just a project for myself. Something I’ve been putting off for a long time.”

“Cool. Is it a novel?”

I blush. “No. I actually changed directions. I mean, the novel is still on the table, but it’s not really the most important thing to me right now. Well… what I mean to say is that it is important but not as important as this one thing.”

“So what is the most important thing?”

“Music,” I say rather reluctantly, not because I am reluctant about music itself but because I am reluctant to share so much of myself to anyone about my plans these days. My father and my peers were quick to insinuate that I was going to fail no matter what I did because I lacked certain external things that often helped other people get ahead.

“That’s amazing, I look forward to hearing it. I figured that you’d do something great like that. I could tell from the way you did writing projects and music projects in school that you had genuine talent.” Judging from his tone, he means it and in that moment, I felt more seen than I’d ever felt in years. I was not just another forgettable wannabe writer, at least in his eyes and that meant something, no matter how insignificant it may be.

“Thank you.”

The waitress brings our food and as we eat, I learn that Dallas is out here helping to clean up his deceased grandparents’ house and doing a little soul-searching. I don’t blame him, since this seems like the perfect place to do that.

After dinner, we end up together on the front porch of the cabin I’m staying at. We start talking some more. About our lives after graduation. About the music we are inspired by. About random things we want to do before we die — you know, the deep and whimsical stuff.

There’s an easiness about him that I’ve never felt with anyone else.

“I’m sorry you didn’t grow up with much support and that you feel alone with this. And I regret not getting to know you sooner.”

“It means a lot coming from you. I’m just afraid that my time is short and I won’t get to do all the things I want to do. I get too caught up in comparison and feeling like I’m never going to be good enough, not just because of my family but because I get reminders of it everywhere. Many days I feel like the battle is over, there’s so much out there that convinces me that it is.”

“You say that the battle is over, but it’s not. I believe in you, I really do think you’ll make music in a way that nobody has ever made.”

“Thank you. I mean, I’m always reaching for higher ground, even when it is difficult to believe in myself.”

“How high are we talking?”

“Rocky Mountain high,” I say with a smile, knowing he’d get the reference.

“I knew you were going to say that,” he chuckles. “Always on the wings of a dream, like the eagle and the hawk, ready to fly away.”

“When I look back on my life, I’d like to say, with perfect peace, that I was like the flower that shattered the stone,” I say.

“That’s quite a beautiful thing to live by.”

After a few hours of chatting, we decide to call it a night.

“It was nice seeing ya. We should meet up somewhere around here tomorrow. Maybe come to my place and watch a movie.”

“Yes, we should,” I say without thinking twice.

“What movie do you want to watch?”

The very first movie I think of is Whisper of the Heart because in many ways, it parallels my life, even now as an adult. But I mull over other options.

“How about Whisper of the Heart?” he suggests.

“Oh my gosh, yes. I was actually thinking the same thing!”

“Great minds think alike,” he says, grinning. “You know, Shizuku kind of reminds me of you.”

I’m sure he has no idea how floored I am by his comment.

After saying goodnight, he drives off down the road and I feel my heart flutter. I am not so used to feeling a flood of good emotions and I’ve learned never to expect them.

In retrospect, back then I somehow sensed there was never a doubt that I’d find Dallas again. I just didn’t expect it to end up like this. In fact, expected it to take decades and that it’d just be a short chance encounter, like passing by him through a random aisle of a grocery store or something, but nothing more.

I go back into the cabin and one question lingers in my mind — should I bet on the blues or the wings that fly us home?

My soul knows the answer, but my mind is harder to convince. There is no easy answer either way.

I would need a lot of poems, prayers, and promises to get me through. Poems to turn into songs. Prayers to help this faithless and cynical heart. And difficult promises to keep to myself.

The next morning, I take a little stroll to clear my head.

I pass by a pond of ripplin’ waters. The sight is so beautiful under the morning light that I walk around and around again.

After my morning walk, I decide to sit down and look over the lyrics I have written so far and listen to previous recordings.

The sinking weight of dissatisfaction hits me again and there is no reasoning with it.

Am I a good artist in my own right? Or do I need to be validated by the crowd to call myself that?

Who the hell am I to think that I had any inkling of pulling this off? Whatever this is?

Even if you are actually good, you don’t have what it takes to be recognizable. You don’t have any charisma. Who would be convinced that you are more than you seem?

Hey, maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Just get it done and move onto the next thing. You can improve as you go. It doesn’t have to be excellent right now.

I know that nothing can satisfy me unless I achieve my near impossible artistic standards, which honestly differ quite a lot from what the market deems as valuable — and that is whole other beast to tackle.

But why should let that stall my progress? Why should I let that stifle me and keep me in perpetual fear of people who shit all over my dreams and let them reside forever in the grave?

You aren’t just making music. The music is you. There is a fire in you that will never die out. You weren’t made to die out. You weren’t molded this way just to remain average your whole life.You were born to eclipse everyone who has ever doubted you and put them to shame for ever making you feel like nothing. With ancient rhymes by your side and a voice that is tenderly calling you from within, from the deepest place in your soul, why should you subject yourself to self-blame any longer? Why should you worry about the voices that hold you down when you could be thundering like eagles and horses in your own beautiful way?

I put my pen down and understand deep down, that I couldn’t force anything, otherwise, the more damage I’d do. Personal excellence on my own terms may be within reach, but anything else outside of that shouldn’t matter.

Still, I can’t help but mull over the critics’ words. They say that artists who do their own thing are selfish, and to a certain extent, they are right. But I want to prove that the most selfish thing that anyone can do is to deliberately cheapen and twist what is sacred for fifteen seconds of attention, with vain hopes of virality.

It continues to be something I need to work my way around.

Later that day, I meet up with Dallas at his grandparents’ house.

“Hey Sierra. I have a few things I want to give to you.”

He hands me wild flowers in a mason jar. They are a handful of blue and purple flowers.

“These are so lovely, thank you!”

“I also have this. It’s a postcard from Paris. I thought the artwork looked neat, but I had nobody to send this to. I guess in hindsight, I was waiting for the perfect person to give it to.” He gives me a sly wink.

I laugh, unsure how to respond to that.

He continues, “And the third item is a painting I did two years ago. I found it in my grandparents’ basement, as it was a gift to them, but I thought you might like this. I’m trying to sort through their things, hoping to figure out what to do with each item.”

For some people, this might be a strange and random gift. But for me? I appreciate it and find it to be quite thoughtful.

“Wow, this is absolutely stunning.”

“It’s a painting of Stonehaven sunset. I’ve never actually been to Stonehaven myself, but a friend shared a photo of it and I wanted to practice my painting skills and he was impressed with the way it turned out.”

Dallas briefly gives a tour of the home and I’m low-key jealous that he gets to be here all summer.

“I quit my job a month ago and I’m still trying to figure out what to do next. I want to go into teaching, but first, I have family affairs to settle.”

He shows me a garden and I ask, “Whose garden was this?”

“My grandmother’s.”

It is full of flowers that I cannot name, but nonetheless, it is beautiful just the same.

“So what about your dad? Why are you the one out here trying to fix up things yourself?”

He shrugs, “He has no interest in this property, so I guess it’s up to me to decide what to do with it. I guess he’d rather be in Colorado. He was leaving on a jet plane the last time I contacted him.”

We spend the entire afternoon on the lake. And I truly believe it is a place of singing skies and dancing waters. I look afar off to the wild country and wonder what it would like to be out there for a while.

We watch Whisper of the Heart later that night and halfway through the movie, Dallas puts his arm around my shoulder and whispers, “I am so glad I met you here.”

And the tenderness in his voice reminds me of the time he subtly complimented me in school, back when we were too shy to open our hearts.

But I also feel sad. I would have to go back home. To a job that I don’t hate enough to quit but will never replace music in my heart. Back to the cubicle and I’d have to leave this all behind me.

How would I be able to tell him that I want more? More of him, more of this paradise where time slows down and I can finally breathe and pursue more of what fills me up again? More of the zest for life that frees certain individuals from being prisoners to their own minds?

I feel like a raven’s child, unsure of which direction to fly. Unsure if I will ever be able to fly. A young heart with potential, but nothing more.

A week flies by and I am nearly done with the album. Recording, lyrics, even the cover art.

It may be a simple acoustic album, but all I care about is writing decent songs and getting over my procrastination. I can always do more later. Going through the whole process of experimentation will teach me more than theorizing and taking forever to be perfect.

And a few songs brought tears to Dallas’ eyes.

On the last night before I have to go, we slow dance in the kitchen to “Annie’s Song.” We decide to sleep under the stars that night.

Tomorrow I will be back home again. I feel conflicted. On one hand, I know that my old routine is good for me. Being realistic is a virtue — and one that I can rely on. But on the other hand, how long do I feel like I need to keep waiting and running on the hamster wheel in order to make the leap towards something better?

And can any place on earth replace the true feeling of home, the way I feel right here?

The next morning, it’s really starting to hit me that the best vacation of my life is coming to an end.

I am full of uncertainty. Would I be willing to uproot my life and settle down out here, where life is a windsong and everything is a glimpse of eternal things? Or must I stay in a life that everyone expects of me — to climb up the ladder in the corporate world, live in a crowded place that’s close to everything even if I don’t want to be near everything, and continue to push aside my real dream for the sake of looking busy at the correct things?

How can I leave Dallas? How can I leave everything that makes me whole? And how can I leave the dream that has kept me going all these years even when it wasn’t tangible enough, even when it was like a sad song in the making — a void for forlorn dreamers who are too afraid to fly on the wings of a dream?

I look into the mirror and in my eyes, the question remains — how can I leave you again?

The truth is, I can’t. Not this time.

Author’s note: I wove 52 John Denver song titles into the story. I did not think I could pull that off. I’ve included a playlist below with the song titles in the order in which they appear.

I hope you are inspired to participate in this challenge.

I first heard about this challenge through this article by Pierce McIntyre (I didn’t participate in it last year since I didn’t know about it):

If you are looking for another fictional story with song titles, please read this one by Paul Combs: