He never was able to reach the mustard baked hills at the edge of town. A sweet perfume of pinesap and leather blazed through the valley and refreshed the overwhelming scent of horse apples and pungent backbreaking labor.

Parr sat on his well made oak swinging chair hanging above the sturdy porch and watched the white clouds from Kansas to Nebraska, slowly afloat like smoke signals in an otherwise aqua blue sky. Below the porch on the dusty road, a constant stream of horses and carriages appeared and then dispersed in his field of vision.

"Hunger," he thought as his hands attempted to adjust the buckles on his simple, yet tough clothing.

A rattle, shook the handle of the front door and then it opened. Two men, dressed in white servant uniforms, stepped onto the porch with a resounding pattering of feet. One man carried a tray topped with fine china, while the other hugged a flaccid pillow against his left side. Their fancy western cut tuxedos, complete with bow ties, had no place compared with the average traffic of the main thoroughfare.

"Damn it all to hell," Parr uttered in a gruff voice, "I told you I would be dining out tonight."

"Excuse me Mr. Parr sir," the man with the pillow said. "But Mayor Cleaves insists you accept this kind table."

"Yes sir," the servant holding the tray remarked in support. "I remember the Mayor clearly stating that tonight you were to be rewarded with a fine meal for your outstanding service to the community."

"Fine," grumbled Parr, "What's on the menu?"

Parr awoke on the swinging chair with a throbbing back and the fire next to him in the pit was just a low carpet of gray coals. The stars above shined like tiny white jeweled pinpricks of light pulsating and sparkling in a rhythmic dance. The town was asleep and the usual late summer scorched hills, now eerie black shapes, towered over life itself.

A canteen stood cool and damp along side the swing, and Parr picked it up and began to drink. Like ice over a glacial lake, the cool water ran down his throat and then he sighed. He continued to hold the canteen to his lips for some reason, trying gulp the small droplets that were left. "How long have I lived in this town," he thought. "Twenty, twenty five, thirty years?"

"I can't ride anymore because of my back. No one will come to visit, because they say I am out of touch with life. The money is to blame."

Parr slowly replaced the canteen near the swing and fixed his gaze on the dying fire. "Someday, even if I have to crawl all the way, he thought. "I will reach those hills and roll around and taste the sweet grass and pine on my nose and feel again."

A tear of frustration rolled down his cheek. Whether it was from a burning feeling of self pity or simple nostalgia, the time was not right for an answer. He painstakingly got up from the swing , slowly laid his head on the cold pillow, and slept.

That night he dreamed, dreamed as he always did of strange and far away people and places. Colorful and loud machines, whipping by at fast speeds in some sort of order and grand plan, of which he could not begin to comprehend. High in the heavens, the pencil thin metal like condors, thundering overhead and then fading away with a whimper, too fast, gone in seconds. Somehow he knew that there were men on the inside of the metal, masters of the world and thus life itself. The excitement of the noise and acceleration followed up by the quick silence, pulsating in his blood. If he only did not dream of her and the child.

They were always together, a family of three, near the great and flowing river, laughing, talking, and content in what seemed like and endless time of reflection and joy. He never understood a word of the conversation for everything moved at lightning quick speed. However, for a brief period the eyes of the small boy breached his soul, as the child concentrated on catching the baseball. Everything seemed so real.

Parr awoke lazily and confused to the light tapping of one of the servants on the door, as dawn repainted the hills. He asked the same question to the servant he always asked every morning as the pain of awakening and state of old age festered. "Robinson," his voice crackled as he spoke just above a whisper.

The servant walked towards the porch swing. "You do remember her, my wife that is?"

"Yes, Mr. Parr sir, your wife was a wonderful woman." The color of Robinson's cut suit seemed to blended hazily with his light, but tanned skin.

"And she bore me no children?"

"Correct sir," Robinson said, as he concentrated on breaking two vials over Parr's water glass "Your son was lost during the birth."

"Thank you," Parr said with a sigh and picked up the water to take a drink. The daily ritual was complete and after finishing the glass, the dreams and reality of the night no longer demons in his mind and soul. He was now ready to face the day on his own terms.

However, Parr always remained tempted to tell Robinson about the the world of fantasy he experienced. Even the majestic vials could not quench his need to simply ask the opinion of another human, to cry out and most importantly understand, and at the same time be understood. For some strange reason, he was never able utter a single word regarding the visions, as another part of his mind told him that he should not risk anymore alienation from his fellow man. Especially his trusted servants.

The morning breeze carried dust like a screen of smoke across the town all the way to the hills. Parr ate his fried trout in silence and indifference.

Ten years passed. The servants no longer took the liberty to knock before they walked on the porch and they helped Parr complete the most basic of daily tasks. All the correct buckles clicked in a rhythmic unison, close to his weather beaten skin and be was reborn the same man each day. He possessed fine clothes, a useful porch and an unknown amount of wealth.

The town had grown considerably thanks to the fortunes of precious metal mining, which provided jobs, food and hope. And then there were the hills, now virgin in Spring, green and soft peppermint pleasing. Mankind could never master their height or presence.

A soft and pleasant rain fell, keeping the dust at bay at least for a little while, and the old man thought of his dreams, his reality, and the now unfamiliar interior of the house attached to the porch.

For fifty years he had not set foot inside the mansion, nor cared to. Neither could he recall the maze of rooms or why for most of his younger years he spent caring, plotting, and bleeding from the nails for the thrill of power. The antiques, the polite conversation, nothing in comparison to the basics and importance of life he now understood. "The hills will never die," he thought.

"Oh yes, there will be great men born and great men exiting to make this a better world, but they will always be consumed by the daunting task of maintaining the progression of mankind to an unknown destiny which may never be reached. They can never outlast the pure simplicity and presence of one of nature's most grand creations."

Parr breathed deeply as the townspeople moved and worked on the road below, the horses and carriages moving slowly on the dampening surface. The old man fell asleep with a pollen fragrant wind invading and soothing his mind.

Later that day, a light suddenly went on in one of the great windows facing out towards the porch, as Parr continued to dream. A boy of five and a girl of seven, gazed out of the beautifully formed glass and onto the front porch.

Funny how the two children were dressed, the boy wearing a tee-shirt and blue jeans and the girl sporting a "Harvard" sweatshirt and shorts. Robinson had sounded no alarm to the visit of these youngsters, so Parr remained in a deep state of rest.

The children did not see a porch at all, nor a town or the hills in the distance. What appeared before them were the soft walls of a small white room. An old man lay in a simple bed near the right side of the square enclosure, bound to the stiff bed by a single strap and looked back at them with eyes barely open in a soft gaze.

"Kids," said a voice as a middle aged man came into view behind the children, towering over the two figures.

"Meet my old friend, John Hazelton."

The children were completely silent as they pressed there faces up to the thick glass.

They never forgot that day. Visiting the mental hospital with their father, and finding out how a simple and seemingly peaceful old man could only truly exist in one world, his world. Doctor Robinson and his colleague were there to answer any of the questions.

A smile slowly crept onto the old man's face as the children and their father slowly left the porch window and made the long walk down the hallway to sunlight and the everyday world. He laughed in his sleep when the outside air from the hills breathed fresh, freedom and real on the two youngsters and the man. Tears from the laughter gradually formed and completed their lifecycle under his chin as two worlds colided.

Gradually, the shape of the tall man leading the children out the door began to change. "No," screamed the old man thoughts. "Please don't take me there."

Shrinking, flashing and brilliant, every atom was reshaped with ultimate care and power and fear filled the air. After a few blinding moments the transformation was complete and his mind enjoyed a brief respite of silent bliss.

Standing in the doorway was not a grown man and father of two, but a very familiar small boy armed with a baseball cap and glove.

For an instant their eyes met and a clairvoyance pervaded in the world as calibrated and balanced as it should be for both on innumerable levels. A surge of understanding and pride coursed through his mind as he successfully constructed the concept of his son and his two grandchildren. He winked at the boy-now turned man through the glass and struggled to wave good-bye, as the shadows from the summer trees danced against the wall of the room. The last thing he saw was the man mouthing the words, "I love you" as Doctor Robinson frantically called his name through the intercom.

The old man awoke in the morning exhausted from the emotions of the dreams and from the tears of the night. For the first time since living in the small town he stood up from the porch swing, stepped down onto the muddy street and slowly walked through the town towards the mist covered hills.