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"The Dream in the Delta 88" is a psychologically rich, symbol-laden narrative that fuses elements of memory, identity, and generational legacy with surreal horror. At its core, the story explores the fragility of time and the subconscious weight of familial and personal commitment. Through a dream sequence that blurs the boundary between reality and memory, the narrator confronts an existential fear: the withering of meaningful human connection and the decay of self-embedded in symbols of continuity—marriage, parenthood, and tradition.

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"The Dream in the Delta 88"

By Harry Arabian

It was a warm Sunday afternoon when I decided to take my wife and elderly parents for a ride to the mall. I’d recently polished up my classic 1963 blue Oldsmobile Delta 88, and the idea of cruising through familiar streets in that rumbling beast brought a certain joy that only nostalgia can provide.

The four of us piled in, our laughter echoing through the cabin as we rolled down the windows and let the breeze carry in the scent of spring. My wife sat beside me, smiling, while my parents, seated comfortably in the back, commented on how cars used to be made with real metal and soul.

We pulled into the mall parking lot, and as I shifted into park, I noticed something odd—my left ring finger felt… off. I glanced down and froze.

It had shrunk. Wilted, almost. The skin looked pale and crumpled, like it had aged a hundred years in an instant.

“What the hell?” I muttered, holding it up in the sunlight. My heart began to race. I looked at my right hand—and there it was again. My right ring finger mirrored the same eerie transformation. My breath caught in my throat.

These were the fingers that held my vows. That slid on rings and cradled my daughter’s tiny hand when she was born. That waved goodbye too many times to count. And now—shriveling. As if the weight of all those years had caught up to them, all at once.

Panic flooded in. I jumped out of the car and stumbled back, eyes wide, holding up both hands like they were cursed.

“Look at my hands!” I yelled. “What’s happening to me?!”

My wife rushed to my side, alarmed. My parents stepped out of the car slowly, confused but concerned. I kept staring at my fingers, unable to process what was happening—two fingers, symbols of commitment and connection, now grotesquely withered. Had I been cursed? Was the Oldsmobile haunted? Was this some kind of sign?

Then, the radio crackled to life—though I hadn’t turned it on.

A voice—faint and garbled—whispered something unintelligible, like a memory trying to crawl out of a dream. My parents froze. My wife stepped closer to the car, eyes narrowing, as if she heard it too. And the engine... it was still running. But I’d turned off the ignition.

The dials spun. The speedometer needle twitched. The air in the parking lot thickened, heavy with something unseen.

And just as I was spiraling into full-blown terror…

I was soaked in sweat, gasping for air, my heart pounding like thunder in my chest.

The room was dark, still. The ceiling fan above spun with a soft whir. I sat up abruptly, hands trembling, and immediately turned on the bedside lamp. The warm light spilled across the bed, and I lifted my hands to inspect them—whole, normal, flesh-colored, familiar.

“Another bad dream?” my wife asked groggily, half-sitting up beside me.

“I dreamed my fingers… my ring fingers… were dying,” I whispered, flexing them again just to be sure. “Shriveled up. And I thought… it was real. I was driving the Oldsmobile to the mall with you and my parents. And then—just like that—they were gone.”

She reached over and gently held my hand, tracing her fingers along the curve of mine. “You're okay. Just a dream. Maybe the car needs a blessing though,” she teased with a soft smile.

I chuckled weakly, still shaken. “Maybe the car was trying to protect me. In the dream, when I got back in, my fingers started coming back to life.”

She leaned against me and said, “You’ve been overworking, thinking too hard. It’s just your mind’s way of telling you to slow down.”

“Maybe,” I nodded, though a small part of me wasn’t convinced. The dream had weight. It felt more like a message than like a dream. Something unspoken. A warning?

As I lay back down, still clutching her hand, I cast one last look out the window—toward the driveway where the Delta 88 rested beneath the silver moonlight.

Silent.
Timeless.
Heavy with memory.

Waiting.