My English teacher gave us an assignment after finishing The Great Gatsby. "Imagine you have just had a dream in which you are visited by Fitzgerald or a character from The Great Gatsby. What happened in the dream?"

Well, I bent the assignment a bit, and I really liked the results. Obviously, I own myself, but Fitzgerald owns everyone else. Here it is!

I've just had the strangest dream! Yes, I know it is three o'clock in the morning, not typically an hour conducive to descriptive writing, but the nature of dreams is to slip away by morning and I don't want this to be lost.

In the dream, I am walking on moist grass in the twilight, looking out over the water. I can hear loud music and laughter in the distance. This sound seems to be my destination, but I don't really want to get nearer to it. I see a man approaching me. As he gets closer, I notice that he seems rather young, but he radiates authority and power.

He calls to me; clearly he knows me, though I haven't the faintest idea who he is. "Why aren't you at the party?" he asks. "I thought you said you were coming."

"Oh, right." I don't really know what to say because I have no recollection of ever having spoken to him before. "I'll come now if you like." Upon reflection, I realize that this was a terribly stupid response, and not what I would have done in reality. But this was dream, after all, and one's actions in a dream are rarely logical.

We walk side by side in silence for several minutes before he says casually, "Nick only introduced you as his cousin. Would that be the Carraway side or the Fay side?"

I pause for a moment, finally catching on to where I am and who this charming man must be, though still unaware of the role I am supposed to be playing. Gatsby is staring at me expectantly, however, and I decide it is safest to just answer, "Carraway."

He looks decidedly crestfallen, but does an excellent job of hiding it. "And how long do you plan on staying out here?"

"Not long," I answer vaguely. Then, wishing to take advantage of this strange experience, I ask, "Do you ever tire of all these parties in your home?"

"Not at all," he replies, much too quickly.

"I would find it bothersome to entertain so many people so often," I press gently.

"I enjoy the company." But his words are empty. He is staring out over the water, though I doubt he is seeing a bit of it. On the opposite shore, a small green light becomes visible in the growing darkness. He sighs slightly, then speaks again, distractedly. I have the impression that he has forgotten that I am here.

"It wouldn't be tiresome at all if I had someone with whom to share it. All the guests seem quite gay, but I think it is because they all came with an escort or a friend, at least. It's such a large house I live in, and when they all leave, it is utterly silent."

He stops talking, for the green light at which he has been staring is gone. He looks at me and smiles falsely. "Enough about me. You must come to the party." I nod and he turns away. Glancing out over the water, I see that the light has turned on again. I turn back to Gatsby's receding form, but do not follow. As he disappears from sight into the garish gayety of his party, I wake.

Any opinions? Let me know!