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The Daily Cardinal Est. 1892
Monday, May 29, 2023


All articles featured in The Beet are creative, satirical and/or entirely fictional pieces. They are fully intended as such and should not be taken seriously as news.

"Soaked" is a rousingly introspective creative and metaphorical piece, offering a unique outlook on the significance of dreams by writer Ayomide Awosika. Creative and fictional pieces are always encouraged for submission to

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night surrounded by water. I dip my hands in and take a sip. It’s warm. Salty, just like the ocean. Some nights I consider taking a dip. I climb up to the tip of my diving-block headboard, get into position, and prepare to jump. Then I remember I can’t swim and scramble back under my sheets, afraid to drown. And then there are those nights where I jump, regardless of fear. I cannonball into my personal pool and let the water wash over me. 

A melancholy sensation takes hold of me as I’m enveloped. When I reach the surface, I lay on my back and let the water rock me back to sleep. When I wake up I’m back in bed. Gently laid under my covers, the sensation of a warm kiss on my forehead and the ghost of a loving hand on my cheek. When I peer over the side of my bed there is no trace of water. My carpet is completely dry with the melancholy sensation soaked into it, tangled in its fibers.

Sometimes when I wake up, the waters are tumultuous. They thrash about me, pushing my bed-boat to and fro, trying to force me back to sleep. On those nights, I hear a wailing in the distance. The voice sounds familiar. On nights like these I stay in my bed, too scared to jump in the cold, bitter water. Instead, I use my sheets as sails and steer my way down the hall to my brother’s room. He lays asleep, oblivious to the wails. His face looks content from the rocky waters. I climb into his bed and wake up on the dry floor. No warm kiss on my forehead. No gentle caress on my cheek. Just a hardwood floor below me.

Sometimes there are no waters when I wake up. On those nights I pray that the next waters will be sweet. On these sweetwater nights, the waters will be warm and steady. They will embrace me when I jump into them and flow freely around me. On these nights I will hear laughter and words of love as I paddle my bed-boat with a floorboard to my brother’s room. When I arrive, he’ll be lying awake, waiting for me. We’ll play in the waters together. Splashing in their warmth. As we drift, the waters will hug us to sleep. When we awaken together, we will be swaddled in wet blankets soaked in pride and joy. We will feel warm kisses on our cheeks. On these mornings we will embrace one another. We will pray for these blankets to never dry and for the waters to return soon.

Once my uncle told me that when they were children my father sometimes cried himself to sleep at night. That his tears were sweet and loving. I pray to one day find those waters.

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