AJ Miles - Jonathon and the Dream Master

Discover the compelling story of "Jonathon and the Dream Master", by AJ Miles, a passionate writer based in the UK. Dive into a world where words come alive.

Explore a diverse collection of other works that captivate and inspire.

Andy Miles, Artist and Writer

AJ Miles – Life Story

AJ Miles spent his early life in Malvern, Worcestershire. As a child, he roamed the same hills that inspired Elgar’s musical masterpieces and visited the theatre for which Bernard Shaw once wrote. His first ambition was to become an artist, and he went on to earn a degree in Fine Art at Stourbridge and Leicester. His artistic talent is well represented in this book: every pencil illustration is his own original work.

Writing has always been part of his creative repertoire. An early fascination with Oriental poetry shaped his literary sensibilities, though this novel—first written in the spring of 2006 and newly revised for 2026—is his first full‑length work of fiction.

He has remained in Leicester, and the story’s Earth‑bound setting is a kind of parallel Leicester. Local readers will recognise many of the places and institutions woven into the narrative, though their names have been subtly transformed.

AJ Miles was a fully qualified member of the prestigious Hypnotherapy Society, an exponent of martial arts, and a lifelong student of comparative religion, spirituality, and meditation. Every reference to these subjects in the book draws directly from his own extensive knowledge and lived experience.

Jonathon and the Dream Master - Preview

One

Black Wednesday

It couldn’t be a dream. He was aware of lying in bed, aware of his bedroom, but it must be a dream. How could this be happening? Did it come from the floor, out of the wall, through the window, or the ceiling? He didn’t see it arrive; he only knew that it was there now. He could feel the oppressive weight, bearing down on his legs, and yet, he couldn’t feel any contact with anything, just that his legs couldn’t move. Were they held down, or were they paralysed? But then there was the black mist moving; flowing slowly further up over his body. It was a black flowing mistiness, yet it held him down with an oppressive weight. He could feel it full of malice and hate, a heavy blanket of darkness that hated the very life in him, which seemed to want to snuff out the light of his soul, like a candle flame.

Yes, smothered that’s how he felt. It was bearing down on his arms now, and his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Soon it would be up over his face, and that would be the end. He would be snuffed out; his short life, of thirty-five years, brought suddenly to an end. No one would know the circumstances; his heroic struggle; just one of those tragic, mysterious deaths you hear about sometimes.

This all happened in a few seconds, and now he was beginning to focus everything on survival. When he started to focus, Jonathon knew, somehow that he was not going to allow himself to die. There was something in him that knew he could fight this. He had already gauged it in his mind. This darkness was not just pushing him down physically; it was pushing him down emotionally, mentally, spiritually. It was not just an oppressive weight, it was depressing him, sucking all the joy out of him, sucking the fight out of him, just making him lie down and die.

He knew how it was, now. If he let it have its way; if he gave up and surrendered to it, his life energy would be sucked from him so completely he would just stop living. If he focussed his mind; if he could find the positivity, the will to live, he would win. That was it; this was a battle of wills, and he was going to win. It wanted him to die, but he wanted to live. He had never felt surer about anything in his life before that he wanted to live, and he was going to live. He could feel the strength returning, feel his chest filling with air. Whereas before, he felt stifled, wanting to shout, but unable to move even the air in his lungs; now that shout of defiance came right out.

“Nooaaaaagh.”

With that shout, the life of his body surged back in, and with one enormous and determined shove, he sat up. His bedroom was there just the same. He was there, wide-awake, drenched in sweat, breathing in short gasps, holding his head in his hands. The black mist was gone.

“Oh my God, look at the time.” Ordinary reality imposed itself with a bump. Ordinary reality was attractive, after that experience of something so alien, he didn’t want to believe that it happened. His mind, like a derailed train, was trying to get back on to the track of his morning routine. Jonathon liked to get into work for 08:00. He didn’t have to be in for a specific time, as long as he put in the hours; flexi-time working, they called it. It suited Jonathon, as he wasn’t one of those clockwork types, who could just leap out of bed, shower, dress, and eat toast while running for the bus, all in fifteen minutes. It would take him fifteen minutes, at least, just to ease himself out of bed. For Jonathon, it was like a re-enactment of the birth experience every morning. There he was; warm, comfortable, relaxed, in pleasant dreams; Jonathon hated getting up in the dark, but at least it is Spring now.

If he would start dreaming about Prime-Ministers question time, or something equally incongruous, he would realise that he was actually listening to the “Today” programme, and the radio had come on, to wake him up. “Oh, just five more minutes,” he would think to himself. Then he would be on a trawler bringing in a catch of fish bones, a deck of flapping fish skeletons. Then surfacing again, he would hear a report about dwindling fish stocks, and fishing quotas. Looking at the clock, another fifteen minutes had gone by; then the groan, and then the ejection from the womb all over again. He would sit on the edge of the bed, not really wanting to believe that yet another day of tedious routine was starting, but he liked to get in early; that way he could come home early, and avoid the rush hour at both ends of the day, and, in the summer, enjoy the long summer evenings. Today, though, he was late, and it wasn’t the shipping news, or whatever, that woke him; it was the “Black Death” that started his morning for him. Right now, he could be dead, if he hadn’t been so determined to survive. He thought how it might have been reported in the local rag–

“Read all about it - mysterious death. Young man, of thirty-five, found dead in his bed. Jonathon Fields, of 24, Maple Tree Crescent, Oadby, was found dead, after anxious work colleagues contacted the police. Doctors are baffled about the cause of death. Pathologist, Dr Robin Forbes, said it was as if he had been asphyxiated, but police say there is no evidence of anyone else being in the room, or entering the house.”

Making up silly stories in his head, was such an ingrained habit for Jonathon that, even at a time like this, he couldn’t help but do it. He was going over the events in his mind. The radio hadn’t even come on. He must have turned it off in his sleep, or something.