dreaming

Guardian

June 21, 2023

Of course I didn't call room service. I know better. But I blush with shame as he asks just the same. He would have seen or heard. And I was taught the rules. I know the rules. I am not to engage unless expressly authorized or permitted while in transit. It's too dangerous. A single word could give us away. He is kinder than I expected. He places both palms on the door and speaks in a soft voice. I know what he is doing and I can feel the strengthening of the door, like it's knitting itself together, filling in the gaps. He has already looked through the peephole. He has already identified the man as an employee by his energy. He has already seen the clean, white towels he holds as he cries “room service” before knocking again. He opens the door and I can hear him say. “I'm sorry, but we didn't call down for more towels.” “I understand that you can tell what room calls come from at the front desk, but we didn't call down.” “Okay. Thanks.” I could not hear the person in the hallway. He closes the door. He does not turn around. His shoulders slump and he sighs. He places one hand on the each side of the door and speaks another incantation. This one is weaker because must cover a larger area, but the walls become denser, like rock. I can feel it. That's why I was chosen. I can feel things in the air; when they are stretched or pulled or twisted. I can feel it. I can twist things, too, but I need training. I can feel his anxiety. Not fear. Fear tastes bitter, and this is merely sour. “We will be having chicken for dinner.” That's code. We are being followed and they are close. He may have seen them. Based on the walls, they must have guns. He wouldn’t have pulled that much into them for just fists or knives. He walks toward our balcony. We're on the 7th floor; the top floor. He slides the door open and I can see him studying the corner of the building. We are right on the corner, so the corner of the building is just to the left. He leans out and places his left hand on the building and speaks to it, while holding his right hand in the air. I can see the air thicken, like a blanket. He can't see it, but he knows what he is doing. I lament that we have no books, no guides, but he doesn't need books. Besides its forbidden to travel in the open with our materials. Our minds are the only tools we may take when we travel. I hear hard taps at the door and wall. I know they are coming. He motions for me jump over the railing and I do. The fall is swifter than I'd like but safe, like diving into water. We both touch down safely. He sees a wandering dog and motions toward it. It tilts its head and looks at him, before trotting over, wagging its tail. He bends down, gently places a hand on each side of the dog's face and stares into its eyes. The dog barks excitedly and yips, it's tail wagging even more. I know he is talking to the dog. That's his gift. He can talk to animals. Any animal really. Knowing the language is not enough, you have to know how they think and he does. He always has. He pats the dog on its head before standing back up. “They know about the Jeep.” That means we cannot drive away. But he didn't say anything about the tunnel, so they do not know about that. We have to make it on foot. Two people burst out of the side door of the hotel and quickly stumble into each other. They did not expect to see us. I can tell. They are holding their hands over hidden guns and are walking stiff-legged toward us. He makes a sign with his left hand and traces a vertical symbol in the air while simultaneously tracing another symbol on his leg with his right hand. “Hang on to me.” I'm little. So I climb onto his back and he runs, faster than a man can run. And the two people who came out of the hotel do not see us. They see us still standing there and they will until they make it to the spot. I can feel the hum of life twisted into new designs, I can feel it slowly unraveling, but it should be tight enough. The road is clear, the trees are singing. We find the silent spot and enter a shadow which becomes a room which becomes a tunnel. He nods to the others there. They were waiting for us. To rescue us. I ask if I can trace fire as we move forward and he allows it. I drag my hands on the walls and twist the dirt and leaves into blossoms waiting to bloom, full of fire and smoke. I know they will be coming after us, even in here, but we have a head start and this is our place, in the earth. We speak to it and it responds. They call out to false gods and beg for scraps of favor or power. We mold what is already present. We are stewards of the awash power always present in the living earth, the planet itself. We contradict the will of all outsiders so we are called monsters and cultists. They seek to syphon the life for their own uses, we cooperate and stay within. The earth listens and, as we move, changes itself behind us. I can hear them entering the tunnel now. They found the shadow door easily enough by following our path, but they do not see what the earth has done. I feel a blast of heat, smell the musk of singed dust and skin blown down the path and the screams of those who went first. Cursing and yelling as they call water out of the ground and water must oblige them such is their power, but it resists. The elements do not resist us because we make no demands, only requests. We reach the other end, our safe haven and he puts up a barrier behind us. Makes the air like glass, like plastic. They cannot pass and can only gnash their teeth as we exit to our city, home. Our safe place. Deep. He does a card trick for a child waiting at the exit. “Pick a card.” The child draws the 7 of Hearts. I do not see it, but I know it. “Hold it close to your heart.” He winks as he says this. The child does. The man shuffles and concentrates and speaks in a deep, hollow, whisper. This is the language of snakes, the language of the wind. Of Metamorphosis. I did not know he could speak to the wind. “I'm losing the image of your card” he says, but it is part of the trick. “Can you look at it again?” The child lifts their hand and gasps. The card has been replaced by a $20 bill. “That's right.” He said snapping his fingers. “I bought your card for $20.” He holds up the 7 of Hearts, “See?” “Please keep the money.” He says even before the child's parents can offer it back. He is kinder than I expected.

#WhenIDream #Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #Magic #Magick #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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Metal

June 14, 2023

“This was in my mouth,” I said pulling a slip of metal out of my mouth, like the key my uncle uses to open his cans of fish, and placing it on the table. My mom and dad looked at it and asked each other where I could have picked that up. Maybe I'd gotten it out of the garbage? Maybe I'd found it on the floor? “This was in my mouth,” I said pulling another wire-shaped piece of metal out of my mouth and putting it on the table. I felt something warm slithering in the back of my mouth and pushed it forward with my tongue, grabbing it and pulling out another strip of metal. “This was in my mouth,” I said. “Tastes like worms,” I said. I was trying to tell them it was alive in my mouth, but they didn't understand. When the doctor came, the pile was just a few inches high. They stopped coming while I was in the ambulance. After the X-Ray, they came even faster. I could almost hear them. Just whispers. They came from my mouth and my butt. I didn't like them coming out of my butt. But I felt them. Black rods of metal. They came out and crawled onto my skin and held tight. My arms and legs were armored and immobile. My chest was covered. I felt them on me, felt their feet or hands or mouths grabbing my skin and refusing to let go. I could understand them now. They were protecting me. They were keeping me safe. I'd never be hungry or thirsty or sleepy again. But I couldn't move. I was a curiosity. I was analyzed. I was studied. I was healthy. But I shouldn't be. I was thriving. But they didn't know how. My blood was “thick” I remember them saying. I should not be alive. But they covered me and preserved me. Someone remarked that my hair had grown so long and so pretty and she wished she had hair like me. The metal didn't understand and thought this was a threat. They protected me. The metal lifted my right arm, like a marionette. I saw the rods on my arm stand up and point at the person who had admired my hair. I wanted to tell the metal to calm down, that it was okay. But the metal didn't hear me. The metal didn't understand me. I felt its fear, its rage. The metal rods honed themselves and fired at the woman and stung her like a swarm of needles. She ran away bleeding and screaming. The scream agitated the metal and my body was lifted up and walked out of the room, into the hallway. Metal was pushing through my pores, tearing my skin. It was angry. Many people were screaming now. It didn't know it was hurting me. I tried to cry but metal dripped out of my tear ducts, cutting my eyes. I had been safe. I had been whole. I had been complete. I am betrayed. I sob. I weep. I feel sorrow wrack my body. The metal feels it, too. I move my right arm. The metal there breaks like brittle glass, falling to the ground. I wipe the metal off my left arm and see a large open gash. Metal pistons and ball bearings work themselves inside the wound. I wonder how much of me is still me and how much has been taken. I collapse to my knees, the metal on my skin fracturing and flaking away. But knowing what is inside of me, I know I am not free. I may never be.

#Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #BodyHorror #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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My Eyes Open

June 11, 2023

At once, I am aware. My breath is slow but easy, I taste sweetness, mint, familiarity. Peace. I think of home. Of a kind face. I feel the world rock under me, like waves, like being in the wave pool at Adventure River, like being in a boat. Like floating. But I'm cold. The side of my face is cold. The right side. I can barely feel my ear. And my neck hurts. Rhythmic, muffled thumps, like something heavy falling, picking itself up and falling again. A low pitched whine, keeping the beat, vibrating my seat. My butt hurts. I shift in the seat, feel something pull against my chest. I am sitting up. I just realized that. I'm sitting up. Whispers. Mutterings. Two people talking too low to make out. Was that a laugh? I open my eyes for just a second. A headrest. I'm in the back seat. “You awake back there?” The passenger asks, a woman. “What?” I say. I have a mouth. Teeth, a tongue. My voice sounds small. “Sounds like a yes to me,” the driver says, a man. I should know them. I clench and unclench my fingers, two hands, four fingers, two thumbs, all working. Only two hands, two arms. I bend my feet up and down, flexing the muscles, two feet, harder to count toes, but it feels right. Two legs. I turn my head and feel hair caught behind my back, turn up my lips in frustration. Who am I? “Where are we?” I ask. “Still about two hours from the cabin” says the driver. “We'll have to get a good night's sleep,” says the passenger, “so we can get out on the creek in the morning.” Creek. Swimming? No. Fishing. It's fishing. I'm their daughter. I don't know my name. They are my parents. I don't know how I know that. I don't know how I got here. This is a dream. I try to open my eyes but they are already open. I try to reach below and wake myself up, but I am not there. I am only here. I just became. I created this place. But I exist only inside of it. I push against the car door and fall through it, like smoke, like ash. That's what I smelled earlier, cigarette smoke. I'm floating as the car slams on the brakes and fishtails. My parents leap out, “Oh my God!” They say. “Are you okay?” They say. With a thought, I bring them closer to me. With a swirling gesture, I call in clouds and gentle rain. With a push, I create a trough in the road, molten rock. Cooled by the rain, forming a small waterway. I smile and float over to it. I ask the water to rise and it does. The water stands and bows and speaks to me in a language only I understand. We dance, in the rain. My parents do not speak. They no longer exist here. Not until I see them or hear them again. I smile as we spin, as we laugh. There is music. I cannot understand the lyrics, but we move in time, in synch. As if I know every flourish. And then, My eyes open.

#Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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