“If you go missing while you’re here, no one will look for you. It’s part of the magic of this place—it was designed to make things easier for the predators. Once you’re gone you’re promptly forgotten by everyone, signs of your existence overlooked until they can be tucked away and vanished entirely by the city itself. I don’t know if there’s a way to get your stuff back once that happens, becayse no one ever comes back once they go missing. Just part of the magic.” She shrugs. The person facing her scowls. “That’s not—“ they sputter, “that’s not what magic is! Things don’t work that way!” “Try telling that to the missing,” she says. Their brow furrows. “I thought you said they were forgotten. How do you know they existed at all if they’re always forgotten as soon as they disappear?” “Oh, memories come back through after a while. Once it’s clear they’re not coming back. It’s an added security measure to ensure nobody every comes back.” “That’s horrible!” She shrugs again. “Maybe, but it’s life here, and you’d better accept it and start living by our rules if you want to survive here.” With a groan, she pushes herself to her feet, calling, “good luck,” over her shoulder as she walks away. In moments, she’s vanished completely, swallowed up by the evening gloom of the city. Her one-person audience sighs, standing up as well. As they do so, the impression of a charmingly innocent newcomer falls away, replaced by something much more bitter. “Good luck, huh? That’s all I get? Good luck to you and your weird, broken world. You’re the ones that need it, because I’m not here to follow the rules. After all, if they don’t work on me, why should I make the effort to follow them? I remember just fine. I remember all if it, and I’m getting you back if it’s the last thing I do! If I have to tear this world apart, if that’s what it takes to get you back, I’ll do it. Just hang in there, Damsel. Just for a little longer. I’m coming for you.” They tilt their head back, glaring up at the strange sky. “I will not rest until I have my Damsel back by my side, you hear me? I don’t care what it takes, I’ll pay the price, any price, so long as Damsel is back with me when all this is over. I will not rest!”

At the top of a nearby tower, two figures stand, wrapped in shadows, watching. “Well, that looks like trouble,” one says, turning to their companion, who, despite the heavy dark cloak they wear, seems to radiate delicate beauty. “Do you know what you’ll do when you finally come face to face again? You’ll have to eventually, you know.” “I know,” Damsel says, in a voice as soft and sweet as one would expect of a Damsel. With their next words, though, a thread of steel enters their tone, more appropriate for a Knight or a Prince than a Damsel. “And I don’t know what comes next, but I do know one thing: they will never have power over me again. I was their dainty pet, their pretty Damsel, for far too long. Whatever happens next, whatever I do, I do as my own person, not as a delicate extension of another’s will. For the first time in a long time, my thoughts are my own. I am never relinquishing that again.” “Good.” The voice is all steel now, as they extend the hilt of a sword. “Are you ready then?” The not-quite-Damsel nods, and takes the sword. “I’m ready.” “Come, then.” They leap from the perch, and the no-longer-Damsel follows, the pair falling as dark shapes in the gathering dusk before their cloaks become more than fabric, less than reality, and they are two more shadows drifting on the night wind through the Fathomless City.

It allows people to do anything, that's what it allows people to do. In the last month, five different people have been leader. FIve.

Anyways, hi. My name is August. I come from a world where dreams and reality are woven together. And trust me, it is true chaos. I've hated the idea ever since my mom and dad died after a dragon someone dreamed of went crazy and set the town on fire. It took weeks to put out. Enough about me though. Let's get on with the story, shall we?

——————

Searching and searching Still nothing after years

But finally, August had found Her parent’s killer, The one who had dreamed up The dragon that burned the town

She walked up behind him And held a knife to his throat

“You killed my parents.” She whispered in his ear “Now you will pay.” She pressed it tighter

But then the person Pushed her arm away And turned around

August growled.

“Why are you so upset?”

“Because you killed my Parents by dreaming of that Dragon!” August growled again

“Okay, true. But you Don’t need to get that upset.”

“You can’t blame me for getting This angry! You killed my parents!”

“Are you sure, or are you guessing?”

“I have looked for years to find you. I’m pretty sure it’s you.” August replied

The person suddenly snaps their fingers And he and August are now in his backyard

“Dear!” He shouts “Our daughter wants to see you!”

August gasps as a pretty woman steps out of the house.

“Oh, August! It really is you!” The woman runs up to her and hugs her tightly

It had always been a mystery to me; why we dream what we dream. What sparked the images, the stories that played out inside our unconscious minds? Was there a meaning to them, or were they just random pieces of events, fragmented into a collage of personal surrealism?

I was in a coma once, following a road traffic accident. Several months cut off from the outside world, cut off from my loved ones; alive, but not living; not in the physical world, at any rate. I walked, an ethereal nomad in a spiritual plane. And I learned much. I saw much.

Dreams, would you believe, are a gateway into the intertwining dimensions of peoples lives. They are the buried ambitions, the unrequited loves, or the guilty secrets pulling us all down. They are the fears, or the hopes that we suppress from all but ourselves.

While walking, I discovered the key to these gateways.

I can see these dreams. Your dreams. Your friends’ dreams. I can see your nightmares, too. In fact, there are no visions, no abstractions, no daydreams, reveries or even simple wishes that are denied me.

I can influence your thoughts in these vulnerable times; convince you of great things, or shatter your strongest beliefs. I can make your day, or destroy your world. You should fear me, or you should worship me.

This gift, this curse, was not something I asked for. It came to me as I passed. But I was not ready to pass; not yet. Not without achieving greatness. Not before I’d made my mark on the world; before I’d made my mark on your world.

What will you dream tonight, I wonder?

Watch for me, for I shall be walking beside you.

Land beyond land and tall tree forests of green. I’m on the back of my horse, who sweats and turns fast. My seat is strong and my hands worn just the right amount. My cowboy leads us, galloping off to a halt to rope the stray calf in the trees. He gets her and pulls her in, his horse holding steady between his thighs. He smells of sweat and dirt, lifting his hat ever so occasionally to air his hair, putting it back at a tilt so he can see me enough through the sun. He whistles over to me and my heart races as it usually does. He notices our daughter straggling behind on her horse, swinging her rope over her shoulders and focusing so hard on catching her mama that she leads her little sorrel into the brush and away from the herd. I throw out a yee haw and she looks up, her smile reaching out into a laugh and her blonde curls swinging under her straw hat as she rolls her head backwards. She lets out a little yee, signalling to her daddy for his most epic one. The mountains echoed with his voice and only the reply of the natural world to call back. It was our piece of world. His, mine and hers right here. This is our little piece of paradise. We continue on all day like this, starting in the early hours and on until the sun has set. Rae works tirelessly to stay awake despite the sight of the sun setting and her horse beneath her rocking her to sleep. She is strong and stubborn like a mare, she fights it until she can no more.I pull her onto my saddle, letting her sleep against my horses neck and her little breaths are peaceful. Jack pushes the herd on with home in sight beyond the next roll of mountain. He looks over to see Rae in my saddle and he smiles. He stretches his arms out wide and looks above, praising the heavens for his life, because in this moment, it was perfect.

After an exhausting day, I’m excited to get a whole night to myself. No one can see you when you’re dreaming, and you can’t interact with other dream personas, which makes it the highlight of my day. As I fall into my bed, I can feel my eyes closing. I think it only takes a minute or two before I fall asleep, but it’s hard to tell.

As I enter REM sleep, I feel my dream self separate from my body. It’s as strange a sensation as usual, but not unpleasant. I sit up, arching my back and stretching even though it doesn’t actually do anything. Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s about midnight. Excellent. I’m guaranteed a few hours of quiet work. As always, the first thing I do is leave my house and go for a walk. There’s no physical point to it, since I’m leaving my body behind, but it’s so refreshing to walk in the night, so I’ll go when I’m disconnected from my body and safe from everything I meet.

I can see windows lit up and people moving around inside their houses. Dreamwalking, as we call it, still lets you see waking people and their physical bodies, but not other dreamwalkers. It was invented so that people could do anything they wanted while feeling assured that no one was watching. Of course, they also had to make sure that you couldn’t hurt other people while you were dreamwalking, so that held a lot of complications. Obviously, people wanted access to their physical belongings, but that would have been problematic. If someone had picked up a knife and stabbed someone while dreamwalking, they could easily avoid the repercussions.

Fortunately, we have amazing scientific knowledge now. It would have been easy to make it so that a dreamwalker could pick up physical things, but like I said, that was dangerous. So someone came up with a way to make the dream personas resonate at the same frequency as the ordinary objects we use, and so we can pick up something without actually lifting it. Sort of like a hologram? It’s like we’re picking up a copy of the object.

As I finish my walk, I hop in the car, intending to drive to the store. If I grab a pack of beads or a skein of yarn as a dreamwalker, I’ll have them in my dream house. I won’t be able to use them in real life or make any money off them, so it’s free. Only because people haven’t figured out how to charge for it, though.

Tonight I feel like painting. Canvases, then and brushes, and good paints. No one can judge my horrible artwork here. I’m creating just for myself. It really is a beautiful world we live in, where you can have time to do whatever you like, knowing that you’re doing it just for you and no one will be able to make you feel bad about it.

it feels like a dream but i know it’s not

i love you

it feels unreal but it is

you love me

i want to hear your voice every day

i love you

i want to feel you smile when i kiss you

you love me

i want you to hug me from behind and kiss my cheek

i love you

i want you to to trace your fingers up and down my spine

you love me

i want you to play with my hair and hold my hand

i love you

i want you to love me forever i never want this to end

you love me

i love you

you and me

it’s love

“wake up!” I shout to myself but time is ticking away.

“wake up!” I yell “hurry, before it’s too late!” but it is.

the last thing I feel is the cold hard concrete floor.

“Alexa, TV off,” Xander said to the set. The blue trance of light blinked out. Cracking his neck, Xander smothered a yawn. Mimi yawned loudly, stretched like a cat, and rolled into the warmth of her husband’s side. He stretched out his right arm to gather her closer. They were both too tired to get up and go to bed. Xander laid his cheek on the top of her messy bun of hair. She smelled of coconut conditioner and tonight’s pork chops. He inhaled deeply ready to be lost in the comfort of their old sofa and her softness. “Somebody has to pick up all these toys,” Mimi said, waving a sleep-heavy arm at the collection of board books and pink bracelets, of stuffed animals and baby dolls scattered across the living room rug. Without opening his eyes, Xander replied, “Somebody better get his ass in gear ‘cause I ain’t doing it.” Mimi play-slapped his chest. Xander rolled himself over onto Mimi flattening his wife into the cushions. She raised an eyebrow. Pressing her hands against Xander’s chest, Mimi surrendered to his weight. Xander dipped his head to her lips. Suddenly a thunder of children’s footsteps ran overhead. The couple groaned. “That girl sounds like a herd of elephants,” Mimi said. Another volley of the sounds of small running feet from one end of the upstairs hallways to the end. “Bedtime, pumpkin.” Lifting up, Xander turned to look towards the ceiling beneath Flora’s bedroom on the second floor. “I know Daddy,” Flora called back from upstairs. Xander wiggled between Mimi’s legs finding their position where her small body tucked perfectly into his larger frame. They shared a smile. The running began again this time from Flora’s bedroom to the upstairs bathroom. The creaking sound of the bathroom door opening and closing tripped down their old Victorian’s spiral staircase. “Somebody better put that kid to bed,” Xander said before nipping at Mimi’s chin. “Somebody better snap to it ‘cause I’m dead dog tired.” Mimi kissed him lightly and sucking at his lower lip. The old five panel bathroom door creaked open and shut again. Back and forth the playful patter of a small child’s bare feet splashed over them.. “Don’t make me come up there.” Xander used his best angry daddy voice. The running stopped. "Madam could please explain why your child cannot, will not, and has never ever slept. How is that possible? Government conspiracy? Witchcraft? It shows some shoddy workmanship if I must say.” Xander took on a posh Austrian psychiatrist accent. Overhead the footsteps ran back to the bathroom. Xander sagged on to her in defeat. Mimi tickled him. “Oh so when Florrie won’t sleep she’s mine and when she’s an angel she’s yours.” The footsteps ran back to Florrie’s bedroom. Xander fended off the ticklish attack. “Natch, now answer the inquiry.” He pinned her hands over her head. “Well, maybe it’s genetics. When I was Florrie’s age my mom said I had a hard time sleeping. I don’t remember but I guess I used to wake everyone up at three in the morning. I would sing funny made-up songs in the middle of the night to my imaginary friend. She lived in my mirror, I think. My brothers still tease me about my late night serenades,”Mimi said. “Granted your singing is terrible. It’s no wonder your—“ Xander stopped as their wrestling intensified. He let her hold his hands behind his back. Mimi scrunched her face diving deeper into memory. “I do remember Nonna burning herbs, something about the thin place where worlds touch or something. My grandma, you know, was kind of Old World.” Mimi inhaled sharply as Xander kissed up the side of her throat. “Does Old World mean terrifying battle axe?” Xander said in the sweet hollow of her neck. “Mommy could you burn Herb because my mirror friend won’t let me sleep,” Flora said. Xander and Mimi jumped. Standing in front of the sofa in a unicorn onesie with her favorite blanket stood Flora. Another thunder of running footfalls sounded over head. With wide eyes, all three stared up at the ceiling. A girlish laugh floated down the stairs over the sound of the pitter-pat of a small child’s bare feet against the hallway hardwood floor.

It’s called The Mantra.

Only a few people had it. It was sometimes hard to separate from mental illness, especially since it sounded delusional. The feeling between worlds that suspended you halfway. A realm between euphoria and deceit, the mind's greatest desire or impenetrable prison. Either way, it was an escape from the real world. The Mantra was a world on its own, where dreams ran rampant.

Today, a young boy by the name of Harlan had just lost his older brother, Elias. It had been a car crash, his parents had told him. Instead of hugging him, they turned their backs like Harlan was a blight. His emotions had always been abnormal. To anyone else, it would mean their world had collapsed, yet Harlan only let out a few tears. It was silent grieving, drowned out in his parents sobbing. Even his parents believed he was dysfunctional, and now their favorite son was dead.

The days that followed, Harlan spoke little, yet he never cried. His eyes were glazed and he stared unblinking for hours. He was in a sleepless trance, one his parents didn't notice in their heartsick state. Harlan was in his own world, far beyond his parent's perception even if they took notice. Far in the grips of The Mantra, processing the tragedy in his own way.

It was the month following that Harlan's daydreaming became reality. He was heading to middle school, when he heard the roar of a car engine to the side of him. Turning his head, the shiny red paint was just as blinding as he remembered. And his brother...

"Harlan, want to hop in?" his brother asked. "I'm off today, I can totally take you."

Harlan paused, looking down at the car like a bull. His subconscious knew he was hallucinating, yet he still agreed. He was completely sure it was one of the last reactions he had with his brother. A moment he had played in his head hundreds of times in his repercussion days.

He couldn't stop thinking about it as he climbed into the passenger seat. It progressed further when he felt sudden deja vu when Elias offered him a soda, the same gesture that had happened just a week ago. It felt so fake, yet somehow he didn't care. Even if he was dreaming, it was a good one.

The lush seating soaked all of his uncertainty out of him once Elias started driving. Every sensory detail was perfect, down to Elias's stubble and winning hair to the unblemished interior of the car. It was too impeccable to be a hallucination, and besides, they were moving. He could feel the smooth roll of the car and the cool wind on his hair through the open window, unmistakably real.

Through the moment, Elias started to feel like a memento of his brother. Just a strand of Harlan’s mind behaving in supernatural ways. He wasn't dynamic, he was just the same person, the same moment, taunting him. Every lighthearted response felt like a dagger, tearing apart Harlan from the inside. An easy smile quickly became an expression of unease.

“Alright you punk,” Elias said, pulling up to the middle school. “Go get ‘em.”

Harlan would have hugged his brother. In fact, he wanted to say all that he didn’t get to say before. Confess that nobody in the world understood him more than Elias did. Tell him that he meant the world to Harlan, or that he did at least. Still, as he lugged his backpack out of the car, he stopped himself from saying any of it. Turning his back was the only thing he could do, because it all was fake. Somehow, he knew it. It was “real” whatever that meant, but it still was sickening. Elias had said the same things, made the exact same turns he always took to the school. He had replicated the same moment from a week ago.

Harlan saw his brother everywhere in the passing months, whenever his mind wandered. Nobody could see him except him, yet all his actions were real. They just never changed. The welcoming figure of Elias became a terror, preying on his vulnerable thoughts if helplessness and loss. It was a scar he couldn’t purge from his brain. He wished he had the real Elias with him, yet he knew the truth, even if it was starting to get blurrier and blurrier.

I thought I was dreaming But I am awake Thought my feelings were teeming Turns out they weren’t fake

Because he likes me too Oh my gosh who knew Three months of dreaming And figuring out feelings

But it’s finally here It has felt like a year Since I’ve first looked at you My heart grew wings and flew

Could you say I’m in love? No that’s not enough This guy, he’s indescribable Like he just walked out of a bible

He’s his mommas boy, With the ruffled blonde hair Just how I like them Kind, funny, someone who cares

I know he’s got plenty of options I feel like I could only win him in an auction But.. he likes me! I never thought it could be

I was just tearing myself down When I should be building myself up I should smile, not frown Because to him, I am enough

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