Sweven

11th

The Hand
A hand gently wraps my sleeping ankle. This is a dream. Find the calm. Let the hand lift and land where it will upon my phantasm flesh. Ghost hand glides over genitalia. Wake.

Locked
Sit up in a stranger's bed. Frantically glance for the ghost hand. It was just a dream. A little lucid dream. Flop back to bed. Sleep paralysis crushes. Find the calm. Through it shines lucidity. Lucid but locked, "Wake."

Too Early
Sit up in my own sleeping realm. Reality check. Not a dream. "I will remember these dreams. I will be lucid soon." Lay. Inhale. Close my eyes. Wisps of light like a spiral galaxy shifts before me. "I'm dreaming." I whisper and open my eyes.

Sit up in bed. "I AM dreaming," Shadows see me smile. Arise. I will fly. Denied. Recall a goal. Denied. Walk through a wall into abandoned night. Look for a tree. None. The scene shivers. It is too early. Sleep is shallow. Must sink deeper.

Drift down into the dark. Cross legs. Close eyes. Attempt to anchor into the scene. Instead, I float. Softly drift in the weightless dark. Hold my position. A thought occurs. Do I drift in dream space? Or am I still and dream space drifts around me? A wash of vertigo. Wake.


It was too early in the night.

11th

Market Madness
Creativity is magic. Venders display their wizardry. Now comes introductions. One young wizard weeps and runs. Stop the world to seek him. At the back door lumbers a man, face half hidden, gun in hand. Bar the door as best I can. Announce the coming threat. The world scatters. Shelter neath shrubs. A second gunman joins the first. They flee. Wizards reconvene and discuss safer spaces. A man, as Caucasian as can be, rants stupendously that the white race is the ruin of the world.

Sky Tidings
Storm clouds stalking. Outrace the rage. Halted by the serene shores of a mirror lake. At its horizon two suns set in harmony. "Take a photo! This is a rare atmospheric phenomenon," I cry. Kayji shoots. Behind us beams a rainbow of vertical stripes. "Get that too! This is even rarer!" She shoots again. Night is a jolt. Upon the lake fireworks dance as if ordained by a certain grey wizard. Reflections upon the lake make double magic. It is enough to wipe away the worry of scourge and storms.

+ 3 Little Lucid Dreams

From the 9th

Gafar

The world is strange. Sentient colors, succulent laughter, sensual scents of food and drink ebb and flow in festive tides. The extravagance is too sweet for souls as bitter as this. Wander away from the fabulous fray.

"You have been challenged to a duel," a twitchy man greets then twists into the crowd. Give chase through worsening worlds and into the belly of a trippy brick beast. Cheerers roar aside. Behind a table I abide.

The other door belches wide. In spills a bloated beast of a man. Recognize his local celebrity face. Gafar. Before any words are laid Gafar waves his arms, thrusts hands my way. An invisible bus slams into me. Fly backward through the doors.

Shock stings stronger than pain. Stand and charge into the belly again. Clarity shines. Know without knowing that this is a dream. Wave my hands. Spin. Thrust palms at Gafar. My invisible strike is soft. His laughs heartily while he force whips me up into ceiling and then down into the floor.

The earth shakes. There is no pain but the sting of shame. Stand. Inhale. Serenity. A river rises into my feet, fills the hollows of my bones. "You will win this... this is your dream." Acknowledge the absolute truth. Lift my hands. The blimp of Gafar bobs into the air, limbs swinging, voice singing with rage.

A grin. A nod. A flick of my hands. Gafar crashes into brick and slops onto the floor. He deflates like a softly stabbed balloon. "This is my dream," I proclaim. The crowd rocks and roars. They boo and hiss. I smile and proclaim again, "This is my dream."

Two men burst from the crowd, "Come on!" I am captured and carries along. "She's coming. You have to hide!"

Pride tempts me to stay. Curiosity bids me go with the flow. The pair lead me back to luxury. Crush ourselves into a closet. Then comes a distant clicking. And then a clacking as her heels rage closer. Curiosity boils, overflows. I must know! Step out and straight into her path.

She is Gafar's sister, all pretention and wrath. "How are your teachers?" she purrs through the wickedest wrench of a grin.

"Fine," is all that can be said. It is the only word left in my head.

Her shark smile spreads. She twists. She clacks violently on her way.

My closet companions, now a trio, cheer the confrontation. I am only caught up in confusion. "This is my dream. What did she mean? What does this mean?" Try to find her again but am lost in the scene.