When I was child, I wanted them to be real. But even as a child, I knew they were not. Not in this world. And so far as I knew, this world was the only world there was. The only real world. But for someone who’s never been anywhere near a real horse, I had a keen yearning for their mythical counterparts to be real. And for me to find them, meet them, be accepted by them, and in my deepest desires, be favored by them.
I learned all their stories.
And the stories were more vivid to me than the dry and distant history of my own kind.
She did nothing to earn her beauty. It was given to her. And as with many such gifts, beauty was both a boon and a burden to the girl whose name was Imelda.
She was doted on by some, guarded by others, coveted by still others.
Imelda’s mother, who both loved and feared for her girl, spent many sleepless nights wondering when her child would grow old enough to be passed into the protection of another. For she and her husband were humble folk, as their child too would have been. But Imelda’s beauty—while it may not have impressed in a city or even a large town—was quite surpassing in their little village. Surpassing enough to catch the eye of those with greater means. The girl wished to be learned. She wished to explore.
Perhaps her beauty could make it so could do what she dreamed of doing.
He huffed out a breath and gasped. He was covered in sweat, even though the room was cool. His eyes were still shut, but he felt the wetness gathered at the rims of his eyelids. He squeezed and a tear rolled down from the corner of his eye and wet the outer rim of his ear.
Right away, he calmed. The intensity of whatever emotion he’d been feeling that brought him to tears just vanished.Continue reading
I didn’t feel scared, really. I should have. I thought about calling out to my parents. But I decided not to. That would scare them. I didn’t want to scare them for nothing. Especially since I wasn’t scared. I should have been. Maybe it’s because I thought I was dreaming. A really vivid dream.
For generations, for nearly a century, the Rofotou family had been gathering the pieces of a puzzle that they believed would unlock some grand secret of the universe, or some extravagant treasure, or at least some profound piece of wisdom. But I didn’t know anything about that before a dark-haired woman named Red came knocking on my door one day. I didn’t know why she asked to see my old dream logs. And I certainly didn’t know what any of it had to do with Mrs. Highweather.Continue reading
I haven’t had the cookie dream in a long while, but I’ve always remembered it. It’s not a unique scenario. I find myself locked in the front room of a bakery overnight. The lights have been shut off for the day. But the ambient lights are still on. I particularly remember the realization that I have been left alone with all that lies before me.Continue reading
It starts off dark, and all I hear is a low, subtle pulsing. Not as rhythmic and steady as a heartbeat, but more like, the whooshing and sloshing of a washing machine. Then I can make out the clicking. Click, click, click. Multiplied. Click, click, clickclickclickclickclickclick. I see myself. And I am myself at the same time. My shoulders are drooped. I can hardly keep my eyes open. My skin feels warm, too warm. I see myself noticing the sound and raising his—my—head. My eyes move to the left and my head turns slightly, but then stops. I need to see. But I don’t want to see. Continue reading
I snapped awake at the sound of subdued screaming music spilling from the headphones of the teen who had just settled down on the seat next to me. I glanced over at her, and she flicked her gaze in my direction, as if daring me to say something. But I was preoccupied by the feeling that something was wrong. I shook off the disorientation and saw that I was several stops away from where I needed to be. As the subway train rolled to a stop, I leapt out of my seat and navigated my way to the doors. I was late to work, and on a day after I may have burned one bridge too many.Continue reading
One of the containers was full of sand. A kind of pretty black glittery sand. And not the crispy savory steamy dumplings that Alora had dreamt of since leaving work that evening with the smallest of coffee stains on her collar. Continue reading
No, not his dream. His dreams hold no answers that make sense. It’s possible his dreams don’t hold any answers at all. Not the ones we need to find her.
It’s her dreams we need. It’s the link we need. He had something of hers from the island. But he lost it on his way to rescue. He lost it in the delirium of dehydration. Now he has only his memories, his dreams, his desperate hope. And to help him, I have only the Abacus. Continue reading