"Wake up! Get out of bed," the voice hammered incessantly at her pseudo-slumber. Didn't the voice know she never closed her eyes? This was her way to the place where dreams waited to wrap themselves around a mind and hurl it through ever kaleidoscoping sceneries. But she walked in flesh, not an imagery of herself. She could go wherever she wished in the realm of everyone's imagination while she lay in bed, eyes wide open, the blanket concealing her. The blanket had been blessed and bequeathed by a great-grandmother who, it was rumored, knew several mystical concepts that had never been written down. The past night had been fulfilling to her. She found a dreamer weaving through clay scenery and decided to pursue him. He ran and ran, ever slower, driven by that night spirit he secretly wanted to confront and embrace for the feral feel of her femininity. But an inexplicable blind terror drove him onward. To her it was a whimsical game of cat and mouse. She abandoned him as he sank screaming into the clay. A blink of an eye later she focused into a new dream where she smiled at a boy trancing on a mountaintop, luring him into the impossible pursuit of her down an 80 degree incline, pondering whether she should allow his outstretched fingers to fasten onto her. All this happened in a state of waking and willful consciousness. "No, I'm not getting up now, even if it is two in the afternoon." She pulled the cover back over her head, pretending to have slept. Somewhere in the world, eyes were closing in repose, inviting her to seek out the soul and toy with it.

Story #246

Note from Indeterminacy: A big thank you to Grace-Monday of This City Kills for kind permission to use her photo.