Macey (a Dream Wars short story)

Greetings to those of you who enjoy discovering all the hidden tales from inside the Dream Arena. To those of you who may be new to these short adventures, a hearty welcome.

Let me briefly introduce myself. My name is George Salvinger. I have never been a wealthy man, but my mind is rich in curiosity about other lands and cultures. All my life I have dreamed of visiting just one of the mystical seven wonders of the world. So whether it was luck, or fate or something else, I simply do not know, but I had the good fortune to discover the first wonder of the unknown world. It was I that stumbled across the building where people go to dream. I could and have written many words on its design, its secrets, its many levels, its many doors. Indeed I made it my mission to bring it back to the attention of the waking world, for we have all but forgotten it. It lies tumble down and derelict. People have stopped going inside to dream lest they should be caught up in the dream wars that rage inside. This building of which I speak of course is the Dream Arena.

Normally, I would impart some little pearl of wisdom, or some small adventure that I once had, or even a few observations on the strange and mysterious lands inside, but today I am merely acting as a reporter. Today the words are not my own, but those of Raximus.

My regular followers will know that Raximus is a teacher. He mentors gifted dreamers, boys and girls known as halons, and shows them how to push through all the normal boundaries of the mind in order to explore the uncharted territories beyond.

There is a popular series of books called Dream Wars in which the life of one particular boy halon is explored. Therefore, many of you know of Mr William Silver, the boy in training to be God of dreaming. However very little is known of his constant companion and fellow orphan Miss Macey Merrie. Today I bring you a scoop, an incredible revelation, one that helps to explain why she and William make such a very good team. The revelations come from Raximus’s diary and here, transcribed exactly as they were in that very book, are his words.

“Last night a bat flew into my window. When I opened it and saw the poor creature dead upon my sill, I thought I would take it with me to the woods for burial. I was going there anyway to check the nightmare traps that I had laid down the previous evening. However, as I went to place its stiff body in my satchel, I discovered that a note had been strapped to its tiny claw and that my name was upon it.

“Raximus. There is a huge yarl of nightmares (I have not heard the word yarl since I left the State of Sleep. I think it is such an apt description of a marauding band of nightmares) to the east of Riddington village. I know you guard the halon boy, so I write to implore you to guard him well or even to consider moving him elsewhere to safety. I have not seen such a large group in many years and I am sending bats out to other slayers in neighbouring counties for help. My wife Maud, who normally fights at my side, is expecting our first child. Be alert.  PS. Many times have I wished to sneak into the village to see the boy. Is he well? Does he show signs of any powers yet?

Markus Merrie

I knew the boy, William Silver to be completely safe. I had been putting traps out in the woods for months and found not a single sign of nightmares, so since the poor man was trying to fight the yarl alone, I decided to go and help. When I arrived at Fiddlers Wood, it was dark. I camped out for the night and laid nightmare traps all around myself to keep safe. Having caught nothing for months, I was overwhelmed to find that five were trapped that very night – big ones too. All were of the goyle variety, crude even by the prince of nightmares’ standards. Knowing that Markus was in considerable danger, I set off early to find him and find him I did – and Maud too. They were slumped over some high tree boughs, their flesh having been stripped. The blood that dripped was still luke warm, so the massacre had not long ago happened. It was then that I heard a sound through the trees. Because I was so jittery I’m afraid I killed three blackbirds between where I was stood and the small clearing in which I found the couple’s wooden caravan.

The sound came from underneath the caravan itself. I saw a writhing mass of fur there and was just about to use my halon wand to kill it when the creature raised its head. It was merely a wild dog and I had killed enough innocents in the last few minutes, so I lowered my wand. I saw only one dog at first, but six jumped up and moved towards me baring their teeth. Only then did I spot the child. At first I thought it was dead. I thought that the wild dogs had killed her, but then she stirred and made a sound. The dogs responded, looking back protectively. They thought I was out to hurt the child and they ran at me as one large attacking scrum. Only when I held my hand out and allowed them to see the halium, spinning brightly around my wand and sent them a pulse of its soothing red energy towards them, did they realise who I was. They stopped in their tracks.  

“Who is the little child?” I asked them.

The leader of the pack moved forward and bowed before me.

“My name is Borin. I have sworn to protect her, Raximus. Her parents were nightmare slayers”.

The child was barely hours old and yet both of her parents were dead. No living creature needed more protecting than her.

“May I approach to see that she is well?” I asked Borin.

“My partner has given her milk, but she is restless. We are afraid that come night-time, the beasts will surround us and take her”.

When I saw the child for the first time I couldn’t believe that a human girl could be so charming. She had scruffy blonde curls and such big, innocent eyes. Her parents had left a small bow and arrow at her side. My heart broke that very second. Markus must have made it for her in anticipation of the runs that they would make together in future years, runs that would not now happen, runs to hunt out the very nightmares that had killed him.

As I picked her up, Borin spoke, but not to me - to the child.

“No” he explained. “He is from our side. He is a dreamer. He has come to help”.

“Why do you speak to her”, I asked. “She is too young to know language”. The reply he gave made me fall in love with the child even more than I already had.

“She is a whisperer. Her mind is full of the languages of nature”.

Very few whisperers are born these days. Language skills that enable humans to talk to animals are passed down from father to son or mother to daughter. This tiny child could speak to, as well as understand dogs and probably other animals besides, but she was doing it all through her mind, rather than her mouth.

I knew then that the girl would be the very best company for the boy who was under my protection. The child of a slayer and a whisperer to boot. I had suddenly increased the boy’s chances of survival many fold.

And so, after careful negotiation with the dogs and the promise of being able to come and see her often, the child that I named Macey Merrie came back to Riddington with me and met young Will Silver for the first time. Their friendship was forged under my watchful eye and I kept my word. The dogs became Macey’s constant companions and protectors and as troublesome to the villagers of Riddington as the two children. But I felt much happier knowing that as long as Macey was safe, Will would be too, for the dogs adopted him as one of their own. He became known by them simply as Silver, a name that would stick with him for the rest of his life.  

The Hoarder

She dipped her hand into the box, like she used to with the lucky dip, with a sense of expectation and the possibility of grabbing something of worth. Her fingers wrapped around a small torn piece of paper. "Marbles at dinnertime?" She smiled at the scrawny writing and the memory of it being passed to her at the back of the class through grubby fingers. Most dinners were accompanied by a good game of marbles with willing challengers on the drain by the adventure playground. Her mind drifted contentedly back on her early years. Whilst she was absorbed this way, Tom was out kicking a football around the field with his drinking mates. Unemployment had made him docile and now he seemed unaffected by the news of the baby growing inside her. Fatherhood, she thought, seemed part of life's set pattern to him, whilst she was still coming to terms with the ways it would affect her. She was alone now with her thoughts, her memories and her unborn child.

This particular task she had put off for years. The house, small as it was, was always immaculate, if a little cluttered. Everything had its own special place, she would always say defensively, and sure enough things seemed to belong in their designated spots. She was aware of the slightly strange looks and raised eyebrows when Tom's friends came around and curiously pottered through the mound of nic-nacs in the living room, waiting for the afternoon football scores. Pieces of knarled scrap iron she had found on the beach, the times when, as a child, her father had taken her down to that estuary in Kent. Pressed dried flowers from country walks, a small tinder box containing a tooth and some bits of blond fur from her birthday dog who had died in a car accident. There were vases and the usual sort of decorative ornaments, but her personal memorabilia always took pride of place and prime position. The back bedroom had always been the big exception in the house. Left to its own chaos, it exuded a musty, unkempt atmosphere. From wall to wall were the everyday things that had charted her life to date. It was the only place where she felt completely herself, in amongst her junk as Tom had always referred to it.

The news of the baby had upset the natural flow of both of their lives, even if they hadn't admitted it to one another. It had thrown up all of the usual sorts of spontaneous questions; what sort of person would it be, would it grow up to be prime minister, a professional, an artiste? Then more practically, would it be born normal and grow up like other kids? It had to have a room, for homework, for boy or girl friends, for privacy. Since they had started living together Tom had had a grand plan to do the back room up, to use it as a guest bedroom. She had hoped to put him off, to leave it a haven, a shrine even to her past life. He had at first been cruel about her habit of hoarding, had said it contributed to her dippiness and her general forgetfulness. For her however, it felt exciting every time she opened the door and rediscovered a portion of the person she had grown to be, but he wanted to replace that excitement with blue and cream striped "masculine" look curtains and the clean lines of bare sanded floorboards. He went on and on about this future plan, but he had never quite got around to doing it and she had never quite got around to clearing it out. He blamed his inaction on her hoarding, so the onus was on her to make the first signs of change to the room. Although it went unmentioned they both knew that there wasn't really the room now and she was sure the time would come when she would have to make a break from it all. Tom could only ever see it as an annoying habit of keeping everything that she was ever given, but she had tried to explain that she just became desperately attached to it all.

Now in the safe surroundings of the room she found herself laughing out loud at her innocent and frankly mundane diaries, written as a young adolescent. "Had chips and soggy steak and kidney pie for dinner, peas were nice though, like mum does them. I've noticed Roger looking at me from table seven. Perhaps it was Katy McNee, not me". Inside shoe boxes were valentine cards from still unknown admirers, letters, pictures cut out of magazines. Everything she handled seemed so fragile and yet so special. She was sat on the floor, basking in the warm light of the sun magnified through the window. Life always seemed incongruous to her. If she had been rich or famous, a rock star or a politician, someone that was of interest to everyone, none of this would be the worthless junk that it was. She took in the yellowing, flaking boxes, the photos, the recorder, the writings, everything in that room that was a record of the person she was and said "all of this would be worth hoarding, even desirable or collectable to somebody else if only I hadn't been born me". She felt cheated. Who was to say that her life was any less interesting or valuable as the next persons. A child is just a child when it is born. Who can tell if you are encouraging a real talent or just taking pride in each small achievement? She sank back against the wall feeling upset and confused. She always thought that she was going to be special, that she would make some sort of mark on the world. The only impact she had ever made was being the school champ at marbles and winning at a charity dry cracker eating contest, because she was the only one who hadn't choked. Yet her mother had always believed in her, had kept all of her attempts at art, drama, craft and academia. Now she was to become the mother and would have to nurture talents out of her child. She felt somehow resentful. She was expected to lock away her own memories, her life story, to make way for anothers. When she thought about the challenge of guiding a new personality however, she laughed out loud and wrapped her arms around her stomach. Into her head came a snippet of a song that she remembered mentally composing whilst waiting in the car for her mother and fathers return. She had heard the regular tolling of the church bell in the town and had felt most definitely at home in the world. "The birds were singing, the bells were ringing and the whole world's singing with joy". Sensing the same unconditional happiness, she set about carefully putting all of her scattered childhood memories into black plastic sacks. Tom would be looking for something to do when he came back from his kick around and she hoped he might lay down some wood on the attic floor, so that she could keep her bags safely tucked away for some other quiet Sunday afternoon. Perhaps then they could think about bunnies, clouds and bears rather than masculine blue and cream striped curtains.

When the floor was clear, she once again surveyed that little room and closed her eyes, sighing deeply, breathing in the newly circulating air. Suddenly the breath that she took in was a sharp, panic stricken one. "My God, mother." She flew downstairs, knocking over one of the bags as she went and ran into the little kitchen. Her eyes scanned the work surfaces, the table, that spot on the fridge. Next she repeated the procedure in the front room, then ran desperately to where her coat was loping over the banister in the hall. They were there in her pocket, where she'd left them, the car keys that she never seemed able to find. She got straight in the old Mini and accelerated off at a real pace, up the street and onto the main road into town. It was her mother's birthday tomorrow and yet again she'd left it to the last moment as she always ended up doing. Tom would be returning home about now, tutting at her absence. Whilst she was in the corner shop buying a card, a pen with which to write, and a whole book of stamps because the post office was shut, her eyes caught sight of a book , "Better for Baby" which sat incongruously between the Mills and Boon and Isaac Asimovs. She wondered what wise advice for the new mother lay inside the covers that neither Mills nor Boon nor Asimov could impart. On the spur of the moment, she bought it.

She walked into the kitchen slightly puffed and flustered to find Tom sat down at the table drinking tea with a small note in front of him. A steaming cup was awaiting her. She sat down with her coat still on and giggled at him in recognition of her own scattiness. He showed her the note which he said he had found at the bottom of the stairs, probably, he thought, dropped during her clear out of the back bedroom. On a small Intaflora card were written the simple words "Please Forgive Me", sent to her after an argument they had had several years back and kept as a reminder of the only time he had apologised to her. She was about to ask about footy when Tom, in a slightly sheepish way, said "I've cleared all of that rubbish for you. I gave it to the lads to take to the dump when they dropped me off. That is what you wanted isn't it? It was all bagged up ready to go and I assumed that..." He petered out. She had not even attempted to reply or look up or anything. He had been fully aware that those bags held contents too precious to her to be thrown away, but he saw his first real opportunity to make a new start of things. Although he knew what he'd done was selfish, he saw in it the impetus for change. He rotated the card wildly between his thumb and index finger and looked into her face. He couldn't see anything; not anger, nor regret or unhappiness, but he knew there was a torrent inside. Absently she opened the baby book and read the first few lines of the page that she had randomly landed on. "As your child grows, it will need the security of an encouraging and loving family. Make your child feel special. angHang up the pictures that s(he) draws and keep those little home-made gifts that are given to you out of love. In my own experience they can be very useful to bring back out on 18th birthday celebrations!..." She thought about the irony of the situation; a new life begins and with it a whole new hoarding process, a cycle of proud parents and aspiring children. That little back room would soon be full again and maybe this time, Tom wouldn't consider it an inconvenience. Perhaps he might see them in the same precious light that she had seen her own life's ornaments. She looked up and cupped her hands around the warm mug and let the soothing heat be drawn inwards. "Well, we could definitely do with the space. I've been wondering all afternoon what to do with it all." She paused to look at Tom. "It's mother's birthday tomorrow, I almost forgot."

© Kerrie Clifford 2012

The Oban Lion (a Dream Wars short story)

My name is George Salvinger. I am but a poor excuse for a man. I make a modest income by day from selling other people’s unwanted clothes, books and bric-a-brac and by evening and during the winter months, I am generally to be found in my armchair, with a blanket over my lap and a book in my hand. My wife works hard and feeds me warming suppers whenever I am awake long enough to feel the need to be sustained by hunks of bread and stew. I have read many tales, from many wonderful minds. The people inside the covers of these books are infinitely more knowledgeable and far greater, far more adventurous than I. However, little did I know that someone like myself, someone poor, but blessed in so many other ways, would be hailed as the one of the greatest explorers of all time. Me! And at forty! I have had the most marvellous new lease of life and all because of my inability to keep my eyes open!

It was my very habit of dozing off to escape the cold and hunger of a harsh English winter that brought me fame and fortune. The irony is not lost on me believe me. It was I you see, who found out the secret to the realm of sleep. I thought I had hit gold when I realised that there was actually another world out there, a world with its own rules where we live out another life entirely. But when I discovered the actual building where we dream - well it changed my life. I was hailed as a hero. Since making my discovery and naming the building, I have dedicated my life to exploring the rich and vibrant worlds inside that miracle of construction. I know I will die before I have fully mapped all six hundred and sixty six floors of the Dream Arena, for so I named it, but I shall find a worthy successor to continue my work when the time draws closer. What follow are some of my diary entries and recollections upon stepping inside each floor for the very first time.  

Floor Number: 104

Environment: Snow and mountains. Sparsely inhabited

Beasts: Oban lion (of the flying variety)

I am a man who is very at home with tea and slippers. The unpredictability of the outdoors I find unsettling. Imagine my trepidation each time I opened a new door and set foot inside an entirely new land! But the excitement of what I might find on the other side of those doors always spurred me on. I dragged my weary body up the winding stone stairwell of the Dream Arena and made my way to the next floor on my list to be mapped, floor one hundred and four. I remember cursing as I slipped over many times on the dank, slimy steps. So as you can very well imagine, I was not in the best of moods as I stood before the flaking sky blue door. My hand went up to the symbol carved upon the door. I felt strangely excited just to its touch. It was unfamiliar, yet uplifting; the symbol of a lion in full, glorious flight, a proud looking red lion with wings. I took a rubbing of it so that it could appear alongside the words in my diary for generations to come to know what was behind this door. 

As my fingers clenched around the pitted iron door handle, I knew immediately something of the world beyond. My skin almost froze to the metal and indeed it took some considerable and painful prising to remove one from the other.

When the door finally opened, it was onto the most magnificent and dramatic mountains scenery imaginable. White witches hats, dramatic snow laden peaks went on for as far as my eyes could see. The shadows cast by the high peaks were midnight black, in sharp contrast to the gleaming crystal white blanket of snow. It was a most peculiar combination for a man more used to the rolling green countryside of England.

Something sizeable moved across my line of sight. I heard the warning grumble before I set eyes on the beast. My eyes scanned the snow around me, but the sound did not come from the ground beneath my feet - it came from the air! Before I knew what was happening I was knocked to the ground by a giant creature that swooped down upon me. Logic would dictate that it was a bird, but its size and weight and the sheer force of the punch told me otherwise. I sat up, covered in snow, shivering with cold and fright, to find that I was face to face was a lion. It gave me no time think how I should approach it, before it roared at me, causing a deep crack in the surrounding landscape and setting a shelf of ice sliding down the mountainside towards us.

I was unable to react from fear. The lion looked into my eyes for the very briefest of seconds and then spread itself flat upon the ground and growled ‘Get on!’ My mind went into a flutter. Did the lion just speak I asked myself? Is it friendly or does it mean me harm? Is this a dream or a nightmare? But something about the look that we exchanged made me follow its orders and climb onto the bony part of its back. Suddenly we were airborne and I can honestly say that I have experienced nothing like it before or since. Its musty smell was quite overwhelming – sour but intoxicating. I could feel its muscles rippling under my thighs as I clung on, gripping the creature’s flowing blush red mane for stability.

This creature seemed to sense that I meant it no harm and took me high into the mountains, into what can only be described as a snow top oasis. Inside the crater, for I cannot think of another description for such a passably warm place, there was a melt water lake and a colony of similar looking lions with wings. At that time there were maybe sixty or more of the lions living out a happy life in an otherwise forbidding environment. Now of course there are many, many fewer, wiped out by the relentless power and overwhelming number of nightmare creatures flooding the hostile landscape of this tranquil floor. I was looking down upon an entire colony of mythical Oban lions and the beast upon which I chanced on that very first reconnoitre to the level, was their leader and king, Kear. He and I became firm friends over the years. Many more times did I set foot on their floor and very often I was met on some cold and windswept peak by Kear himself, for he seemed to have the uncanny ability to know when I was coming.

I know that others, as they retrace my footsteps will be eager to know how the Oban lions got their wings. Well this was the story told to me by Kear in a snow hole in a most aggressive snow storm as we tried to pass the time and keep from succumbing to the cold.

Seven generations back, Kear’s ancestor first set foot on level one hundred and four. The lion Goliath, for so he was called, found himself alone among a scenery that was quite the opposite of what he was used to. He wandered the foothills of the mountains, trying all the time to head away from the cold, in the hope of finding milder weather. The fierce, twisted mountain winds played with him, telling him that sanctuary was further and higher into the Krugerite mountains, a place where there was warmth and water and animals to eat. Goliath looked from peak to peak not knowing if this fabled place, this whispered oasis existed. Lions are not known for giving up easily, so he decided to try and climb the mountain upon which he stood to see if he could get a better view of the vast mountain range around him. The Krugerites however are cruel and despite making several impressive forays further up into the high peaks, in the end, he always ended up back down at the bottom, further weakened and often injured from the strenuous climb. It was as if the mountains enjoyed his company for they would not let him escape. He tried other approaches, setting his paws for the lower slopes and walking for as far as he could, but he only ever came across more mountains and more foothills. There was just no escaping the harsh, permanent winter. Goliath became thinner and thinner and more and more miserable. He became so malnourished that he began to hallucinate. At first he thought he could see the warm savannah plains far off in the distance and then he began to see fellow travellers treading the snowy mountains beside him.

Goliath knew that he was dying, but was desperate not to die alone, so he embraced his strange visions and began to talk to the strangers. Some came and went, snatched away by the biting wind, but one – well one stayed by his side and matched him stagger for stagger, step for step. This creature was a tiny, red breasted robin. Goliath asked its name. ‘Oban’ it replied. “That’s a very grand name for a small bird” said Goliath. The robin flew up onto the lion’s nose and whispered, “my parents were just ordinary robins, but they loved fairytales. The most important one to us robins is the story of Oban, the heroic robin who gave all future robins their red breasts”.

As they spoke, a cold front like no other that Goliath had experienced pressed in on them. The temperature plummeted to new lows. Goliath’s beautiful russet mane froze and he tried to dig himself into a small snow pit to sit it out. Little Oban nestled down in Goliath’s mane and kept him company by telling him the fairytale that his parents so loved.

Robin’s of old did not have red breasts, Oban began recounting the story. They were small and brown and cheeky, but they were plain. A devoted mother gave birth to four chicks, only three of which ever flew the nest. The fourth, a chick she named Oban, was weak and sickly and spent most of its time trying to keep warm in its nest. He spent a lot of time alone, as his mother taught his brothers and sisters about the seasons and food and the dangers around them. Oban thought of none of these things. He thought of keeping warm and very little else. A hazy, numb mind, brought on by frailty of body came over him and he succumbed to the enticing world of sleep. In this world he had a raging fire around him, a fire that always burned but never hurt, a fire that kept him warm and comforted him in lieu of his mother’s embrace. Occasionally Oban would open his eyes and peek out at the real world, hoping that the fire might be real, but all he ever saw were the twigs and moss of his nest. For longer and longer periods he slipped into his warm and comforting world until one day he did not bother to open his eyes and lived entirely in the world of his own making. On that day Oban’s mother came back to feed him and found him cold and lifeless in his nest. She put her wings out to embrace him and kiss him goodbye and when her feathers touched him, a shot of energy fizzed right through her. For a passing second she felt that their nest was on fire and she tried to beat it down with her wings, but the flames would not extinguish. They raged all around her, but they did not burn. They engulfed the nest and then moved onto her body, passing through her feathers until they simmered gently inside her breast. She stopped and savoured the warmth, just as Oban had done. He had passed the gift of warmth, of a blazing red breast to his mother so that she would always feel the warmth that he had never once felt. From then onwards, all robins descended from Oban’s mother were born with red breasts and fire in their bellies.

“That is a beautiful story” said Goliath. “It is, isn’t it?” agreed Oban. “It is beautiful because Oban gave the gift of his imagination to his mother. He wanted it so badly, he made it happen, but not for him, for somebody else whom he loved”.

Goliath smiled and shut his eyes, thinking about the story. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful to have that red breast and those cheeky wings to keep him warm and take him beyond the labyrinthine foothills? As Goliath drifted into unconsciousness, in his dreams, Oban told him this same story many times over. Each time, like an infant, Goliath enjoyed the fact that the story stayed the same, he enjoyed the feeling of security that the words gave him and wonderful elation of knowing that there was, in the end, a happy resolution. Goliath sunk his whole being into the story for what seemed an eternity, an eternity that Goliath was convinced was his pathway to death.

However, wake he did. The snow had stopped buffeting him, the hole in which he had sheltered was melted and the icy wind was tamed. He couldn’t believe how different he felt. Strong and sturdy, upbeat and upstanding. However, Oban the little red robin who had shared his lowest moments was nowhere to be seen. He got to his feet and stretched out the limbs that had been crumpled beneath him for the longest time. He shook his damp mane and to his horror, then consternation and then delight he realised that he was really quite different. His fur and mane had changed colour. It had gone from a shade of golden straw to a russet red. There was a beautiful deep ginger tone to his whole body, a warming glow that seemed to shimmer all around him. Most alarming of all however was the fact that he now had the addition of wings on his body. Wings! He looked around again, dying to share this miracle with his only friend, but the little robin was nowhere to be seen. He wasted no time in trying them out. Despite his bulk, the wings lifted him off the ground well, and although he was shaky and uncoordinated at first, he was blessed with soft landings. Finally he began to get more confident and took to the air to look for his friend. His new wing muscles worked hard to aid his climb through the strong air currants around the peaks. He looked down at his shadow and roared in triumph.

Goliath made it up to the clouds and fought against the winds that ripped at the fur on his body. He struggled to keep his height, but all the while he was searching for Oban. Then the wind and the clouds spat him out into milder air and stronger sunlight. There below him was a shorn off and hollowed out mountain that could for all the world have been a volcano. At its centre was a lake. Not a spot of snow could be seen on the ground. Tiny shapes ran this way and that as his shadow passed overhead. Life! There was life below and Goliath set down in this new territory. From here he sent out signals to the surrounding floors of the Dream Arena, calling lions to his oasis and soon he had founded his very own pack of lions, with the new generation bearing strawberry coloured fur and wings. He named the new species the Oban lions in honour of the friend that had given him hope, given him inspiration and ultimately had saved his life. Indeed from my own point of view, never a truer friend did I have in all my wanderings through the Dream Arena than Kear and I would lay down my life for him as he would for me.

Note from the author, Kerrie Clifford. For over ten years, my mind has been hopelessly lost in the timeless dreamscapes and wonderful adventures to be had in the State of Sleep. I have built a richly imagined world for my characters and creatures as they investigate the many floors and unique worlds of the Dream Arena. So much writing and so many ideas have been discarded along the way. These blogs have finally enabled me to find a home for all these extra bits and a place where I can pen additional details for the world. When read in conjunction with the books which are profiled on dreamwars.co.uk and dynamotales.com, the dreams that live in my mind fully come alive on the page. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this.

http://www.dreamwars.co.uk

http://www.dynamotales.com

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The State of Sleep (a Dream Wars short story)

When you close your eyes at night, where does your mind escape to? It is a question puzzled over by neurologists, psychologists, polysomnographists (those who study sleep) and oneirologists (those who study dreams). Unbelievably , I know the answer. Little old me! I have made the discovery of a generation and I stumbled upon it quite by chance. I found an old book in a bookshop near my home town called ‘Dynamo Tales’. I picked it up quite by chance as I was looking for a book about dynamite! It said it was part of a series but I have never seen any books from this series despite extensive searching, googling and library visits. The book was badly damaged. In fact the bookshop owner was embarrassed to take any money from me, but the few tangible words inside took my breath away. They started me on a long search and now, like Sir Walter Raleigh, or Christopher Columbus, I can reveal my discoveries to the world. These are the very words that set me off on my adventures. The man who wrote them is someone known only as Kasparo.

“To me, the greatest explorer of all is George Salvinger. Nearly a thousand years ago Salvinger discovered one of the great wonders of the unknown world, the Dream Arena. It holds many adventures for those willing to step inside. Those who do, must be brave. They must take risks and dare to do something new. Fortune and misfortune come in equal measures. It is my job to sift through the many wonderful dream chronicles from the Arena and pick out the very best for publication”.

So who is this Kasparo and can this place, this Dream Arena really exist? These were the two questions that have occupied my every breath for last eight years. Having read these spine chilling words who could fail to make further investigations as to whether this place, this Dream Arena was real or not. I began a long journey that led me to a completely new and undiscovered world. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I present to you a land known as the State of Sleep. Surely I hear you say, somebody must have discovered this land before? Well this is entirely what I thought, but it seems not. It seems as if it has its own unique and wonderful fortifications. As you pass through its walls to re-enter the here and now, you are persuaded to forget everything that you discovered along the way. Now some of you are well practiced at bypassing these fortifications and have found ways of remembering snippets of your adventures in the State, but most simply forget. So what is this place, this State of Sleep like I hear you ask? Is it peaceful? Is it big? Please tell. Well yes it is big. It is vast in fact. We, the people who visit are known by the indigenous people as ‘dociles’. We come, we dream, we leave, but they, the prestos, the guardians of dreams remain there forever, along with the dream creatures that we have created and nightmare beasts that we wished we hadn’t. So it is also very far from peaceful. A war rages there, dream wars that have spread throughout the land and beyond. 

What about me? I hear you ask. Well you, one of many millions of dociles that visit the state every night - you will not linger long on the streets and in the countryside of the State of Sleep for long. Your instincts draw you to the centre-piece of the state, a building of such epic size and proportions, that it is hard to put into words. You and me and all the many others who visit, will make our way to the Dream Arena, the building spoken of by the mysterious Kasparo, the place that I so badly wanted to discover. Now that I have, I realise that this was only the start of my discoveries.

This building where people go to dream spans six hundred and sixty five floors. There are doorways leading into six hundred and sixty six different dream worlds. Imagine it! That takes a lot of exploring I can tell you. But explore I have in the interests of science and discovery, but I am a long way off a full report to the people of the planet. That, I am told by the prestos takes a lifetime and I have only spent eight years wandering the levels and writing of the people, the creatures, the flora and fauna that reside inside.

So out of the six hundred and sixty five known floors which do I start with? Well I will ponder that question a little while longer and decide in my next blog. Oh and I have also made an even more wonderful discovery recently. There is a secret floor. A six hundred and sixty sixth floor exists, but even the most esteemed thinkers in the land, even those who have spent many lifetimes living inside the Arena, do not know of its whereabouts. They have heard the rumours, but they do not know if they are true. So I have decided to make it my mission not only to bring the universe of the Dream Arena to you all, but to see if I can find this secret floor. I hope you will enjoy my discoveries and remember something important next time you close your eyes at night. In dreams there are no fences. 

http://www.dreamwars.co.uk

http://www.dynamotales.com

http://twitter.com/dreamadelica

Sweet dreams

Childhood dreams are the Valhalla, the Nirvana, the very pinnacle of dreaming by which all others are measured. We all want a bit of that youthful sunshine, hope, tenaciousness and drama back in our lives don’t we? In my dream last night, I had to outrun the tsunami on my own, but back then, my family and friends helped me to survive wars, escape baddies, slay giants and outrun the wolves. We found our way through the maze of life as a team. All I want are some cool dreams again. Surely it can’t be that difficult. So I have spent a few valuable seconds thinking about it and I think I have come up with the answer to the riddle of how to unlock the youthful mind. Well actually it is the key to unlocking my youthful mind, but others are very welcome to try it too. Sorry to say it in this era of dental floss, oral hygiene and five pieces of fruit and veg. a day, but the answer for me is very simple. Sweets.

I had my very own sweet factory right there inside by bedroom. The pipes ran all around my room and the machines churned away inside my wardrobe. My bed was a giant press, clanging up and down with me on it, cutting all sorts of shapes and designs of sweet. The sticky nectar that actually made the little confectionary beauties trickled, in an elaborate trail down the patterns on my wallpaper; tiny triangles that made bigger triangles that seemed to float above the surface of the wall. The best part was the chute that came out of the ceiling and fired the sweets down onto my chest of drawers. I had my very own shrine to gum disease right there beside me. All the sweets from all around my bedroom ended up in a beautiful, multi-coloured mountain within arm reach of deep sleep.

But reality is cruel as my bruised arm and empty chest of drawers bore testament. Wouldn’t the world be a far more exciting and enjoyable place if we could live our dreams. I for one would face life with fewer lines, some incredible confectionary related entrepreneurial ideas and a whacking big toothless grin! 


http://www.dreamwars.co.uk
http://www.dynamotales.com
http://twitter.com/dreamadelica