Snippet Three: Dreams
This snippet focuses on Victor dealing with Astralfield's special quirk during his early days in Mallow Hallow -- the fact that, within its borders, dreams come to life. (Well, also that the domain automatically puts you to sleep by a certain hour, but that's less important to these stories.) What writer could pass an opportunity like THAT up? Here I'm exploring some of the nicer dreams Victor had during his stay, based off his past and experiences he had in the game world (like learning some people know Alice as a blonde, instead of a brunette). It ends on kind of a sad note, but hey, he didn't have a nightmare, right?
Yeah, that's the next snippet.
Yeah, that's the next snippet.
His first night, knocked abruptly unconscious on an old wooden bench in the great wide open, he dreams of white mushrooms with glowing green stripes on their caps, and butterflies made of bread and butter, and grasshoppers whose bodies are teapots, and bright red bleeding-heart-type flowers that light up as you pass. He’s never seen any of these things in reality, but, thanks to Alice’s stories and artwork, he feels he knows them intimately.
He sees them in reality the next day. And while it’s slightly embarrassing to have something from his mind made manifest for all to see, it’s also kind of comforting. Alice may not be with him in the flesh, but being buzzed by bread-and-butterflies and watching the flowers glow as he walks by makes him feel like she’s here in spirit.
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Alex’s talk about movies and books prompts a dream where he finds himself in a library, with a huge leather-bound tome set out before him. The title is faded gold leaf, and reads simply, “Wonderland.” When he opens it, spidery black words crawl across the pages, spelling out the stories that Alice has regaled him with time and time again. And the illustrations move as if they were alive, showing the Lion and the Unicorn fighting for the crown, the ugly Duchess sneezing her skull wide open, the Hatter enjoying a tea party with the March Hare and the Dormouse, and the Queen of Hearts losing her own head to the Vorpal Blade.
He finds the book lying outside on the ground the next day, as if in wait. He willingly falls for its trap and reads through it again, watching the scenes play out in ink and paper theater. It’s accurate as far as he can remember – except that the Alice in the illustrations is blonde.
Why on earth did Alex think she was blonde? he wonders with a frown, shutting the book. Why did this ‘Disney’ think that? Couldn’t they find a photograph or painting of her, showing what color her hair truly was?
Unless. . .unless they did, and she just happens to be blonde where Alex comes from.
That’s a weird thought, and he’s not sure he likes it.
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He dreams of a church at night, and sad blue eyes set in a sad blue face, and butterflies silhouetted against the moon. It’s a bittersweet dream, and the end, with the aching knowledge of what will come after this moment of peace for the most unfortunate bride, pulls him out of sleep earlier than normal.
The butterflies flutter outside his window as dawn tints the sky pink, still aglow with impossible moonlight. He tries using a fountain pen he’s procured to draw them. He gets a halfway-decent sketch, but – it just doesn’t feel right. He needs his quills if he wants to capture the true magic of this place properly. I should see if there’s any place where I could buy one or two. . . .
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He dreams of music. Of gleaming keyboards and tuning strings and a passion he can express no other way. He dreams of his parents’ music room, and the Everglots’ front hall, and the Ball & Socket’s private corner, and Houndsditch’s front foyer as he recalls every composition he’s ever put to paper and every little tune that’s wormed its way into his ear.
The piano – an upright like Houndsditch’s, bathed in the colors of the Land of the Dead, with a gold Harryhausen nameplate like the one the Everglots’ instrument boasted and the same perfect pitch as his parents’ expensive monster – blocks his way out of his room the next day, but he doesn’t care. He just sits on the stool and plays, taking only the briefest of breaks for food and toilet. A hall doorway isn’t the most private place in the world to play, but Victor completely ignores any people who may be lingering nearby, utterly lost in his music. He pours out all his feelings, all his wonder and worry, into the notes, stopping only when the clock in his room warns him the time of sleep is approaching. And then he examines the piano from top to bottom with a watchmaker’s eye before he retires for the night, fixing the image of it in his mind so he’ll dream of it again.
The next day, the piano obligingly returns – but it’s not outside his door. Rather, Victor finds it on the roof of the building, apparently enjoying the morning sun. This could be a problem, he realizes. Even if I do dream of it again tonight, who knows where it might end up the next morning? No, this just won’t do. He reluctantly adds “find out if there’s any way I can get some sort of piano into my room – a real one” to his list of things to do. A full-size one probably won’t fit in his limited space, but he’s heard that there’s some sort of amazing technological wonderland right next door to Astralfield. Surely they’ve come up with a way to shrink one?
In the meantime, though, he makes himself a picnic lunch and supper, then spends more happy hours on the roof, indulging in his music once more.
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He dreams of her – of those shining green eyes, that tousled dark hair, those pale tea rose lips. He dreams of her sitting beside him at the piano, smiling brightly as he pours out his feelings for her in song. He dreams of her standing before a cracked and faded mirror, decrying the ugliness of her green dress while he stands to the side and thinks that nothing could look ugly while on her (although, admittedly, that frock does come close). He dreams of them waltzing again to the tune of the music box, ignoring the jibes and teasing from the crowds of children and the disapproving glares of his parents and a certain doctor. He dreams of them sitting outside in the grass that never actually existed in the East End, watching a sunset that’s far too gorgeous to be real.
He dreams of the feel of her arms around him in a comforting embrace, and the taste of her lips pressed against his.
She’s sitting at the table when he opens his eyes that morning, clad in her favorite black-and-white dress. Her eyes are bright, her hair is slightly messy, and her beautiful pink lips are curved in a slight, welcoming smile. She’s even got two muffins and two bottles of milk on the table, clearly ready to share a nice breakfast with him.
He breaks down crying, because it’s too perfect to believe. “You’re not her,” he whispers over and over again. “You’re not her.”
But he doesn’t have the strength to order her to go away. And when her arms slip around him, they almost – almost – feel exactly like the real thing. “I’m all you’ve got,” she tells him – no rancor, no sarcasm, no bitterness. Just plain honest truth.
So he spends the day with her. Tells her about how he’s settling in. How he’s talked to a death-loving alien and an excitable pink pony and a green-haired woman who knows even more than he does what it’s like to lose yourself. How this world has given him mushrooms and butterflies and pianos all based on his sleeping brain’s wonderings. How he’s making sure to keep good thoughts in mind before 10 P.M. every night because he’s terrified of what will happen if he has a nightmare. How he’s growing to kind of like it here, but he still misses home a bit. And she listens attentively, nodding and smiling and throwing out the occasional playful or sarcastic comment. Just as if she were real.
But he can’t quite make himself believe she’s real. And while he spills his heart out to her, he doesn’t kiss her, doesn’t do anything more affectionate beyond hold her hand. And when he wakes up the next morning and she’s no longer there, he’s partly relieved that this world can no longer mock him with Alice’s absence.
And partly devastated – because who knows when he’ll get to see her again.
He sees them in reality the next day. And while it’s slightly embarrassing to have something from his mind made manifest for all to see, it’s also kind of comforting. Alice may not be with him in the flesh, but being buzzed by bread-and-butterflies and watching the flowers glow as he walks by makes him feel like she’s here in spirit.
*******************************************************************************************
Alex’s talk about movies and books prompts a dream where he finds himself in a library, with a huge leather-bound tome set out before him. The title is faded gold leaf, and reads simply, “Wonderland.” When he opens it, spidery black words crawl across the pages, spelling out the stories that Alice has regaled him with time and time again. And the illustrations move as if they were alive, showing the Lion and the Unicorn fighting for the crown, the ugly Duchess sneezing her skull wide open, the Hatter enjoying a tea party with the March Hare and the Dormouse, and the Queen of Hearts losing her own head to the Vorpal Blade.
He finds the book lying outside on the ground the next day, as if in wait. He willingly falls for its trap and reads through it again, watching the scenes play out in ink and paper theater. It’s accurate as far as he can remember – except that the Alice in the illustrations is blonde.
Why on earth did Alex think she was blonde? he wonders with a frown, shutting the book. Why did this ‘Disney’ think that? Couldn’t they find a photograph or painting of her, showing what color her hair truly was?
Unless. . .unless they did, and she just happens to be blonde where Alex comes from.
That’s a weird thought, and he’s not sure he likes it.
*******************************************************************************************
He dreams of a church at night, and sad blue eyes set in a sad blue face, and butterflies silhouetted against the moon. It’s a bittersweet dream, and the end, with the aching knowledge of what will come after this moment of peace for the most unfortunate bride, pulls him out of sleep earlier than normal.
The butterflies flutter outside his window as dawn tints the sky pink, still aglow with impossible moonlight. He tries using a fountain pen he’s procured to draw them. He gets a halfway-decent sketch, but – it just doesn’t feel right. He needs his quills if he wants to capture the true magic of this place properly. I should see if there’s any place where I could buy one or two. . . .
*******************************************************************************************
He dreams of music. Of gleaming keyboards and tuning strings and a passion he can express no other way. He dreams of his parents’ music room, and the Everglots’ front hall, and the Ball & Socket’s private corner, and Houndsditch’s front foyer as he recalls every composition he’s ever put to paper and every little tune that’s wormed its way into his ear.
The piano – an upright like Houndsditch’s, bathed in the colors of the Land of the Dead, with a gold Harryhausen nameplate like the one the Everglots’ instrument boasted and the same perfect pitch as his parents’ expensive monster – blocks his way out of his room the next day, but he doesn’t care. He just sits on the stool and plays, taking only the briefest of breaks for food and toilet. A hall doorway isn’t the most private place in the world to play, but Victor completely ignores any people who may be lingering nearby, utterly lost in his music. He pours out all his feelings, all his wonder and worry, into the notes, stopping only when the clock in his room warns him the time of sleep is approaching. And then he examines the piano from top to bottom with a watchmaker’s eye before he retires for the night, fixing the image of it in his mind so he’ll dream of it again.
The next day, the piano obligingly returns – but it’s not outside his door. Rather, Victor finds it on the roof of the building, apparently enjoying the morning sun. This could be a problem, he realizes. Even if I do dream of it again tonight, who knows where it might end up the next morning? No, this just won’t do. He reluctantly adds “find out if there’s any way I can get some sort of piano into my room – a real one” to his list of things to do. A full-size one probably won’t fit in his limited space, but he’s heard that there’s some sort of amazing technological wonderland right next door to Astralfield. Surely they’ve come up with a way to shrink one?
In the meantime, though, he makes himself a picnic lunch and supper, then spends more happy hours on the roof, indulging in his music once more.
*******************************************************************************************
He dreams of her – of those shining green eyes, that tousled dark hair, those pale tea rose lips. He dreams of her sitting beside him at the piano, smiling brightly as he pours out his feelings for her in song. He dreams of her standing before a cracked and faded mirror, decrying the ugliness of her green dress while he stands to the side and thinks that nothing could look ugly while on her (although, admittedly, that frock does come close). He dreams of them waltzing again to the tune of the music box, ignoring the jibes and teasing from the crowds of children and the disapproving glares of his parents and a certain doctor. He dreams of them sitting outside in the grass that never actually existed in the East End, watching a sunset that’s far too gorgeous to be real.
He dreams of the feel of her arms around him in a comforting embrace, and the taste of her lips pressed against his.
She’s sitting at the table when he opens his eyes that morning, clad in her favorite black-and-white dress. Her eyes are bright, her hair is slightly messy, and her beautiful pink lips are curved in a slight, welcoming smile. She’s even got two muffins and two bottles of milk on the table, clearly ready to share a nice breakfast with him.
He breaks down crying, because it’s too perfect to believe. “You’re not her,” he whispers over and over again. “You’re not her.”
But he doesn’t have the strength to order her to go away. And when her arms slip around him, they almost – almost – feel exactly like the real thing. “I’m all you’ve got,” she tells him – no rancor, no sarcasm, no bitterness. Just plain honest truth.
So he spends the day with her. Tells her about how he’s settling in. How he’s talked to a death-loving alien and an excitable pink pony and a green-haired woman who knows even more than he does what it’s like to lose yourself. How this world has given him mushrooms and butterflies and pianos all based on his sleeping brain’s wonderings. How he’s making sure to keep good thoughts in mind before 10 P.M. every night because he’s terrified of what will happen if he has a nightmare. How he’s growing to kind of like it here, but he still misses home a bit. And she listens attentively, nodding and smiling and throwing out the occasional playful or sarcastic comment. Just as if she were real.
But he can’t quite make himself believe she’s real. And while he spills his heart out to her, he doesn’t kiss her, doesn’t do anything more affectionate beyond hold her hand. And when he wakes up the next morning and she’s no longer there, he’s partly relieved that this world can no longer mock him with Alice’s absence.
And partly devastated – because who knows when he’ll get to see her again.