Ceaseless in Dreams

The man is running down a darkened alley. The alley has no end. There is probably fog or mist, and many shadows. He can't see the thing behind him. He can't hear it, either. But he knows it's there. He splashes through a puddle, and the water's cold lingers against his skin.

"Oh, God," he's saying. "Please. This is a dream. I know it is. Please wake up. Someone wake me up."

He cannot wake up. Not because this is not a dream; it is. He's quite correct about that.

But he will not awaken.

He is not allowed to.

Another Quick Jog Around the Campfire

I have coffee. I don't brew it anymore, just chew the beans and swallow, bitter-bitter. I have energy drinks and a small baggie filled with white powder that I'm maybe seventy-five percent sure is not laundry detergent. I have a pin to sit on and a rubber band around my wrist to snap. I must watch the edge of the woods until they come back and we know if we are saved or doomed.

You cannot sleep in the Livewood, not even here on the edge. This is the land where dreams come true.

I remember some of my dreams.

Inspiration

I had a dream last night. I dreamed of gears and smoke and sharp edges. There was a clanging like the beat of a heart, if a heart were steel and heat and fire and fuel and as big as the world. I saw wheels, and I was above the wheels and beneath the wheels and inside of the wheels, and then the wheels started to turn and I couldn't stop them and oh God the screams...

This morning, I had a wrench in my hands and grease on my sheets. Something is rumbling down in the garage. I'm afraid...