Wonder House

The prompt was to write a fantasy fiction or a poem about your most recent dream(s). There is no word count or time limit for this challenge.

I absolutely love, love (#doublelove) the concept of this challenge, it really harps on the creative talent of the writer while inviting some new concepts that we may never have even considered. Be that as it may, a majority of the time my dreams make such little sense, I couldn't rightly make a story about having to beat Tom Hanks in dominoes or else my bedroom would explode. That coupled with sleeping in 10-minute intervals as of late, I couldn’t exactly pin down any sensible story. So that got me thinking about certain recurring dreams. Maybe they'd grant me some type of workable material? In my endeavor, I've managed to single out two very distinct patterns. The first, stark as it may be is the non-vocal appearance of people who have since passed. In the second pattern, I seem to receive some type of new house or property, usually grandiose in design, with endless rooms and weird nonsensical installments, like a screaming jukebox. (If there are any dream interpreters out there, have at it.) This challenge also got me thinking about another odd dream-like occurrence I'm all too familiar with. That concept is lucid dreaming. “Wow, so you can control your dreams?” Is usually what I hear when I confess my odd ability. In response I take the entirety of my hand and gently palm their face, snuffing out any form of positivity and incite that I may have some type of superpower. Unfortunately, it doesn't really work like that. Regardless of your state of awareness, you are still at the mercy of your subconscious. I'll use an example: As soon as you realize you are in a dream I'm sure there's a laundry list of advertable activities you could think of doing, but for this, I'll just use flying as the main point. You accept the reality and you're ready to go skybound but right before take off a thought slips into your head “But what if I can't.” That singular intrusive notion ensures you're not leaving the ground. Awareness and control are two very different things in this matter, unfortunately. I literally waste my time cheating on my diet while I'm lucid dreaming, I shit you not. I'll eat three bags of chips because I know calories don't count in the dream world. See, way more complicated than control. From these less-than-subtle touchpoints, I was able to compile a story. with heavy laden explanation, I present to you the fourth installment from J-Rizzo publishing “Wonder House”

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He waded in the boundless sea, lapping the taste of brine with each stormless current. Mindlessly stroking through churning waters he saw his transgressions peer back at him in the crystal blue before they faded in the trifling wake. He could spend the rest of his days in this room built of memories, but he knew he had to move on, he knew granted wish lay before him, and a worrisome fog clipped at his heels.

Where's the door? He thought, trying to will it into existence. Where would I even find a gateway in an endless ocean?

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“How does it work then, How do I find the room I'm looking for,” Giacomo asked, gently gripping his mug.

“By using your mind, of course.” The old man in tattered robes tapped at his head with gnarled finger gesturing at the tool in question. He then gracefully positioned his long snowy beard to the side, room for a slipshod slurp of tea.

Slightly peeved by his lack of urgency Gicamo inquired further.

“Care to expound?”

“Surly, the ‘Wonder House’ as it were, is assembled by its capricious guest. Internal pathways, constructed by the wanderer's imagination. If it's to be thought of, it is to be visited.”

“So I just visualize what I want and it comes to be, The room changes exactly according to my design?” he retorted with a question to simplify the mystic's statement.

“Not quite my dear friend, The mind of the human species is complex. Hardships, bygone catastrophe, delirium, hopelessness, and aggregated overthought seem to generate illusions of alternative perception, plaguing the ordinary and extraordinary thinker alike, pulling you away from intentional design, like a tug from a thread it strays you far from your lineage. This is one key element that separates us from animals, our subconscious here in the real world, a subsequent distraction, in the ‘Wonder House’ however, it can be your biggest foe.”

Once more Giacomo sought to simplify things.

“So I just need to focus?”

“Precisely.”

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Only in the grips of the present situation did Giacomo find out the wizard's explanation of the subconscious was spot on. He was literally trapped in a sea of reminiscing. Caught up in memories of when he and his beloved would tickle the laboring tide moments before she would plunge into the ambiance of calm indigo inviting him to do the same.

But now isn't the time to think of such things, he had to move on. At the very least he’d need another door, another room. Even if it wasn’t his final destination the faux progress would be enough to keep hope alive. He hammered the water with open palms, kicking instinctually as he carved through empty space, hoping the repetitive movement would calm his mind. Eyes clamped tight, he recited over and over, I need a door, I need a door, I need a door. Momentum ceased when he abruptly crumpled into something peculiarly rigid, unfurling himself like a spent mattress spring, he released the tight grip on his spent eyes. There it was decreed by his impromptu mantra. An old pine wood door laced with withered vines. Without hesitation he crashed through.

A sudden coolness bit at his exposed appendages. He tried to take inventory, but he couldn't shake the sudden unnerving silence. Sprawled out before him was a golden wheat hill, like a bloated frog's belly covered in yellow barley. He saw nothing beyond the risen ground, just an empty void of swirling black. He shook his head from the nothingness before he was lost in its grasp. Lending his gaze to the horizon he saw it speckled with light, like silver glitter thrown over ink.

He pondered over the idea of much-needed rest, after all here would be more than perfect, and his achy bones seemed to agree. But his incessant determination shattered the thought. I need to keep going, this isn't what I came for. He prepped for another bout of magical materialization. But before he could submit to the learned ritual: a voice entwined on the wind tickled his ear.

“I'm afraid you're coming with me, friend!”

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The old warlock replenished his tea before gesturing the pot towards Giacomo. He waved a hand, politely declining the favor.

“So beyond getting lost in thought, in the most literal sense possible, is there anything else I have to worry about?”

“Oh surely!” the wizard exclaimed.

“You'd be wise to watch for the constable.”

“The constable? What does he do?”

“He has been roving ‘Wonder House’ since its inception, tracking from room to dream incepted room, hoping to catch its creator, and cast them back to the real world never to return .”

“That's horrible, why would anybody do that?”

“Well, the unfortunate fact stands here in the real world just as it does in ‘Wonder House’; some people just want to kill your dreams.”

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Dread in human form had appeared, fully suited with a neatly fastened silver button navy tunic, topped with a custodian hat where a single oversized badge of polished gold lay dead center, like a northern star in the night sky.

He snapped his baton repeatedly into his leather-gloved hand, each crack audibly louder than the next.

“F'raid your trips over son.”

Time slowed as the lawman shuffled his way through the short wheat.

This couldn't be, I haven't, I haven't seen her yet.

The rising determination began to melt away his stifling exhaustion, granting clarity to see forth through the current issue.

The suit was but ten paces from his position. He tiptoed backward discreetly to buy himself a diminutive amount of problem-solving.

He remembers the words of the friendly sorcerer.

“In the ‘Wonder House’ your subconscious can be your biggest foe.”

At that moment, he’d make it his biggest ally.

Eyes welded tight, he calmed his mind, directing it to a single point. Not a moment after his internal recital the constable gave an audible gasp.

He flung his batton sideways grasping at his freshly minted uniform. A pink silk tutu and skin-tight stockings. He was ready for the evening ballet.

Noting the sudden exposure he rammed the front of his tutu over his spindly white leggings.

“What have you done!” he screamed.

He charged headstrong towards Giacomo.

He couldn't even commit to laughing at the lunacy of it all, he had to stay focused.

Not fingertips away the officer shook, as his legs stammered like cattails in a strong wind. Like overripe jam, they wiggled until he fell.

Irate he clawed at the soft dirt, idly making his way toward Giacomo. Hollering like a man possessed.

“YOU CAN'T DO THIS, YOU'LL BE EXILED I PROMISE YOU!”

Giacomo needed a door. Despite his miniscule triumph, he knew it wouldn't last forever.

He ambled his mind into the thought, without much trouble, it appeared directly in front of him, a soft oak, four-panel pearl-colored door. Without hesitation, he twisted the golden knob, the light the new room emitted faded the troubles he’d since gathered.

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“You think she'll be there.”

The old man paused. “If your mind commands it then yes.”

“For how long”

“For how long, what?”

“How long will I get to spend with her?” I’d been too long, he missed her dearly.

“Hard to say, a day, a month, a year, a very stark moment, who's to say really the constable comes eventually, everybody has to leave at some point, that's just the way of the house.”

“Why?” He whispered angrily.

“Ahh, that's just it, my young friend, the acute disposition of why doesn't belong in the world of magic, you should just be thankful that it exists.”

The bearded acquaintance took his eyes to the horizon haggard in thought.

“I suppose then, Giacomo, the question persists. Is it worth it, even only for a moment?”

“It is.”

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The illumination dimmed giving way to a painting only the brightest artist can conceive. An entrapment of lively sunflowers and fine water-colored foliage surrounded a rosemont garden table, stationed just before a grandeur of rolling hills and green pastures, stopping at a crescent Caribbean blue sky, dotted with cotton-white clouds.

Weakly he sauntered towards the table, struck by a silk pink ribbon tied haphazardly on top of brown curls. His heart stopped. She turned to him smiling. Deep hazel eyes beaming with the deluge of serenity.

“Would you like to take a seat, dear?”

“I would.”

If only for a moment

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