The Weave of Dreams

Listening to Masterclass, Atlas drifted in and out of a daze as the train chugged along. Every few minutes he’d regain focus, retrieving a gem from the class but, deep down, he knew it was pointless. It wasn’t the lectures. He simply knew they were meant to help real artists. Not him, another failed cartoonist gone corporate lackey in order to pay the rent.

The train reached his destination. Someone was playing saxophone on the platform. Not well, but he respected those with the courage to brave inadequacy and follow their dreams. He’d been brave himself, once. Felt like a lifetime ago. He dropped $5 into the case.

She nodded her thanks with a beautiful gap-toothed smile. Atlas trudged on, inhaling the city’s smells. Crisp rain and cigarettes. He’d never tire of rain, even if the studies did suggest it contributed to his depression. He’d once read scent is the strongest sense tied to memory; he believed it. The aroma shuttled him back to a time in his youth when he believed he could make a decent living through his passion, art.

Reminiscing, absent-mindedly meandering toward his car, he tripped. Looked down. A black Moleskine book, still wrapped in plastic, wrinkled now, laying on the ground.

Scanned the parking lot. No one around. Considered leaving the book, decided it best to place it on the nearest bench. If its owner returned, least they wouldn’t find it ruined. He couldn’t say precisely when or why he formed the odd attachment to it, whether when he first touched it or some time since, but an attachment had formed. Setting it down, he turned to leave but found himself frozen. Slowly, Atlas turned back.

This is silly. It’s not mine. But…

He wasn’t a thief, and he really didn’t need another notebook, he had dozens. All serving as reminders of what he’d lost. That innocent desire to create. Yet, this particular notebook pulled at him. Atlas snatched the notebook from its wrapping, slipped $20 in its place, then pulled a paper and pen from his bag.

"I took your notebook, sorry."

He fled the scene, hurrying through the parking lot with the notebook inside his coat. In his car, Atlas had to open the Moleskine notebook. There was nothing special about it. Just a notebook. Yet...

On the first page, handwritten in heavy ink, stylized fantasy font read:

"Once upon a time,"

That’s weird, he thought. Skimmed through every page but found nothing. He was positive the words were written after the book’s manufacturing, yet somehow before its shrink-wrap. The ink looked fresh.

If asked, Atlas wouldn’t be able to say why he did what he did. Pulled a pen from his bag, lowered his hand to the page, and finished the sentence.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who found himself lost in another world, a fantastical world. He stared for a moment. And the boy’s name was James.

Atlas the notebook down, turned the ignition, and drove home. The entire way, lost in thought. Wondering about this boy, James, and the fantastical world he’d found himself lost in.

Upon arriving, he was so consumed by his imagination that he forgot his normal routine. He opened his office door, for the first time in years. Dust lined shelves, the easel empty. He expected the fear to come, as it started doing years before anytime he dared to create. His grip tightened around the notebook, he clasped it against his chest like a shield. No fear came. Instead, imagination.

He sat down at his desk and sketched a character. James. Scrawny, just a boy, a mop of sandy hair, wearing a t-shirt, jeans, sneakers. Something wasn’t right, though. He needed something. Atlas gave James a silly, pointed wizard’s hat and a gnarled staff. Pushing his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose, Atlas gave James glasses as well. It seemed appropriate.

Either minutes, or hours later, he couldn’t be sure, Atlas passed out. That night, he dreamed of a boy wandering through the woods, calling for help. The boy from his sketch. Atlas woke, sweating.

Work continued as usual, he counted the hours, finger tapping the mouse anxiously. All the while, the notebook in his bag called to him.

That night, Atlas added a second character. Another boy, about James’ age. He had white hair, glowing eyes, and a mischievous smile. Atlas paused at his hands. He’d always struggled with hands. A smile on his face, he drew an energy beam in place of hands, solving the problem.

Again, Atlas dreamed.

Of James, calling for help, being chased. James swept through underbrush, between tall trees, down a sloping mountain until he found himself at a cliff’s edge, unseen monsters rustling the bushes behind him. A boy with white hair and glowing eyes appeared, leaping between James and his pursuers, then shot an energy beam that destroyed the monsters.

He turned to James with a smile as big as the earth itself. “I’m Kid! Did you see that?! You gotta tell the others about it when they get here!”

Atlas awoke, his bedsheets drenched in sweat. He found the notebook, open to the page with the white haired boy, and jotted down the name, Kid.

He found himself wondering about this mysterious boy, and these "others". What brought them together? Where were they going?

The time came to leave work. He hadn’t even noticed the time passing. Briefly, he worried that he’d daydreamed his entire shift. He looked at the task calendar app and discovered, much to his relief, that he had been working. One who’s truly inspired can accomplish great things without even realizing it. Even more astonishing, they can accomplish mundane things, too, and still find that fuel that drives them forward.

On the train, Atlas lost himself to his illustrations, the mystery of the “others” began revealing itself on the page. Immersed in the figures coming to color before his eyes, he missed his stop. He didn’t mind back tracking, though. After all, with inspiration, any place was great.

Once in his car, Atlas did something unusual. Instead of another self-help seminar, he listened to music. And remembered the joy of simply driving.

At home, it felt as though something greater was working through him. He filled in the rest of the characters. A brilliant, colorful arrangement of unique and absurd personas, all gathered around a campfire.

Again, Atlas dreamed.

He found himself setting up camp with his new friends. They didn’t seem like they belonged together, and yet, somehow, they very much did.

They were an unlikely group. Ragnar the pirate, who’d lost his ship at sea, practiced sword techniques with the robed monk, Eqwasi, who dodged his attacks easily. Boris The Bear, a goliath of a man with a thick accent and muscles that had no business being contained by a shirt, discussed philosophy with Leo, the lion-man, who said very little.

A demure elvish woman sitting on the log beside him scooted closer. “Kid says you’re a wizard?”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. Partially due to the tiny dragon sleeping, curled up on her shoulder.

He nodded timidly. “I’m learning.”

“Magic is all about learning,” she responded. “We can learn together.”

“Umm, okay.” He said nothing about the dragon. It seemed impolite.

It didn’t occur to Atlas until he awoke that morning but, in this particular dream, sliding glasses up his nose, and adjusting a pointy hat. In fact, he didn’t realize that he'd been James until many nights later, on an epic adventure, fighting evil forces. This time, he had magic of his own, and spent the night racing around, firing blue missiles with one hand on his staff, keeping his hat from falling off with the other.

This fairytale went on for nearly two months. Every waking hour, Atlas drew. And every sleeping hour, James adventured. They traveled far and wide, battling evil forces far beyond what had been the limit of Atlas’ imagination, and discovering locales no less fantastical. There were cities in ruin, and pirate ships that sailed the skies hunting dragons. James and his allies sided with the dragons, and saved them from the scurvy-ridden poachers. Ragnar even got a new ship.

James went on a great many adventures, but the most life-changing occurred during the waking hours. Atlas was enthralled, sketching his newest adventure, in which James would find himself in what was supposed to be a legendary treasure cove. Instead of treasure, however, he found a great hall filled with rows of large chests. On the next page, he’d find that they were not what they appeared to be.

James stepped into the treasure cove, and all of the chests opened their lids at once, revealing great maws with countless, horrid fangs, and treacherously long tongues.

On this page, he drew Leo shouting, “Mimics!”

Flying through the illustration, Atlas started upon the next page, drawing James scrambling to protect his allies as the box-shaped creatures catapulted themselves through the air using their tongues.

“Whatcha drawing?” the boy couldn’t have been older than nine or ten. Precocious, wire-rimmed glasses, a denim jacket, and a t-shirt depicting a twenty-sided die. He leaned in. “Because it looks like you’re drawing mimics. But mimics can’t do that, you know.”

Atlas chuckled and gave the boy a smirk. “Who says?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “The monster description. Duh.”

“Ah. But this is my notebook, and these mimics are from my dreams, so I say they very much can launch themselves into the sky with their tongues. What’s your monster description say about that?”

The boy scrunched up his face now. “I’m not sure. I guess it’s okay, just so long as you know.”

The boy watched him until Atlas found the situation uncomfortable and asked the boy where his mother was. The boy pointed, and Atlas felt his heart skip a beat. He wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t her. She might have been the most stunning individual he’d ever seen, with her hair a tousled mess and her nose buried in a book.

She looked up at him, and then her son. “Oh god,” she said, rising to her feet, and closing the distance between them. “I am so sorry. James, what did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

“Not to?”

She looked at Atlas apologetically, then glanced down. “Oh, wow. Are you a cartoonist?”

“James?” Atlas said, struggling to breathe. “I mean, um, well…” he shut the book quickly and tried to find the words. “Yes?”

“Mom, he’s really good!” the boy, James, exclaimed. “Even if he doesn’t do mimics right.”

“Um,” the mother began looking, much to Atlas’ surprise, quite nervous herself. “This might be forward, but I just started work at a literary agency, and well, I’m not good at this, but I know I need more clients. No promises, but there’s a serious shortage of imaginative children’s books out there, and…”

The train jerked to a stop, throwing her forward. Classically, Atlas caught her. With a confidence that he would forever thank the gods for, he replied. “Coffee?”

She smiled, and nodded. “Tomorrow. My name’s Mara, Mara Moon. I know. Weird name. 1:00pm? Bring your notebook?”

They exchanged information, and then she was gone, leaving him to wonder if any of it had really happened. The day that his beautiful literary agent, Mara Moon, fell into his arms like a storybook. The next day, when they signed a mutually beneficial contract. And every day after. Atlas often wondered, even years in the future, if there had been anything truly special about the little black notebook he’d found in the rain, or if its blank pages simply served as a reminder of something he’d forgotten long ago. Imagination and inspiration need only a canvas on which to exist, and a single thought to get them started.

Once upon a time. . .