Grimoire of the Oneiroi

Evan

Logic has always been the ruling factor in my life. My last girlfriend used to throw fits, yelling and screaming at me. I’d calmly explain my side of things, and she’d punch holes in our walls. One day I calmly explained that I had been seeing another girl and I thought it would be nice for us three to try a relationship together. I haven’t seen or heard from her since. The new girl is working out ok, better than the old one, but just ok.

So, Logic. I recently learned that it’s all bogus. The world, the universe, doesn’t follow through like a geometry proof. There are gods, curses, giants, faeries, psychic whirlpools, ghosts, and even talking cats. And I found out about all of them less than a week ago.

It all started last Wednesday. No one ever gets the hang of Wednesdays. I certainly haven’t. So, Wednesday, I was just hanging out at The Other Woman like most weeknights. Red bull and vodka being my drink of choice. I was just chatting up the bartender when this bombshell walked in. Blonde hair, long legs, leather mini skirt, low cut top. The works. And I did what I always do, I ignored her. Let her come to me, right? Doesn’t usually work, but when it does, you’re set, you don’t have to work at all. And this time it worked. She sits down next to me. And I’m already getting excited for what’s to come. Boy was I wrong …

She slides me a manila envelope. Now I’m thinking, ok, she’s got the wrong guy, sucks for me. And I push it back to her and let her know. And she slides it right back to me and walks right out of the place. Now at this point, the bartender is looking at me funny, I feel like a CIA agent, and the other three or four guys at the bar are looking at me like I might be the next Unibomber, or Bond, take your pick.

So, I open it, right there with everyone staring at me. What else could I do? And inside, what do I find? Proof of the shooter on the grassy knoll perhaps? A photo of an alien taken at area 51 maybe? Nope, and nada. Inside is a tiny book, tiny thin I mean. And inside the book? It looks like it was written back in the 14th century, maybe a monk jotted it down in his sleep, because the penmanship is atrocious and as I start to read I realize nope, not in his sleep, but just after he woke up … or once he was locked up for schizophrenia. Because it’s all complete nonsense. Maybe it’s a catalog of dreams, I’m thinking. I remember back when we got counseling once, the therapist had us do that. Of course, I don’t think it helped at all. She still punched holes in our walls.

So, I’ve got a book in front of me, with random drawings of bizarre creatures like an eyeball with dragon wings, and a furry ball with eyestalks sticking out of it. And it’s full of curses with bizarre names, like Fu Manchu Eradicator and Brainwashing Locket Curse. I look up, I’m still sitting at the bar, and Kathy is wiping down the tables. How much have I had to drink you may ask. Well, I lost count at about seven, so I think ok, I just need to call my girl and head home to pass out. If I’m not dreaming already that is.

She arrives, I toss the book back in it’s imaginary envelope, and I forget about it for the night. She coos over me, gives me a massage and a shake weight work out, and I pass out.

And I realize quickly that I wasn’t dreaming, because now I certainly am. Or maybe it just took a turn for the worse. It’s like Inception, a dream within a dream. Only, if that’s the case, then who knows how deep I am now. I may never resurface.

So I’m flying, I’m in the middle of a giant purple cloud, looking down over a beautiful red ocean. Is it blood? I hope not. And I’m being chased. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. And I break the purseuee rule by turning around. Never, ever turn around. We all learn that at an early age, and yet, we all do it. Instinct? Not a good one.

It’s a beige dragon, gleaming behind me, almost a blur, and I’m still soaring, only then do I notice that I’m not me, I’m not a fleshy, pink, ball of water and nerve endings. I’m scaly, red, and cold. This is definitely a dream. But it feels more urgent, more real than I’ve ever felt in real life. So I kick off, I push myself harder, because everything feels real. And she pushes harder too, I don’t know how I can feel that, but I can. And then the sun sets, we’re still flying along pacing each other, her behind me, and it’s twilight.

And then I falter, I can’t feel my wings anymore, I know I need heat, I need the sun. And I’m falling. I’m going to hit the mountains below me, when she catches up. I think maybe she’s not the enemy after all. Suddenly I see the sparkling blue eyes of that bombshell and I think that I’m saved. And then I feel the pain of fangs in my side, ripping me apart. And I wake up. At least, I hope I woke up. Maybe I’ll never know.

And that’s the beginning. So, I hunted down the book. And of course had no idea what to do with it. So, I did what any self respecting newbie does, I read the manual, and I assumed that it was all a joke. Dreams seem so irrelevant once you’re awake, no matter how painfully real they seem while you sleep. The only explanation was a buddy pulling a prank plus a drunken, confused thought process when falling to sleep.

I gave up and went looking for my girlfriend. I didn’t smell breakfast, and I wanted to find out why, and when.

*~*~*
Shari

My attitude towards life has always been a bit morbid. I would have committed suicide years ago, but I realized that death would come to me eventually, so why not just wait?

Now there is one thing I’m an expert at; Patience. I can outdo anyone in line-waiting at the DMV, holding out in relationships until the bitter end, and slowly absorbing information about the next game release from Blizzard. It’ll happen eventually.

Time Travel and Immortality are by far the two superpowers I relate to the best. You accept the world going by, and you realize that time is irrelevant. Perfect.

Only, I’m not immortal, and I can’t travel through time. Well, non-linearly at least. So why would you care about my story?

Maybe because I know people who can, and do, on a daily basis. As if days mean anything anymore.

It’s been years for me, since that night when I found a simple book of curses in an envelope my boyfriend brought home from the bar. I was prepared for plenty of things that envelope could contain, drug money, blackmail photos from some new girl he’d “accidentally” hooked up with, or hey, I could be lucky for once and it’d be just a simple work invoice. I wasn’t prepared for my life to change.