“Explain it to me again,” Oswald the ogre said. “So, a ‘dream’ is a place you enter when you sleep.” “Like another world?” “Yes, and you have fantasies – perhaps you are flying or reliving past events in your life. These ‘dreams’ help to keep the mind healthy.” “Like mind-slugs?” “No, no, this is a natural part of the body’s cycle. There are no mind-slugs in this world. It’s all explained in the series. Have you honestly never read a volume of Dream?” Oswald already looked exasperated as he stirred more pixie dust into his coffee. “I tell you, by the way you talk about those books, you make them sound as if they were the best thing since the Delivian Gypsy Tablets of Eternal Magic. Then you start explaining goblinedygook like ‘dreams’ and then you completely lose me. I never understood why fantasy writers need to invent so much slibberish to make their stories interesting. Give me a good leprechaun caper any day of the week.” Oswald took a sip of his coffee. “But, I have to admit. You make a mean cup of coffee.” “You say that, but then you go on and mix pixie dust into your coffee. If it was really that good, you wouldn’t need the pixie dust, would you?” The ogre banged the counter, and as he did the half-asleep dwarf who had been leaning on the counter nearly smacked his head on the wood surface. The dwarf sprang wide awake and yelled, “Another cup, maestro!” To which the coffee shop owner (me) snapped his fingers and my pixie fairy compatriot – Holly the Wonderful – flew over and poured another cup. The morning meandered on. On the small island of Miosogno, famous for very little but a special kind of fairy dust that goes particularly well in coffee and the mysterious writer of a series of fantasy books, the mornings usually went as such. As us Miosognians liked to say, “Meander on…lest you fall into the dark hole of ambition.” * The morning regulars had all left when the bipedal specimen ambled into the shop. He wore thick spectacles, a suit, and carried a professional’s case with him. As he strode in, he wiped the sweat off his forehead. “This tropical heat…” “First time on Miosogno?” Holly, with her pixie charm, was always so much better at small talk than me. She was almost as good at small talk as she was at mixing pixie dust. “Yes…this heat…” “It helps if you meander on Miosogno” “Aw, that’s right, you have that saying here. Well, don’t mind me. I may look like a city- slimer, but I was born in a small town outside Metrollopolitinian City.” Despite his protestations, we pegged him as a city-slimer through and through. He sat down at the counter and ordered himself a light roast with a side of pixie dust. As he waited for his coffee, this thick-spectacled bipedal male examined the inventory of books assembled on our shelves. “Are those all volumes of Dream?” he asked. I responded in the affirmative. “Are you a fan?” “You might say I am his biggest fan, but in truth it’s hard to find a literate resident on this island who wouldn’t say the same.” The key word of course had been “literate.” There were those oafers, loafers, and occasional ogres, limited in their capacity for thought, who would come into my shop and spout blasphemies from time to time. “There is so much there. I’ve only scratched the surface myself. I read several of the most critically acclaimed volumes before I came here,” the city-slimer said. “A tourist, I take it.” My pixie companion gave me a sharp look that suggested I was wrong. Our new customer picked up on this look. “Well, I suppose there is no reason to keep it a secret.” He handed me a card. Aw, a reporter. No doubt another one hoping to find the true identity of the author of our beloved Dream series. It was a small island, but nevertheless one that had defeated the purpose of many journalistic snoops. “This is quite an establishment you have here. Even in Metrollopolitinian, people were telling me that I needed to stop by and try the coffee. You know what I always thought was interesting? Coffee exists in our world but also in the Dream series as well. You would think the author could think of some fantastical drink for that world.” That very thought had occurred to me too. “Hmm…well, I suppose you can’t create entire worlds from scratch. That’s simply too much work.” My pixie assistant nodded in agreement. “Yes, but think of all the fantastic elements in the book. I mean ‘taxes,’ ‘telemarketers,’ ‘the internet,’ ‘internet trolls’…and they talk about trolls in that world as if they’re annoying and malevolent, when we all know that trolls are some of the most delightful creatures in the world.” At that, my pixie coworker let out a sigh of regret. She had once had a troll boyfriend herself but had let that magnificent creature slip through her gentle fingers. “Still, the sheer amount of times the coffee drink appears in that book made me think…this mysterious author is probably someone who frequents this very shop.” I took a sip from the coffee cup by my side, carved by one of the best Rogrilian wood carvers on the island. At my weakest moments, I had thought that perhaps I would like to meet the author of the Dream series. But then, somewhere around the twelfth volume, I had changed my mind. After all, wasn’t it enough that I had these books, along with their magical world of “internet trolls,” “taxes,” and some strange genre of entertainment called “rom coms.”? One of the many sayings from the world of Dream is: “Never meet your heroes.” But how could I communicate that message to this lowly creature, this journalist, who had only skimmed the surface of Dream? “Well, if you feel that way, then perhaps the best way for you to conduct an investigation would be to sit for a while and enjoy several cups of our finest coffee.” The lowly journalist smiled a toothy grin. “My thoughts exactly!” * The night rush brought a familiar energy to the shop. It was all my pixie companion and I could do just to keep up. At night, we dished out sandwiches of sliced Krag meat and Bilag cheese with Snarflizzle sauce. Occasionally, we would serve coffee, but what customers really enjoyed was something called “beer,” which had been named after the drink in the Dream series but which was really only pixie dust-flavored ogre mead. The denizens of Miosogno sat in their booths or at the counter. Some read the news digests, but others would be absorbed in a volume of Dream. As for myself, I kept one of the classic volumes under the counter and flipped through the pages. Having read this particular book many times, it was little distraction from my work and helped to enhance the pleasure of the evening. It was often during these moments that I would reflect on just how wonderful my life had turned out. A shopkeeper on a little island, where I could pass the days peacefully – meander as it were – with simple, hard-working ogres, pixies, fairies, and bipeds of various kinds, who themselves marveled in the diversity and splendor of our simple existence. True, I had yet to find a creature to call my life partner. It was often frowned upon for someone of my size to be formally betrothed to a pixie, but oftentimes I would look at my pixie coworker, Holly, and think – What better company to pass the day? Periodically some journalist, scholar, or fan would stroll into the shop looking for the author of the Dream series, who was rumored to live on the island. The idea this journalist presented me with – that the author of the Dream series was a frequenter of this establishment – had occurred to me many times. The journalist was still there that evening. For some reason, he reminded me of a character from the Dream series, a professor who had tortured the protagonist in his university days. The journalist was observing the customers of my establishment, in all likelihood testing in his mind the theory that one of them was actually the writer. He would adjust his glasses and make notes in his scrolls with his everlasting quill pen. For all his naivete and city-slimer temperament, he had made quite the positive impression on my pixie companion. “He doesn’t seem like the others. Somehow, he is more…earnest.” As she said this, my troubled mind was thinking that perhaps she had fallen for the city- slimer – a sad, spectacled biped who had only the shallowest knowledge of the Dream series and no respect for our island and its humble habits of meandering, not-bothering, and enjoying the simple pleasures of life. We watched as he continued to scribble his notes and observe. The night wore on. We laughed and savored the humid night air. And as we enjoyed ourselves, the biped in the corner with the thick glasses continued his scribbling. * The city-mucker was the first in the shop the next morning. He arrived even earlier than Oswald the Ogre. Unfortunately, I had to do my opening routine with this young reporter in the corner scribbling away. As he did, he would pull volumes of Dream off the shelf. Apparently, he was doing some kind of “research.” “The politics of Dream…absolutely fascinating. Nation-States. Nuclear arsenals – mega bombs capable of planetary destruction. Terrorism! Where does the writer come up with these fantastical ideas?” Indeed, the most dramatic episode in Miosognonian politics had been when we discovered our mayor skipping his afternoon naps. How could Miosogno have a mayor that didn’t understand the fine art of taking it easy? I wiped down the counters and brewed the first batch of coffee. My pixie companion would not be returning for at least a short while. The sun was coming up over our little island. “All politics is local politics…that’s how it has been since recorded history. But the author of Dream describes these new political concepts in such detail. It’s as if he or she has actually lived them.” “That’s what they call being a good fantasy writer! If you can’t create a world different from your own, then it wouldn’t be fantasy, would it?” I said this more to chew the Krag-fat than to answer his question or acknowledge its worthiness. “If you’re going to hang around, would you mind making yourself useful? Please take down some of those chairs.” The city-sliming journalist looked for a moment as if he was about to protest, but then, probably sniffing an angle, began to help. Soon, he was helping me with the other opening tasks. As we worked, he asked questions, “You’re a fan, right?” I grunted in the affirmative. “And you’ve never had the inclination to go find this mystery author yourself?” “Never meet your heroes…that’s a saying that comes from the world of Dream. It’s enough to have the author’s works populate the shelves of this humble establishment. I will say, though, that I do sometimes worry…at some point the Dream series will end, and then, possibly, this shop might also feel diminished. After all, the customers can delight in new volumes of Dream every few months…I think that if it ever came to a point when we couldn’t bask in the excitement of a forthcoming volume, then this establishment might begin to fade…I wonder…” The thought, a thought I had entertained many times before, seemed particularly potent then. For a moment, I looked at the journalist. He seemed to understand something, though I couldn’t say exactly what, that I didn’t. Perhaps that these Dream volumes were not produced by magic alone but by some living flesh…and if that flesh were somehow to leave this realm… And yet, there was something to the mystery, as if the mystery itself was trying to preserve itself. * The day proceeded at its usual Miosognonian pace. The breakfast rush came, including Oswald, who prodded me continuously about the nonsensical nature of Dream; then the mid-morning lull; then Miosogno’s customary naps; then the lunch rush; more customary naps; and finally the twilight hours that faded into evening. All the while, the sophisticated city-slimer was in the corner booth scribbling notes, sifting through old volumes of Dream. As he left that night, I asked him, more out of respect than curiosity, “So, any closer to finding your mystery scribe?” He answered rather cryptically, “I may be closer than you think.” * The next day, I didn’t see the journalist. My sprightly pixie companion seemed somewhat disappointed, though I couldn’t say why. Perhaps she thought of this studious, earnest creature as a suitable companion. A nice pixie like her deserved better. If she couldn’t have a troll as a partner, then she might settle down with some kind of goblin, someone with predominant warts she could stroke into the midnight hours. Still, I had to admit, his presence was sorely missed. “A breath of fresh air!” as the bipeds in Dream might say…and often did. On this particular day, during the mid-morning lull, I found myself sifting through an old volume where the protagonist Donald Stuckman went to his job as an “insurance claims adjuster.” Like every other day, he sat down at his desk, filed paperwork, and made conversation at the coffee machine with other charmless bipeds. But unlike other days, he soon received a “telephone” message from his sister, “Call me immediately.” And then, during a brief conversation over the “telephone,” he learned that his father had died. I found myself openly weeping for this character…this “insurance claims adjuster.” And that night, Donald Stuckman went to sleep, and during that sleep, he had a dream that he was with his father once again. They were on a beach somewhere… Aw, to dream! To have another world within your mindspace. It was such a unique idea. No other storyteller, bard, scribe, conjurer, or illusionist had thought of such a wonderfully bizarre idea. Of all the bizarre ideas that had captivated audiences, perhaps that was the strangest. I let the mind-slug climb out of my ear cavity and fall onto the counter. My mind was now exceptionally clear of worry. I tossed it into a jar with the other mind-slugs, so that they all might feed off the milk of my worries. My pixie companion looked at the mind-slugs in their jar. “We’ll need to get a new batch soon! You’ve been using and reusing those for too long.” She had a point. Yes, my pixie companion knew me best. If only she would settle down with a lowly biped like me. Oh, if only she would look at me the way she looked at that city- sliming journalist. In many ways, I felt like Donald Stuckman, an “insurance claims adjuster” type continuously caught in an unlucky streak…except that I wasn’t. I had my coffee shop. I had the meandering beauty of Miosogno where I would live, grow old, and…gods willing…fall in love someday. Yes, I was lucky. * It was the next day, sometime after the lunch rush, when the journalist burst through the door, his suit dirty, his face pale. There was only one other customer in the shop, a retired dwarf who liked to talk about the “old days” before bottled magic had helped automate and electrify the world. “I need your help,” the journalist said without prologue. “We have all the help you could want in the form of delicious coffee, as well as some of the best pixie-dust flavoring you can…” “I want you to come with me to the Ogre Village.” A curious proposal. “I will pay you handsomely.” This got the attention of my pixie companion. We were both thinking that some gold might go a long way to securing a slight expansion of our shop – a few more booths and additional bookshelves for the newest volumes of Dream. Who knows, if this “journalist” were to print something nice about our particular shop… “Why would you need my help to go into the Ogre Village? The ogres are some of the most friendly…” “I wish not only to go there, but also to discover, by subterfuge if I must, the true identity of the author of Dream. You see, I believe one of the ogres that frequents your shop may be the very scribbler I seek.” I searched my mind for the various ogres who came to my shop. “Well, there is…” One by one I described each, until the journalist stopped at a description of…Oswald the Ogre? I burst out laughing. “Oh, you journalists are a strange breed! Oswald…he’s never opened a volume of Dream in his life. Now surely, there is…” The journalist interrupted me. “A ruse! His workshop – it’s not what you think. You see, before he returned to the Ogre Village, he was rummaging through this shop’s garbage. He took something, a jar of some kind, and then made his way to the village. There I saw him conversing with others for several hours. Out of Oswald’s workshop came bound books. I looked at the covers. They were copies of the latest edition of Dream.” “So? That means nothing…Oswald does odd jobs. Perhaps he was simply helping with the printing process.” “Perhaps, but there was something secretive about the enterprise. This ogre holds the key somehow. You have his confidence. You can help me unravel the mystery.” I shook my head. I looked around at my shop. A near perfection. A marvel. Why dream bigger when Holly and I could simply meander? Oh yes, “dreaming” – that other kind, imagining things beyond your grasp…was a dangerous occupation…especially on Miosogno. Best to leave well enough alone. But I looked over at my pixie companion. Something on her face told me that she wanted to know the answer to this mystery. “Never meet your heroes,” I uttered out loud so that both may hear. “That is one of the mantras of Dream. I believe it to be true. How much do we really want to know about the author of our beloved books?” My pixie companion looked up at me. “I do sometimes wonder about this person. It’s such a big mystery for such a small island. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds out. And if this journalist is kind enough to offer us a portion of his gold…” “I would gladly part with it for your help!” “Then, I can’t see the harm,” Holly said…though she should have known that to aim high is to miss the wisdom in meandering. “And it might do more than a bit of good…perhaps more customers would come to the island to see the author of Dream. Perhaps these customers would like to meet the person who helped find the author.” “This author values his privacy…ruining his privacy might ruin his creative process…ever think of that? I’m sure you haven’t, journalist. Your ambitions have no place on Miosogno. All you care about is making a reputation for yourself.” “I care about the truth!” “Follywonkers, you care about your ambition.” My pixie companion looked up at me with eyes that said, Do it for the gold! Though I knew better, I could not bear the idea of letting my wonderful Holly down. I thought about the journalist’s offer. “Whatever you’re offering, half shall be paid up front. If nothing comes of this misadventure, then you will part with what you’ve paid, no questions or complaints…I fear we might lose a regular customer if this goes awry,” I said out loud so that both my pixie companion and the journalist might better understand the risk to myself…and to push the journalist to accept my conditions. The journalist plopped down some genuine gold coins on the table…hard to come by on our little island. Unfortunately, that decided the matter. Here, as in the world of Dream, hard currency had a way of settling arguments and moving stories forward. * We set out the next day after the early morning rush, leaving my pixie companion to handle an entire day’s work without me. The city-slimer and I followed Oswald, who this morning it seemed was not intent on going through my trash (though he, like all ogres and trash-trolls, was welcome to it). Since the journalist had followed Oswald the day before, it was simply a matter of waiting a few moments after Oswald had left the shop, going down the same path as he, through the Pixie Suburbs, up the Handicrafts Mountain, down the Avenue of Small Manufacturers, to the Ogre Village, where much dangerous ogrely work was done. We found a hill just outside the Ogre Village where the journalist used his pocket telescope to spy on Oswald. Apparently, journalist-bipeds have all sorts of useful gadgets for spying on unsuspecting life forms. Around Oswald’s workshop, there were ogres making ship masts, pounding raw ore rocks into ore powder, as well as deep roasting and salting dragon meat for consumption. At first, I thought I had identified one of the ogres pounding ore rocks as Oswald, but on further inspection, I realized that it wasn’t him. “He’s in the workshop right now. Last night I saw him through the window doing something with your mind-slugs.” The journalist handed me his telescope and pointed me in the direction of a workshop. Outside the shop was written in crude ogre scrawl, “Oswald’s Wokshup.” Just to the side were several discarded jars as well as the entrails of the mind-slugs. “How do we find out what he’s really up to?” The journalist was asking me, a humble shopkeeper, how to do his profession. Since the work area of ogres was not usually accessible to non-ogres, this naturally presented a problem. Luckily, I had thought ahead. Out of my pocket, I brought out my solution. “Not your usual coffee flavoring pixie dust, I’ll have you know. This’ll shrink us down to size.” The journalist’s eyes popped open in delight. I’m sure he wanted to obtain more for his journalistic snooping. The journalist thought things through. “How will we get out?” “Well, that’s the hard part. If we don’t want Oswald to catch us, I can think of no other method than to hide somewhere in his ‘wokshup’ until morning…or we could just confess to Oswald. After all, he is the nicest living creature on this island.” The journalist seemed skeptical. “I heard a ‘nice’ ogre once roasted a journalist and ate him just to see what journalist meat tasted like.” “Well, to be fair, journalist meat is supposed to be a delicacy to ogres, and quite tasty…from what I heard that is.” I neglected to tell him that I had once tasted just a bit of journalist jerky at Oswald’s insistence. I could tell the matter was settled. I went ahead and tied the coupon to the sprong and prepared it for flight. I give it a piece of wugwug as motivation for its journey. Now, all there was to do was ingest the specialized pixie dust. I snorted my pixie dust in private so that I might play a trick on my dear city-slimer friend. “I’m sorry to say, but your pixie dust must be administered as a suppository.” I had prepared the pixie dust in pill form just for this occasion. Perhaps I was meaner to this poor fellow than I needed to be…but he had caught the eye of my dear pixie companion. That was reason enough for my minor act of cruelty. He went behind a tree to insert his medicine. When he came back, he was still fully grown, but I had already shrunk down significantly. He looked around for me and found me near the sprong. “Why are you so small and I’m still so big?” “It might take a little while to work. Until the dust kicks in, just meander.” So much like a city-dweller – always on the go, never understanding the value of just existing in a state of serene not-bothering. Finally, the dust settled into his bloodstream, and he had shrunk down to my size. We both climbed aboard the sprong. I had tied threads to the sprong’s neck so that we could securely hang on. In a matter of no time, we were both in the air above the Ogre Village. It had been so long since I had ventured out of my little bubble of work at the coffee shop, reading volumes of Dream, and my other solitary hobbies. For a moment, when I was in the air, I fancied what it might be like to take a trip off the island, perhaps even to a big metropolis like the one this journalist came from. What might I find there? Soon, we were through Oswald’s window and in his workshop. No one was there. We gently disembarked from the sprong, and I gave it a small bit of wugwug as a reward. “Stay in the sprongbox with the coupon. When it is time to go, I will whistle for you.” I gave it a bit more wugwug as an incentive. The sprong flew into the sprongbox, and we both began snooping around. Just as the journalist had suggested, this was no ordinary ogre’s workshop. There were none of the usual heavy instruments for banging, welding, cobbling, and mending that were usually to be found. Instead, we saw a kind of scientist’s contraption. Next to it were jars of old mind-slugs – supposedly my mind-slugs. In the contraption, a slug was suspended with a thin tube hose attached to it. A little drop of milk would exit the mind-slug, travel through the tube hose, and be deposited into a potion bottle. On a separate table was a kind of bowl with various herbs and potions around it. In yet another part of the room was a table where someone worked as a scribe. And next to the scribe’s table was…yes, this is where the pages were bound to make a book. Not just any book, but the next volume of Dream! My first thought was that I wanted to see what was in this next volume…to lay eyes on it before any other reader in the world. But then I remembered my journalist, his quest, and the gold that my dear pixie compatriot would cherish so much to expand our shop. “What would you like to do now?” I asked him. “Watch! They are sure to come back soon.” It was no more than a few minutes before Oswald returned. He had with him a tray of mind- slugs. He took down the mind-slug from the contraption and attached a different one from his tray. He worked intently at his job with the skill of a scientist. Never before had I known Oswald to have such nimble, precise fingers. It was astonishing to witness the gentleness with which he worked. It wasn’t long before two others entered the room. I recognized one easily by his clothes as a soothsayer, one who would visit my shop from time to time. “And you are quite sure that he is using the mind-slugs regularly?” the soothsayer asked. Oswald nodded. “Hmm…the milk does not always tell a clear story, as if the mind-slugs are running out of memories to extract,” the soothsayer said. Were they talking about me? “I see it,” the soothsayer said. The scribe was at his table now, ready to record. “Donald Stuckman is with…a lawyer…he is reading over something called a ‘prenuptial agreement.’ It is a kind of contract made between couples before they are formally paired. He is trying not to show how upset he is…” So, this city-slogging journalist had succeeded! He had found the secret to the Dream series. Not an author, but a team…that produced these stories from the milk of mind-slugs that originated from someone’s mind. But surely these visions could not come from my mind. How could they? But in the smoke, now, I could see some of what the soothsayer saw. There was a female figure. The female character of the book. Mrs. Stuckman. Diana. I felt something stir inside of me. Such a large, gangly, bipedal organism…certainly not my type. Then why did I feel such a sense of loss…of regret? Suddenly, I found myself changing size. Oh no, the dust! We had not consumed enough. My journalist friend, perhaps with his big city metabolism, was already growing bigger. The journalist, unaware that he was growing, was still writing in his pad. I, on the other hand, was growing at a slower pace. I found an appropriate place to hide behind several crates. “Who? No, not…a journalist!” Oswald’s eyes flared with anger. However, I knew that his ogre’s gentle nature would soon take over. He hugged the journalist. “Were I capable of violence, surely I would squash you for learning this secret. Alas, let this gentle hug be your reprimand!” The soothsayer, Oswald, and the scribe all gathered around the journalist anxiously. “You must not report what you have seen here!” the soothsayer proclaimed. “But this will make quite the scoop – ‘Popular Series of Book – Harvested from Mind- Slugs.’” “You wouldn’t! You mustn’t,” the soothsayer said. “No one must ever know…” “The public has a right to know. Think of all the people in this dear world of ours who think that there is some magical genius behind these books. Inspiration? Artistry? Genius? No, it’s all harvested from the mind of…of the coffee shopkeeper?” I was growing bigger by the moment, but I did my best to stay hidden. This was the moment; this was the part I needed to hear. Oswald approached the journalist again, tears in his eyes. “My ogre oath prevents me from using violence…but…but this secret…” He wrapped his large arms around the journalist…No, it couldn’t be! The soothsayer gave a silent nod and Oswald began to squeeze…not a gentle hug but the ogre squeeze of death! “Wait,” I came out from behind the crates. “I come with a peace offering of fifty percent off your next coffee purchase.” Oswald, the soothsayer, and the scribe gazed at me. The soothsayer and the scribe’s mouths dropped open. “It’s him…the creator!” the soothsayer exclaimed. The soothsayer and the scribe kneeled before me. Oswald let go of the journalist. “It’s time he learned the truth.” * “For in these ‘dreams,’ you seem to enter that strange world that is depicted in the world of Dream. And that world in your ‘dream’ is perhaps a ‘real’ world as this world is real to us, and this world may perhaps be a ‘dream’ in that world as ‘dreams’ are depicted to our readers. But we can never be sure if you were to depart this world for good that our world would not end, for its very existence might depend on you remaining here – dreamless.” This was the explanation the soothsayer offered us. “And the milk from those mind-slugs,” the journalist interjected, “they contain all the stories, this person’s memories? Well, I’ll be a son of a gun.” “Hey,” I said. “That expression comes from the Dream books!” “I’ll let you in on a little secret, islander,” the journalist said. “I’m not just a journalist; I’m a really good journalist. I’ve been slotch-mogging it to make it seem like I didn’t know these books very well. Well, actually, I did my research thoroughly before I came to this island. I read them all. And, they’re amazing!” “Well, Oswald, see, the thing is…you’re an ogre, gentle but honor-bound, and I’m a reporter with a nose for the truth. The only thing that would persuade me to give up this story is an even bigger story. Now, I know what you’re thinking: What bigger story is there? Well, I’ll tell you…not tonight, not tomorrow night, but one of these nights, I’m going to ‘dream.’ See, I’m going to stay with you guys and work out how to reverse engineer this process. Imagine it! A world full of newspapers, not just the few meager ones we have here! Imagine the stories! Imagine the readers! And maybe I’ll come back someday with the biggest scoop there is!” The journalist turned to me. “What do you think?” I was melancholy. I didn’t know what to think or believe. Oswald presented me with a mind-slug specially made to help me forget this very night. Who knows how many times I had discovered this secret before? Who knows how many times I had taken this specific type of mind- slug? Perhaps there was a reason journalist jerky was becoming less of a delicacy. I said, “I need time to think things over.” Oswald nodded. I began to walk away, but as I did, the journalist came up to me with a big smile. “What a scoop! What a scoop! I don’t know whether to call you Mr. Stuckman or by your other name. And to think, it was all true.” He handed me a pouch filled with gold. “I hope everything works out for you. Whether here or there, or wherever you end up, you seem like a good guy. The kind of guy a reader could root for. I’ll be rooting for you, hopefully on that other side!” I began the long walk home. I had a lot to think about. * It was a few days before Oswald came back to the shop. I had been working as usual, having my mind scrubbed regularly as usual. My discarded mind-slugs were taken to the ogre village as usual. But I had decided to hang on to the memory of that day. When Oswald came back, he noticed the change to the shop immediately. “You got rid of all the volumes of Dream!” “Yeah, it just didn’t seem right anymore.” “That’s a shame. They gave the place a special charm. And the customers loved them.” “I think I’m done with Mr. Stuckman. I’m done with taxes, divorces, insurance premiums – all of that. They were all so fantastical anyway. Even if they are true somewhere, who would believe it? I think I’m ready to try something different.” I looked over at my pixie assistant. I had left a fresh Mogus flower on the counter for her. She thought it was from the journalist, but I had told her straight away that it was from me and that I hoped she didn’t mind. Her wings had turned purple, and I knew that not only didn’t she mind, but that she was beginning to see me in a different way. I was beginning to see myself in a different way. “I think I’m done with dreams, dreaming, and especially Dream. At least for a little while. Oswald, what I really want to know about is this place, this island, and also…about the world. Our world. Tell me about our world. Tell me about it as if I had just arrived yesterday.” Oswald smiled. “Well, the first thing you gotta know is that almost no one here likes to drink this sludge you call coffee!”
About the Author Daniel Clausen has published stories and articles in such magazines as Slipstream, Black Petals, Ken*Again, Aphelion, Spindrift, Zygote in my Coffee, and Leading Edge Science Fiction (among many others). His recent novel “Statues in the Cloud” is available on Amazon.
Dream
“And this creature, I’m sure you know well.” From my pocket, I brought out my dear messenger sprong bird. “This little birdie will fly into Oswald’s ‘wokshup’ and deliver this twenty percent off coupon for coffee at my shop – which is coming out of your pocket, by the way. We drop in, and then you can snoop to your heart’s content, though I very much doubt there will be anything to see. The dust wears off in about a crackerfly’s lifespan, so we won’t have much time.”
The soothsayer took some of the milk from the potion bottle with an eyedropper. He carefully placed one drop into a sooth-whispering bowl where the milk disintegrated into smoke. The smoke rose into the air. Meanwhile, my journalist friend scribbled notes furiously. In the smoke I could briefly discern images and symbols. None of these symbols and images appeared to have any meaning, though.
The journalist looked around him. “So, this is how you make Dream.”
In the Ogre Village, we sat around a large, comforting fire – the journalist, Oswald, the soothsayer, the scribe, and I. None of us were great storytellers, so the truth became known only through the stilted scraps of our conversation. They had found me in the mountains one day. At the time, I was just a strange bipedal creature with no memory. And around me, features of the island began to spring up as if by magic – coffee and other bipedal creatures. These creations had not existed before. It was only later that they realized that if I were allowed to sleep without a good mind-slug scrubbing, parts of the world would collapse. It had been several years since they had found me. And every day those who knew my secret made sure that I had my mind-slugs and that my mind was well scrubbed so that I would never have a “dream.”
“You can never print what you’ve discovered here!” Oswald said threateningly. “We will eat you alive before we let you expose this secret!”