.: Entry Nine :.
My name is Elliot Parker
I am excited. I had that dream again. But that is not all I am excited about.
I think I might have mentioned what happens at the start of the dream. The rippling floors, the breaking away of the wood. The way it melts and crumbles. How it fades and falls from existence and replaces itself with bookshelves. The stained woods of antiques. The one that I am drawn to, always first. It has this carved wood. The old filigree claws. The green stained wood sanded and unvarnished. The walnut trinket box, so beautifully carved resting beside the first book I always touch. The box was different. The top part of the box, the top shelf of the box, sat uneven. The thimble tilted to the side, the tiny clothes piled to a corner. The threadbare velvet showing its faded pink. Pulling that top shelf away was something new. Something I hadn’t tried before. Something I shouldn’t have been able to change but I did. The layer below had something I recognised.
The jotter pad and pen. The cap was looser than I had it on. I flipped to the first page of the notebook. My own writing on the first line. “I am a deliberate creator.” I have to admit; I was impressed by my own neatness for a moment. But it was something two lines below my own writing that had my attention. Clearly written, with as much intention as I had, had to use to change the dream the first time. “SO AM I”
I had a response.
The understanding that I had of dreams had been torn apart by this place.
Here it was again. Something new. Not only did I have a response, this place was open, other people could come here. This isn’t just my place. That was one of those feelings that just felt a bit violating. Like this was my safe place, my safe place.
Another something new.
I changed the opening sequence.
My name is Elliot Parker and I changed something that should be impossible.
Not for the first time.
I changed the bulk of the dream. I did it. I broke it. I broke the big sequence that pulls me into the next world. I suppose a book is someone else’s world anyway. But this, this is, indescribable. I opened the other layer of the trinket box.
Now I know that someone else can come here, I am not the only one. I am not the only deliberate creator. If someone else can come here, can I find them in the real world? For a start, how do I find them?
That is, it. If there is someone else, surely they have a name. A man must have a name. If he is a man… but with that handwriting, my guess is a man. I could be wrong, but it just sort-of has an energy to it that just feels like it is almost definitely a man… I mean, it could be a man. I am sure it probably, most likely is a man.
“Who are you?” That’s it? That’s the only thing I am letting myself ask. The only thing I am daring to ask right now. There are many questions that I want to ask, believe me, questions that I should ask. But something is pulling me back from asking too much at once, from pushing for more information. One step at a time. I already changed too much. I mean I don’t even know just how much is safe to change. I don’t know. Just how much I can change in one go. What is possible? Well apparently, anything.
But this, this is till my dream, it is still my choice. This is still my safe place, my one place where I can ask the impossible to be possible. The one place I can find out what happens to the stowaway girl that climbs the rigging and reaches the birds nest. And that is where I get pulled into another world. That is what I want right now. I want to know what happens next to the stow away girl on the ship.
So what else do I do? I put the trinket box back together and put the notebook back on the top layer with the pen and close the lid. They will probably come back, whoever it is, and open the box and read my message. I hope they answer the question. It would be nice to have the name of the person invading my safe haven.
And there it is. The paperback book of my dreams. Sure of course that sounds absolutely ridiculous, I know? But that’s the thing, this is my dream. The paper, it has that old book feel, stiffened edges, yellowing paper. The cover that pretty faded green of the trees melting into the sea. That faded black ink.
My name is Elliot Parker and I am the stow away girl.
Pulled into this world, this time, it was different. The bird’s nest. The rough wood under my fingers, the knotted rope. It was clearer. The cold whip of the wind. The boat hitting each wave, each chopping slap on the hull. In all but one direction, the sea sweeping the world from existence. But that one corner of the world not just occupied by sea. That was the first time I have seen anything like it. A ship in the distance. It wasn’t right. The way it seemed to absorb the light from the rising sun. it made it look darker than jet black, if any such thing could be possible. If I could have flown from the bird’s nest to the deck I would have but I was being pulled away again. Dragged back into the room, the dream was beginning to dissolve from within the dream. Emerging from the book and landing on the hard wood floor hurt.
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