Fantasy Dreamer

The simple house ablaze transforms into an expansive mansion. The unreachable apple given as a token of kindness. The unthinkable is always visible in our fantasies.

Corveena tumbles into an abyss of dreams; as her thoughts become entangled with the dreamers, she changes her patrons’ thoughts from depraved to benevolent. She lands unscathed in silence atop the ocean as dry as a well-kept trophy. Her heart beats loudly in hopes a rescuer will hear it amidst the vast sea. Corveena is stoic, except for her quickening blood; she closes her eyes to mediate on the moment. Patience and tranquility are virtues she possesses and consistently practices. She waits peacefully for what is next. Corveena’s yellow rice colored hair is neatly twisted into a dozen twist braids, her full length whimsical amethyst dress has one thick strap over her right should, while the left sleeve hugs her whole arm tight to her wrist. Her heart shaped amethyst necklace settles towards her heart. She exhales a breath loud enough to make the sea ripple. Corveena begins to feel warm, as if a cup of hot tea has traveled thru her. She leisurely opens her eyes to discovers a glorious, vibrate, Mars colored phenix and her rider.

“Have you ever flown on a phenix?” A beaming woman asks atop the newfound phenix.

The Phenix sways gracefully with the wind in Corveena’s proximity. Corveena gazes with wide eyes smiling as she murmurs, “never.” Then they all disappear as if the phenix is a shooting star.

Corveena is grateful to be placed on land and flushes with relief when her airsickness dissipates. She discovers herself on a life size canvas forced to be as still as a statue. A paint brush tickles Corveena’s cheek. The glorious phenix rider has vanished without a word, replaced by two small children and an older woman. Corveena is unable to move or speak, so she watches intently as the woman supervises the elementary age children painting a marvelous something with lots of silver and black hues. The girls paint in fixed positions on the canvas to avoid illustrating their flower hats and matching day dresses.

Suddenly the women is close enough to touch Corveena; she inhales the calm women’s fresh cut lilies forming a crown in her hair. “Find the number eight,” the woman remarks to Corveena nearly inaudibly, then winks. A palm full of silver glitter blinds Corveena as a cool breeze instantly dries the paint.

The view of glitter fades into the silver and black hues, creating an illusion of Outer Space. Amid the painting Corveena is greeted by a small girl – one of the artisans. “Hi,” she wiggles her right four fingers. A curtain of planet blue hair covers one of her ultraviolet eyes.

“Hello, I am Coveena.” The paint has molded to her skin like clay, the wind prior made the painting become her new reality. Pathway. Mystery.

“Corveena,” she says wide eyed. “I know all about you. My mum calls you a neoteric,” her head cocks up as if she is reasoning the word neoteric, as well as Corveena’s presence. “How much time do you have?”

Corveena bends down to her level. “Plenty for dreamers. What are your dreams?” Corveena asks endearingly.

The artisan claps giddily. Then inhales a deep breath before expelling her notions about dreams briskly. “I love to dream! My mum encourages me to daydream at least twice a day. I just dreamed of a transport painting, now I need to unlock the door to the tower of fairytales. I am Arta. Would you like to help me?” She holds out her hand for Corveena to shake as a gesture of an agreement to seal their fates. “We can be in cahoots,” she declares. Arta tucks her hair behind her ear keenly gazing at Corveena with spacelike ultraviolet eyes encase in healthy white clouds.

So official. Corveena takes her hand gently, “A dream is always better with a guide,” she winks. “Of course, I will go with you. Finding a pathway to your purpose may be extortionary since you’re a girl full of imagination. May I ask you something Arta?”

Arta beams with satisfaction. “Anything,” she grins as she nervously plays with a small slinky of hair.

“What is a transport painting?” Corveena asks with a serious tone.

Arta releases the ringlet she was touching to free her hands to help her communicate her answer. “Oh, I imagined it just minutes ago. A transport painting is designed by an artist who then uses their inner brainchild to make it come to life. That is why we are in Outer Space with gravity. I just thought Space would be exceptionally easier to explore if there was gravity for humans,” Arta conveys like a scientist giving a lecture.

Corveena peers up, down, and everywhere to confirm she is in Space surrounded by stars with a few planets nearby. “I see,” Corveena says quizzically. Corveena is used to visiting unimaginable places. Corveena admires her painted midnight dress, Neptune blue hair, and silver glitter face that gives her a starry effect. Arta’s dress has some semblance to hers.

Corveena scrutinizes the tattoo hourglass on her wrist, a birthmark impossible to remove or hide; the sand within the hourglass is already more than three-fourth full, flowing steadily since she entered the abyss of dreams. Find the number eight. The thought comes to mind. “We should start walking if we are going to find your tower of fairytales together.”

“No need trek in Space. The key is hidden among the stars. We just need to trace it like a number dot to dot.” Arta explains using her hands to air draw what she means.

Corveena pounders what Arta implies is a number dot to dot. Possibly a dream made up by a child or something real that an adult would have forgotten. “What should we trace the stars with?” She says playing along as if she knows exactly what a number dot to dot is.

“Star dust of course. We have to turn and shake,” Arta instructs.

Corveena heeds the order in haste. After a moment they are surrounded by star dust, identical to the silver painted only minutes ago on Corveena’s dress. Two mountains of starry dust lay still like unfinished sandcastles. Arta sits ladylike on an invisible ground in Space with gravity. Corveena watches Arta meticulously. Arta moves the star dust from one pile with two fingers touching one star, then connecting another star.

The little artist counts “1, 2, 3 …. 8.” A fantastical ancient looking key made of Space stars and star dust nearly touches Corveena’s shoes.

The key handle reminds Corveena of Olympic rings. “unrealisticfantastic,” Corveena informs Arta.

“Jump with me!” Arta exclaims.

They jump on the door size key, which has the effect of opening a pathway from Space with gravity to the entrance of the tower of fairytales. Corveena drops and twists into her new surroundings. She holds a white marble door open, “after you.”

They pass several fairytale objects like a sword in the stone, Belle’s enchanted rose, talkative gingerbread cookies, and a rainbow bridge. The towers spiral staircase continues straight up for miles. Pocket size light fairies illuminate the tower. Until they run out of stairs and stand by a locked bright blue door.

The door changes to scarlet red and Arta’s hands clench.

“What is wrong?” Corveena asks perplexed.

“My nightmares are trying to escape,” she wails. Arta’s hands grip her brain as she begins to collapse. The fairy light begins to dim with her dreadful fears.

Corveena touches her forehead. “I can help.” Arta nods in agreement. Corveena faces Arta’s tinged red eyes and speaks calmly, “what is your favorite game?”

“Dominos.”

“And your favorite color?”

“Periwinkle pink.” Arta’s ultraviolet eyes return.

“Good,” Corveena praises as the once red door has turned colorless. “Do you have a favorite number?

“Eight, because I am eight.” Arta smiles wildly.

“Knock knock,” Arta says when her fist touches the door.

“Whose there?” A voice booms reverberating the stone tower.

“Crystal,”

“Crystal who?” The voice booms again, this time with a tone of curiosity.

“Crystal light!” Arta says, after she speaks the words, they become true.

Think it, believe it, see it. Corveena recalls her mother teaching her. If you can think and believe in something, it can come true. Corveena’s mother’s voice says in her thoughts.

Arta and Corveena pass the threshold of the now bright blue door into a room so tall they cannot see the ceiling; the floor is made of periwinkle pink dominos that display only the number eight. Crystal light shines all around them thru crystal windows full of sunshine and crystal trinkets around the room. Corveena’s hourglass tattoo will be emptied after the last few pieces of sand descend – her time will be up. Then Arta closes her eyes tight and mouths the words to a silent wish. The crystal figurines come to life. A crystal cat paws a fake fish in a shinny fish bowl. A crystal snail looks like it has a disco ball for a shell. Hundreds of crystal birds chirp.

“Keep dreaming,” Corveena advises Arta. Arta’s small hand holds a priceless gift for Corveena.

A beam of light engulfs Corveena. She returns to her sunset pink room full of fresh cut flowers permeating the air. In the palm of her hand she cherishes a crystal pendant of a sideways eight or an infinity symbol. She reminiscences her time in Dreamland recalling the extraordinary journey of a transport painting and the number eight. Corveena Hourglass settles in her room awaiting the hourglass birthmark to refill so she can return to the fantasy dreamers for she is the almighty capable of altering all dreams.