Massaging the Dreamspaces

A couple of hundred words here, a few under there, and before you know it you’re almost two thousand words into a scene.

Time flies where you're sorta not paying attention to it.

Time flies where you’re sorta not paying attention to it.

This was a tough scene to get through.  Not only was I trying to figure out what this little dreamscape thing looked like, but I’ve been working through some heavy depression of late, and it hasn’t made writing fun, let me tell you.  There are times when you don’t want to get out of bed, and yet you need to go off and do the adult things, but when you come home and have time to yourself, the last thing you want to do is write–you sort of want to lay down and do nothing.

And yet, you have to write.  Well, I do.  Even if it’s only a few hundred words here and there.

My progress has been like this:


Words 09/02/2015: 678
Words 09/03/2015: 512
Words 09/05/2015: 342
Works 09/06/2015: 465


Seriously, that’s not my norm, but then nothing been of normal lately.  But I’m working through it as best I can.  However . . .

There is writing.  And something else:


(All excerpts from The Foundation Chronicles, Book Two: B For Bewitching, copyright 2015 by Cassidy Frazee)

This is the space Kerry and I share. This is our dreamspace.

This new space was larger than hers and the color was different: the green remained, but there was pink instead of blue, and the chiffon was darker, much like the color of blooming goldenrods. The surface was solid and unmoving: Annie wondered if that was due to their not using the space. She floated around to the other side and found an identical corridor shooting down and away at an angle: right away she saw this as the path to Kerry’s dreamspace.

Before she departed she ran her hand over the frozen surface. It was body-temperature warm, soft and comfortable and familiar. It’s like touching Kerry. She floated her dream fingers across unyielding substance. This is the same sensation I have when I slide my hand down his arm. She pushed back from before turning towards the other corridor and following it down. I wonder: if he could dreamwalk, would that surface feel like me?

It didn’t take her long to reach his dreamspace. Right away she felt him in every segment of astral energy that made up the space: she could tell it was Kerry just by being in the presence of this construct. Annie believed that the familiarity was brought on by her being more or less in his mind, and she was really sensing all his unconscious thoughts. There wasn’t any time to ponder this matter: she sailed close enough to the pinkish-blue sphere interspersed with gold and hovered.


Playing around in Blender a little, I came with this:

Background needs to be brighter, but that's it.

Background needs to be brighter, but that’s it.

Colors are a tricky thing, because I’m limited to what I can do so far–which is to say, I don’t know how to do a lot of fancy stuff in Blender yet.  Also, I did this over the last twenty minutes prior to posting this image, which is some pretty flying-by-the-pants shit if there ever was any.  Give me time and I can probably come up with something nicer.

But that’s how I see these things.  It’s taking what I see above and converting it into words.  I mean, that’s what a writer is supposed to do, but it isn’t always being the smith of words.  If Annie could realize it, she’d know writing is a little like being in a dream:


The moment she did that sparks of light shot through the sphere, and Annie stopped her activity. She watched for a few seconds as she made the connection with the events occurring before her. He’s dreaming. He’s in there now, living through a fantasy . . .

She patted her hand against the surface several times before pressing her fingertips into the foam. This time they sank about two centimeters in before meeting resistant, and after a few moments of applying pressure Annie gave up. There wasn’t any reason to continue: while she could dreamwalk this far, trying to reach his this way wasn’t going to work.

She glanced up at their shared space floating off in the distance. For a moment she considered using the connection they shared to access Kerry directly, then discarded the idea as soon as her head began spinning. I’m pushing myself too hard. She took a deep dream breath of something that wasn’t air. I’ll snap myself awake if I’m not careful, and that will hurt. She looked up at the shared space once more. Now that I can get here, there’s plenty of time to explore.


Annie is smart enough to understand Backlash and Snapping, a couple of things that will pop up from time-to-time.  They aren’t good, and it was mentioned in the last book that backlash killed a student during Isis’ stint as chief of security.  Snapping out of a dream is a little like being cracked with a whip, so you don’t want that to happen, either.

Before she leaves, however, she catches something:


There was nothing to hear the astral breeze and a faint thrumming emanating from the dream sphere. Annie was about to turn away when she heard Kerry’s voice, faint and muffled, through the foam. She concentrated, hoping to catch something—

There were only a few words: Walk. No. I don’t— But there was something else: Annie swore he wasn’t alone in his dream. There’s someone else there. She closed her eyes though he caught a phrase spoken in another person’s voice.  Is it her? Is it that girl?

Annie floated back from his dreamspace, a puzzled look upon her face. She replayed the moment again where she thought she heard the other person—the girl—speak, and she was convinced she wasn’t mistaken. What did she mean? She began to fade as she returned to her own sleeping mind. Why did she say, “It won’t be much longer”? Annie’s last image before darkness returned was of Kerry glowing, active dreamspace. What is she doing with him?


Annie has questions, and while she’s certain she heard something, could it be her own imagination playing tricks on her?  After all, she is dreaming, and does she have full control of her own dream?  Well, I have exactly a thousand words to write to reach one hundred and thirty thousand, so perhaps . . . I’ll find out.