This will be a collection of original short stories, written by your's truly, HalfMiralukanJedi. Fair warning, dear reader, I am unable to write a happy ending worth reading, so if you value your heart in one piece, you may want to reconsider ventur...
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You all know the story of the dreamcatcher. You hang them in your room and the beads on the web snatch up all the bad dreams. What you may not know, is that every now and again, the dreamcatchers must be emptied of the dreams they've collected. Generally, we, the takers, do this every couple of years. Except, every now and then, someone is overlooked, or forgotten.
I didn't know what to expect, being assigned to one of these who have been pushed aside by my fellow dream takers. It wasn't really that she had been forgotten, I was told, but more that they were afraid to see her dreams, after illegally reading her file. So, naturally, the job was eventually pushed to me. I wanted to do my job right, so instead of looking into her file, I just accepted her. After learning her name, that is.
The girl, asleep in her bed, was about five months from eighteen. Her dreamcatcher, having never been emptied, is full to the brim. The bead will soon burst under the pressure.
I look at the girl. She seems so at peace, that I can only imagine why my friends are so afraid. The covers are up to her neck, and she's curled up tight, but relaxed in sleep. There are bags under her eyes to show she doesn't sleep much, but even a little sleep can give a dream.
I sigh and return to the dreamcatcher that hangs from her ceiling fan. Almost eighteen years worth of bad dreams to filter through. I put my palm to the webbing, the very center of my hand at the middle bead.
"Show me," I wisper to the bead. "Show me all you have to offer. Show me what you cannot hold, and what you've held for too long. Show me the nightmares of your collection."
The dreams start when she was just a young girl, wielding childish fears of bugs and trains, and gradually get worse.
...
She is maybe four, standing in her room, the black mass is steadily getting closer, destined to consume her. The large bugs hiss and scratch at the wood paneling on the walls. Roaches.
She screams and somehow makes it away. She is outside a public restroom, yelling for her grandpa to get out of there before the roaches get to him.
...
It is Mother's Day morning, and she and her grandpa are making breakfast in bed for her grandma. Suddenly, there is a knock on the door. Her grandpa goes to to answer it, expecting someone to come and tell them when the parade is starting. Instead, he finds a large white bird.
"Just a pelican," he mutters, closing the door and walking away.
But the girl lingers. She cracks the door open, just a tiny bit, wondering if the unheard-of pelican will fly in. Then, she goes back to the kitchen and watches her grandpa stir the eggs.
