Part I can be viewed here.
More compiled Twitter microfictions from the world of strange dreams.
1. When you arrive at last at the summit, you realise it is not a frozen lake at all, but an enormous looking-glass. You press your palm to its bright surface and it is warm, sunlit, smooth beneath your fingers. It seems that the entire world is reflected in that bright, still pool.
2. in the twilight space between the world that was and the world that will be, you unearth a dusty jar from a forgotten shed, in a weed-choked garden. pressed against the emerald glass is a serene face the size of a thumb. she smiles; her world is so small, but she is safe inside.
3. the dunes stretch out as far as the eye can see, an ocean of rippling sand. you had always imagined the desert would be scorched and barren, but you have never seen so many birds in all your life; thousands of them, dancing high above the sand, in every colour you can imagine.
4. you have played this game before. the contours of the die are as familiar to you as your own skin; you can quote the rules in your sleep. the four identical men around the board nod in approval as you throw. three. it is a good number, they agree, as the fourth man melts into air
5. you recall some childhood doggerel: red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning. but what warning could a sky so vividly crimson possibly convey? no, you realise; this is no warning at all, but a message. the gods are speaking, and you alone can hear them.
6.you are on a deserted beach, hemmed in by silk-grey sea, by towering cliffs. the shingle shifts underfoot, a carpet of loose pebbles; when you look down, you realise that each pebble is a shard of coloured glass; worn smooth by the rough throat of the sea, luminous in the sun
7. this great hall seems to go on forever. bone-white marble, intricately-carved stone, the hue of a winter sky. pillars which reach into infinity. whose palace is this, so grand and empty? in the distance, someone is singing. perhaps they might know. perhaps you might ask them.
8. in the leaf-litter of the forest floor, you find an ancient jawbone. the teeth are so sharp, acute as razors. you hold it to your ear and in the voice of the wind, it whispers that you must head west; that you must journey to where the sun dies, at the very edge of the world.
9. you recognise the person beside you, though you have never seen them before. their skin is the colour of moonlight; when they smile, their eyes glow like stars. I am the shining one, they say; I am the cosmic dancer and I clothe myself in sky, and you nod as though you understand
10. you run down midnight streets. the streetlamps are broken, but the fireflies guide your way; they cluster in the eaves of old houses like summer birds. this is a place of whispers, of tales told in low voices. it is a place where the old stories live, soft and quiet in the dark.
11. you have a harp. The harp strings are made from lion’s hair; to make music, you must first coax the lion into letting you pluck his mane. But you are brave, and the lion is kind, and the music you play is the most beautiful music in the world.