I wasn’t fond of dreams, at least not usually. They were always full of inane nonsense. Usually it was something about being late to work, or I would dream that I had gotten up, brushed my teeth, showered, ate, and gone through my day before my alarm would sound and I would really wake up.

It was annoying.

Recently, though, my dreams had begun to change. I’d wake up screaming in the middle of the night and scare my cat, but the content of the dreams would escape and fade away almost immediately. They always left me with a cold knot of dread in my chest, or a light-headed feeling of freedom in my head. It was making me lose sleep.

Which was why, at this very moment, I was holding a mop and standing in front of a large, foul-smelling assistant manager named Omar. Omar never bathed, nor did he eat anything green, leafy, or otherwise naturally occurring in fields or orchards. He smoked cigars in the basement of the store and always looked angry. Today was no exception.

“Snyder, you’re gonna have to sign the warning.”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” Sometimes this argument worked on the oaf, and sometimes it didn’t. I alway tried it, just in case.

“You’ve been late for the third time this week. I have to give you a written warning. Just sign the damn thing and finish mopping your section!” Omar shoved the paper in my face, along with a pen. On the paper were the words “Official Reprimand” along with “consistently late” and “under-achieving,” which I thought was a little unfair. Retail was about the most underpaid and overworked job to have, and they had the gall to call me “underachieving” for mopping floors and restocking the shelves of the automotive section all day? It wasn’t like it was rocket science.

Apparently, I also wasn’t a “team player.”

I hated this job.

Omar continued to wave the notice in my face until I finally snatched it out of the air in front of me. “Fine!” I signed it vindictively. I hoped it was possible to actually sign something vindictively or i’d just be stabbing through the page for no reason. Pointless waste of energy, that would be. I shoved the paper back. “There. Now move so I can mop.”

Omar lumbered away, leaving behind a stale aroma of cheeseburgers and beer. I took one of the cans of aerosol car air freshener and gave a quick spritz in the general area. Now it smelled like Mountain Meadows.

I rubbed my forehead. I’d been on my shift for seven hours, and Omar had only come by now, during my closing duties, to issue the reprimand. I’d be out of here late. Again. I sloshed the mop back into the bucket before setting it back on the floor. Two more isles to go.

----

Finally, I clocked out and threw on my leather jacket and grabbed my helmet. The only good thing about this job was that my route to and from work was a hell of a lot of fun on my motorcycle. The sun was just setting and there were clouds rolling in from the east. There would be a storm tonight for sure.

Damn, and I was going to let the cat stay outside tonight.

The streets of downtown Ridgeport were lit up at night with neon signs and car headlights. It was the only section of town that offered any 24-hour establishments. One was the Wal-Mart where I worked, and the other two were a Waffle House and a small gas station. Luckily, most of the other places in downtown were open till at least midnight. I pulled into the Waffle House parking lot.

“Hey, Snyder!” Al, the night shift manager, was just getting in. “How’ve you been?”

This was why I liked the place. The atmosphere was pleasant and the staff knew me by name at this point. “Eh, another day...”

“Yeah, I hear ya.” Al grabbed a place setting. “Usual table?”

Once I was settled with a cup of coffee and a waffle, I got my notebook out of my bag that I carried with me. One thing about college was that I had started to carry what my sister affectionately dubbed a “murse” or man-purse. It couldn’t be helped, though. I had too much crap to carry around all the time without a bag, and backpacks were too cumbersome.

This notebook wasn’t full of class notes or homework, however. This was a notebook of creativity. Sketches, bits of my dreams, half-hearted attempts at poetry, it was all in this book. I thumbed through it to a blank page and pulled out a pencil. Soon, my waffle was gone, my coffee cold, and what had started out as a simple doodle to pass the time was turning into the portrait of a horse and rider. The horse was jet black, except for a white mark on his neck. The rider was cloaked in black and had a silver sword at his hip. The steed was rearing up with his front two hooves in the air and the rider’s head was thrown back, mouth open, in an bout of insane laughter. The full moon was filtering through the winter-dead trees in the background. I was putting some detailed shading on the rider’s cloak when someone sat in the booth across from me.

“I’ve always said you should sell your artwork, kiddo,” said a feminine voice, “It’d make you a fortune. Keep you from having to work in that hell-hole all the time.”

“Hey, Grace,” I pushed my coffee cup aside. “How’re mom and dad?”

“Eh, they’re still there.” She flagged down the server and asked for coffee. I took the opportunity to order a refill. “They asked about you today.”

“Really? Is that a good sign or is it a one-time thing?”

“Dr. Zimmerman isn’t sure, but he’s hesitant to call anything ‘improvement.’ You know how he is.”

“Yeah.” We sipped our coffee in silence for a few minutes before Grace snatched the notebook from me in between pencil strokes. “Hey! Give that back!”

“Just a sec,” she said sweetly. “I wanna see what you’ve been up to. I never get to see your work anymore.”

The horse and rider was almost finished, so Grace paged past it to look at my other sketches. I watched the expression on her face turn to amusement at one point before she turned the book around and pointed to a rough pencil sketch. “What’s this, little brother? Getting delusions of grandeur?”

“Only in my dreams, apparently.” I knew why she was laughing. The sketch depicted myself on a horse, casting a stream of something out of my palm toward a wolf. The stream hit the wolf in the chest, and the creature’s face was contorted in pain while I bore a look of triumph and concentration. I had sketched it that morning, for once remembering an image from my dream before it was shattered by daylight.

“Hmm.” Grace pawed through my notebook for a while longer. I only ever let her look at my work under close supervision since the time she had ripped out a page in high school and entered it in an art competition under my name. It hadn’t mattered that I’d won. I was embarrassed that anyone had seen my
artwork.

We sat and chatted for a while longer before Grace’s watch chimed. “I need to go home. It’s nearly nine, and I want to help Evan put Charity to bed.”

“Give my love to the family.”

“Will do.” She gave me a hug and a kiss on the top of my head. “Don’t get into too much trouble, little brother.”

“Humph. I’m only ‘little’ by ten minutes. Seriously, we’re in our twenties. Just let it go.”
Grace laughed. “But it annoys you so easily! Why would I give that up?”

“Go home, Grace.”

She skipped out the door with a cheery “Goodnight!” thrown over her shoulder.

 I grabbed my jacket and helmet before leaving a moment later.

I got back to my apartment to find my cat, Willow, meowing desperately at the door. It had started to rain heavily by the time I arrived, and both of us were drenched. Willow darted ahead of me inside, and had the good sense to shake the water out of her fur in the kitchen instead of the carpeted living room. I filled her bowl with food and put some bread in the toaster before collapsing on the couch and flipping on the TV. The news was on, and I let the anchorwoman’s voice drift over me while I laid my head back and closed my eyes.

---

When I opened them again, I knew I was dreaming. I knew it within my very bones. And it was easy to figure out, really, because there was no way in hell I was really looking at a...what the hell was this thing, anyway?

“It’s a phoenix, Master Ian.”

I turned to find a young woman of about my own age standing to my left. Aila. The name drifted out of the shadows. Her name is Aila.

“Of course,” I said sarcastically, “What else would it be?” I felt the ground beneath me, solid like myself, and looked up at the clear night sky. These weren’t my stars. Where were my constellations that I knew so well?

I was back in my realm of dreams. It had happened every night for the last two weeks with the same cast. Aila was always beside me while I looked at some strange mythical creature, and behind me there usually stood...“Where’s Lovewell?”

“He’s gone home for the evening. I said you wouldn’t want to be disturbed by his presence this night.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and I noticed, as I always did, her striking appearance. Aina’s hair was long, straight and a deep, fiery red. Not coppery like any of the redheads in reality, but the color of pomegranate seeds or blood. She always left it down, but with two silver combs sweeping it up and out of her face. She dressed in a medieval-style black dress with long bell sleeves and her eyes were a deep, startling blue. She was always the same in every dream, but her image never stayed with me long enough to sketch her upon waking.

Slowly, the details of my nightly dream came back to me. It was always the same, and I had been slowly developing the ability to live it out in vivid clarity. Odd, because every other time I had been aware that I was dreaming, I had woken up. This dream held me in its sway until I woke up naturally or until I accomplished whatever task Aila or Lovewell, her friend, set for me.

“The phoenix’s name is Fuego, Ian. It is your task this night night to learn from him. Fire is a necessary part of any Seeker’s arsenal.”

And of course it made sense, in that maddening way that dreams always seemed to follow a path of unknown logic. I knew somehow what to do. I made eye contact with the bright orange bird and nodded my head. What the hell am I doing?

The phoenix seemed to know what was going on, however, because in an instant it had leaped onto my shoulder and engulfed us both in flames. I screamed in pain as the fire licked at my clothing and skin, and I could smell my skin burning. This was torture at its finest, and I knew the pain would not stop, not
until I mastered the fire around me. But dear god! It burned! It hurt so much! Please, just let it stop...

---

And in an instant I was awake on my couch, the smoke alarm was going off, and I knew that my toast had been ruined. Damn. That was a good loaf of bread, too. I unplugged the toaster and fished out the charred bread with fork. I threw it away and scowled at the toaster. Even the kitchen appliances were out to get me tonight.

Wings

Death flies on wings of moonlight,
Poisoning dreams in the course of its flight.
Life comes on wings of the sun,
Bringing balance when the night is done.

Dawn breaks on angels' wings,
Casting grace onto all living things.
Dusk falls on ravens' wings,
Carrying a banner of fallen kings.

Discord arrives on the wings of fancy,
Taking a risk on words that are chancy.
Peace draws near on the wings of a dove,
Bringing an olive branch and teachings of love.

Noon soars on eagles' wings,
Strong and steady as it sings.
Midnight slips by on skylarks' wings,
Finding dreams to which it clings.

And lastly, I, on wings of light,
Soar in the breeze and bid farewell to the night.

From Muffin With Love

Tuesday had begun in an alarmingly normal fashion. Judy had sent her alarm clock to the floor with a fist, sat up, yawned, and gone to brush her teeth. Muffin, her beloved companion, had shown his love for her by leaving a half eaten lizard on the kitchen floor. The cat himself was nowhere to be seen, which was typical. Only when he was hungry did he deign to show his face indoors.

The cheap coffee made her choke a little on the first sip, but she forced herself to swallow. At least it was hot, caffeinated, and heading for her bloodstream. She quickly opened the door to snatch the paper from the porch before the chilly wind could leech the warmth from inside the apartment.

When she turned back, an envelope sat next to the lizard. Crisp and white, it hadn’t been there two seconds ago. Her name was in black ink, the envelope was sealed, and she didn’t know anyone who could do calligraphy like that.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, a letter in the same elegant script.

That’s when her normal day ended.

My Dearest Judy,
I’m writing to get a few things straight with you, and I cannot in good conscience return home until I have said my piece. I hope you like the lizard. It took me all day to chase him down. I feel that it is my duty to explain what humans seem to consider “typical cat behavior.”
Firstly, I believe I speak for all cats when I say that Muffin is an utterly humiliating name. My true name is far too complex to explain to a human. You simply would not comprehend it, but you may call me Tessercat. And just because I am a cat does not mean that I am inferior to you. If anything, the opposite is true.

Consider this: I don’t have to feed myself if I don’t want to do so. You do it for me quite happily. I can leap several times my height, and I (like all cats) walk with a proverbial paw in another world.

You poor bipeds have your three dimensions and your tiny sliver of visible light in the spectrum. You live in houses of wood, stone and glass, and you wonder why we consider ourselves the better species?

The ancient Egyptians had it right for the most part. We are above and beyond you in almost every way. I cannot easily explain my world to the human mind. In essence, I can see space. Every dimension at once. Your world is so small, and comparing it to mine would be like calling a child’s stick-figure sketch equivalent to a Greek statue. There is simply too much scope and detail in the statue to make a comparison.

A face from your perspective consists of two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and perhaps you can see the hair and a bit of the ears. In my world, my dimension, I see all of it. Face, hair, bald spot, the back of the head, everything at once, and this is normal.

When I look at you, my dear human, I see every hair, every wrinkle, your back, your legs, hands, palms, knees, and everything in between. What you see of me is not my true shape, only that single part that dips into your three-dimensional world. I can’t even begin to explain what I really look like, because there are simply no words for it. No human has seen the fourth dimension, so how can you describe it? How would you describe the concept of “up” to a scribble on a page? Would you even try?

This is my universe. I see space, time, and everything in between. I taste music, feel smells, and hear flavor. This is the existence of a cat.

My purpose therefore, is to ask that you change my name to something less humiliating. Signing this letter “From Muffin with Love” just seems silly. Judy, I would not ask this if it was not important to me. You’re my human, and I love you (as evidenced by the lizard), so please end my torture. I am the laughing-stock of my associates.
Regards,
Tessercat

Judy stared at the letter for several minutes. Was this a joke? She was halfway to the trashcan before she noticed Muffin sitting on the lid, head cocked to the side, whiskers twitching, and with black ink stains on his right forepaw.

She blinked, and Muffin blinked back.

Feeling irrational, she asked him, “Did you write this?” She held the letter tightly and at arms length, as if it might bite her.

She almost fainted when her cat nodded. This was ridiculous.

“Muffin?”

His reaction was to sniff disdainfully and twitch his tail.

She started to giggle. Honestly, who could blame her? She had just received a letter and half a lizard from her fourth-dimensional cat. She picked him up, rubbed his tummy, and decided that Tessercat was a fine name indeed.

Lydia

In the end, we all discover the futility of life.

Dora Anderson sits in the window seat. Bright sunbeams struggle through the tiny seams between the blinds, dust motes swirl and scatter like honey bees at the end of summer, desperate to cover as much ground as possible before winter swallows their precious flowers.

Opaque white eyes see none of it. In withered old hands is gripped a stuffed penguin, once bright green. Mr. Apple is the affectionate moniker given to him by Lydia.

She would often see Lydia and Mr. Apple walking--no, stalking--down the hallway with a flashlight, on some grand adventure. Whether it was an African safari in the kitchen or exploring an Egyptian tomb in the living room, they were inseparable.

Mr. Apple's fur had been soft and bright, then. Now, Dora can feel patches where the soft fur has rubbed off completely, and he is missing a button eye. Who knows what color his plumage is now?

Stiffly, slowly, she rises from the window seat, penguin in hand. With the aid of a guiding stick, she easily navigates through the small town. She counts her steps. One hundred and twenty down Main Street, make a left, and walk thirty-two more. A gate and latch are easily dealt with before fifteen paces right and nine forward.

She drops the pole, reaches out, finds cold, smooth stone.

Lydia Anderson
Beloved Daughter
1981-1989

She knows the inscription well. Her fingers have traveled over them for almost twenty years.

She leaves Mr. Apple leaning against the headstone, wishes Lydia "happy birthday," and picks up her guiding stick. It's time to let go.

Hold Me Close

Winds blow strong and menacing
The earth shakes beneath my feet
My thoughts are scattered and wandering
I am about to concede defeat

Hold me close in your arms
Cradle my fragile heart in your hands
Close to you, I'm safe from harm
There's no better place in this No Man's Land

Hold me as I weep
Hold me till I'm strong
Hold me and keep me
I'll have to let go before long

I don't want to face the night on my own.

copyright 2008 H.J. Hanauer

Meant for More

Why do we stand
In the middle of the stream?
Why don't we take
A chance and lead the team?

We are meant to live
For so much more.
We are meant to be
More alive than ever before.

Don't just stand there,
Live out loud, dream it up.
You'll never know
Until you take the plunge.

Do you want to live
Your life in stagnation
Or do you want to feel
The breeze caress your face?

We are meant to live
For so much more.
We are meant to be
More alive than ever before.

We are meant to be human.

copyright 2008 H.J. Hanauer

Don't

Kiss the rain
Sing to the skies
Don't bother with drying
The tears I see in your eyes

I'm there for you
When life carries
You away in a deluge
Of fear, of pride, of failure
We all make mistakes

Don't hide away
Don't lower your eyes
I want to see you
I'll help you learn how to fly

Mine?

Given breath, given life,
Given sorrow, given strife,
Knowledge learned
Through work and life,
Is anything truly mine?

Father's eyes, mother's chin,
Sister's laugh and brother's grin,
Face defined
By blood and bone,
Is it even mine?

My own mind, my own sin,
My own voice, and my own skin,
What good are they
In my life
When nothing's truly mine?

Lessons learned and put to heart,
Even though it's torn apart,
These things are mine
And mine alone.

And none shall take them from me.

Rain: A snapshot of reunion.

It was raining. Again.

Sarah McKinley hated the rain. The sky became gray and dreary, the moisture falling from the sky was frigid, it soaked you to the skin almost instantly, and it made everything muddy and slick. The only thing she liked about the occasional desert rainstorm was the smell: cool and clean, drifting up from the pavement and whispering in her ear about far off places and scattered dreams.

In Arizona, rain was rare, and she didn't believe in dreams anymore.

She shuffled over to the couch to grab a pair of slippers. She needed to check the mail, and there was no way she wanted to get her feet wet. When she opened the door, moist air and musty fragrance flooded the living room. Her cat looked up briefly from his nap on the recliner, vaguely curious, but too lazy to investigate the change in the air.

Sarah walked out to the driveway, shoulders hunched against the cold wet spatter that still fell from the sky. She heard someone down the street belting out an off-key rendition of "Singin' in the Rain," and decided that they needed to be shot. But not by her. She was too cold and wet and miserable. I should have been born as a cat, she thought.

When she turned, mail in hand, to go back inside, she screamed. No! That couldn't be...

"Sarah?" The ghost by her front door smiled wanly.

Even though she knew it wasn't possible, she let the whisper fall from her lips. "Brian?"

His vague smile turned into a full-blown grin. "What can I say, 'lil sis?" He chuckled, "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

In the next instant, the mail lay forgotten on the soaked concrete driveway, and Sarah McKinley was sobbing in the arms of her assumed-dead brother.

It was still raining. Large drops of cold water fell from the sky onto the siblings, and Sarah decided something in that moment: She loved the rain.

Pen & Paper

Here I am again,
Alone with my thoughts
Wandering the depths
Of my mind.

Two candles are lit
By the window.
The flames sputter and twist,
Giving me light and warmth.

Pen touches paper,
Glides on a black streak
Through a boundless sea
Of white perfection.

Symbols soon form.
Letters convey thoughts,
Not blemishing the
Inimitable page,
But enhancing purpose.

From these simple words,
A story unfolds
Telling of beauty and pain
Of sorrow and joy.

A catharsis of thought
From a pen
And a page
And a candle-lit room.

This is peace.
This is perfection.
This is purpose.

copyright 2008, H.J. Hanauer