Dreams
My name is Brandon. Brandon Stowford. I’m thirty-five years old. Every morning I wake up feeling like I’ve stepped into an alternate version of my life.
It might just be paranoia — but something’s wrong.
Something doesn’t belong.
For the past two years, I’ve been trapped in lucid dreams.
And with each one, the illusion sharpens. The world inside them grows clearer… more convincing.
Sometimes, I don’t even realize I’m dreaming — not until the nightmare is well underway.
I remember them not as fleeting images, but as lived memories. As if they were real.
And yet, no matter how vivid, the details begin to fade.
By the next day, they dissolve into mist.
One dream began peacefully.
I stood at the edge of a nameless lake when the sky turned black.
From the clouds came enormous, dark spheres — not ships, not objects… but *feelings*.
They didn’t move. They *pressed down*.
When one drew closer to the ground, everything fell apart: the sky burst into blinding white, space twisted, buildings crumbled, people vanished.
Gone — as if they had never existed.
I stayed in that dream for nearly an hour.
Only halfway through did I realize I was asleep.
But the dreams kept growing longer.
And darker.
One morning I woke to a strange pressure in the air. Heavy. Unnatural.
Still, I was in my bed — so I told myself it was real.
Then came the sound — something crashing against the front door.
I stepped into the hallway.
Two masked men. No words. Just fists.
Pain exploded across my face. Blood poured from my nose. My vision dimmed.
They beat me for minutes. Then, finally, one of them spoke:
“Johnny’s here for the money you stole.”
“What Johnny?” I gasped. “Do I *look* like someone who’d steal from people like you?”
And then I saw it.
The apartment.
It wasn’t mine. Elegant furniture. Polished floors. Expensive lighting.
Everything was *wrong*.
This was a dream.
I grabbed one of their guns and fired the whole magazine into the man who’d hit me.
The second one reacted instantly.
One shot. Clean. Between the eyes.
Bang.
I woke up.
Since then, the dreams have gotten longer.
More frequent.
“Bob,” I asked, “do you think I’m still asleep?”
“Twelve hours since your last awakening,” he said. “This can’t be a dream.”
Bob — my second voice. Or maybe my third self.
He helps sometimes. Other times… not so much.
“Then again,” he added, “if the cycles are stretching, who knows? Maybe you won’t come back.”
I smiled, but something inside me froze.
Paranoia.
Probably.
I yawned.
My body craved sleep. My mind begged to stay awake.
I closed my eyes.
And fell again.
