The depth of short stories and micro-fiction 2

The Brush of Dreams

Winston lived in a world of swirling colours and whispers secrets, a world he accessed only through the veil of sleep. He was a reclusive artist, his studio a sanctuary of vibrant hues and half-finished canvases. The world outside, with its cacophony of noise and relentless demands, faded into a mute background, barely registering in his consciousness.

He awoke each morning, not to the chirping of birds or the aroma of coffee, but to the insistent thrumming of his dreams, echoing in his mind like the reverberation od a struck bell. Each dream was a kaleidoscope of colours, emotions, and stories, swirling in his head like a tempestuous ocean. He would rise, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and begin to paint.

His creations were not mere representations of dreams: they were portals to them. He would paint a sunset, the fiery orange and crimson bleeding into a cerulean sky, and the next day, a fiery sunset would blaze across his own sky, mirroring his canvas. He painted a cascading waterfall, its icy blue water crashing against jagged rocks, and the roar of water erupted from his apartment window, a torrent of icy water cascading down his street.

At first, he revelled in this power, the ability to create beauty and wonder, to bring his dreams to life. He painted a sprawling meadow, sun-kissed wildflowers dancing in a gentle breeze, and found himself transported to a field of vibrant blooms, the scent of honeysuckle filling his senses. He painted a bustling marketplace, the cacophony of voices mingling with the scent of spices and awoke to the clanging of carts and the cries of vendors, a miniature market springing up outside his window.

But as his dreams grew more intense, so did his ability to manifest them. He painted a storm, the dark clouds swirling like a vortex, the wind whipping at the canvas, and his world transformed. The air turned thick, the wind howled, and the room began to shake, the storm he had painted mirroring the chaos within his own soul.

He painted a lone figure standing on a cliff, the wind whipping at his hair, a sense of isolation and despair radiating from his form. The next morning, he woke to find a man standing on the balcony outside his apartment, his eyes wide with a chilling emptiness, his face pale and gaunt. He could feel the man's despair, his yearning for release, echoing in his own soul.

Fear began to grip him. He realized the danger of his gift, the power it held over his reality. He tried to stop, to confine his dreams to the confines of his canvas, but the images continued to seep into his reality. He painted a burning building, the flames licking at the sky, and the fire alarm blared, an inferno raging in the building across the street. He painted a flock of birds soaring through the sky, their wings beating a rhythm of freedom, and the next day, a flock of crows descended upon his apartment, their black feathers a stark contrast to the vibrant world he had created.

He was trapped in a cycle of creation and destruction, his art a double-edged sword, both a conduit to beauty and a pathway to chaos. He attempted to paint scenes of peace and serenity, hoping to quell the storm within, but his dreams were a torrent of emotions, his subconscious a tempestuous sea.

One night, he dreamt of a vast ocean, the waves churning and crashing, the moon casting a spectral glow on the water. He woke with a gasp, the image of the ocean burning in his mind. He began to paint, his hand a conduit for the churning sea within him. He painted the waves, the moon, the endless expanse of the ocean, his brushstrokes frantic, his emotions spilling onto the canvas.

As he finished the last stroke, the room seemed to tilt, the walls blurring, the world around him dissolving into a swirling mass of colours. He closed his eyes, his heart pounding, his body trembling. When he opened them, he was no longer in his studio. He was standing on a beach, the vast ocean stretching before him, the moon casting a silvery light on the rippling waves. He was in his dream, a world he had brought to life, a world that was now his reality.

He looked at the horizon, the vast expanse of the ocean reflecting the storm within him. He had a choice: he could stay in this world, embrace the chaos, and become one with his dreams. Or he could find a way to return, to separate his art from his reality, to harness the power within him without succumbing to its destructive force.

He stood on the beach, the wind whipping at his hair, the moon reflecting in his tear-filled eyes. He was a prisoner of his own art, a creator and a victim, a man caught between dreams and reality, a solitary figure in a world he had both crafted and condemned.