Broken Dreams

By D. L. Silverman

Wrongfully convicted of a crime he did not commit, Mike Ward’s only escape from prison life is through his dreams. His night visions of a garden paradise were so vivid they felt real – but he could not imagine they would enable him to step into a reality far beyond his imaginings and on a quest to save Ganae-Den, a realm of eternal peace and beauty.

Mike discovers he is a Dreamshifter, a being who can travel to other dimensions via his dreams. As he learns to shift to other realms, he determines to never return to his earthly prison. But the Shield Tree that protects Ganae-Den is dying; LifeStealer, a Dreamshifter hungry for conquest, has stolen the magical stones from the Shield Tree. For this, the Way to other realms is closing, and the garden paradise is now open to attack.

Debut novelist D. L. Silverman draws the reader into a world where dreams become reality, and the nightmare of reality invades your dreams. Broken Dreams is the first book of The Dreamshift Chronicles Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. L. Silverman
• Release date: Nov 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781728891941

D. L. Silverman

D. L. Silverman was born deep in the American south, but grew up and spent most of his youth in various states including Michigan, Ohio, and Texas. Throughout his life and military career, he has had the opportunity to live and visit overseas in such countries as the Philippines, Saudi Arabia, and Israel. But his fondest memories were of his high school days living in Cincinnati, Ohio romping around with his friends and scrapping together enough pennies to buy dinner at Skyline Chili. He spent a good many weekends wrecking havoc playing D&D, devouring large sums of Coke-a-Cola and pizza, and reading any and all sci-fi/fantasy novels he could get his hands on. As a result of his love of reading and vivid imagination, D. L. Silverman had always wanted to write a novel, but the cares of life seemed to keep him from ever realizing that goal. Not long after high school, D. L. Silverman went to serve his country in the US Marines and is a Desert Storm veteran. After being honorably discharged, he went on to pursue a career in art. He has created graphics for everything from traditional portraits to book covers and film posters and even has created real-time 3D game models and environments for games and business applications. Even though he had always loved his art, D. L. Silverman never forgot his dream of writing. In 2009 he decided to finally plunge in and make his dreams a reality. Grabbing pen and paper (literally!) D. L. Silverman began to pen the words to the prologue of Broken Dreams, the first book in the Dreamshift Chronicles trilogy. Years of pent up ideas and creativity came spilling forth on the pages and soon a story began to take on a life of its own. Broken Dreams represents a beginning. More books are to follow. For once D. L. Silverman had put words and ideas to paper to form a story, he became addicted. The stories needed to be told, needed to find a life in the mind of others as they read and participated in the lives of those created.

Book preview

Part 1

Chapter One

Captain Mike Ward leaned back in his bunk. He had a small, crowded eight-by-twelve-foot room, but as captain, at least he had his own quarters. For that he was thankful. The steel bulkhead door, designed to preserve his life and maintain pressure in the event of an emergency, stood closed at the edge of walls lined with electrical boxes, blinking lights, wires, and pipes. No space was wasted on an intergalactic scout ship.

Captain Ward's eyes began to slip closed. The day had been a long one, and rest came as a welcome release.

To sleep, perchance to dream, he muttered.

He desired sleep. In its own way, sleep offered an escape, a means of avoiding the reality of the hardships of life aboard a small starship. As his eyelids finally met, shutting out the room's dim light, he sighed.

Ah … sweet release.

Then all hell broke loose.

Bright lights flashed in the once dimly lit room. Simultaneously, alarms blared intermittently, screeching that some disaster had occurred.

Damn! Ward grumbled under his breath, popping open tired eyes.

He quickly took in his surroundings, his eyes opened wider. The electrical boxes along the walls seemed to flicker and fade. The wires and pipes wavered in and out of existence. He swung his attention to the bulkhead door. Through the noise of the alarms, he thought he heard someone calling his name.

Ward!

The two-foot-thick hatch blinked out of existence, replaced by a steel cell door used in a prison.

Hey, Ward!

The cell door opened, and a head poked in.

Ward. Come on, man. It's time for chow. Unless ya' want to give me your tray, I suggest ya' quit your day dreamin' and get your backside out a' that bunk.

The head pulled out of the doorway, and Mike Ward looked around his room. It was a cell. The electrical boxes, lights, wires, and pipes were gone. The dimly lit quarters had become quite bright. Ward shook his head to clear it. He still sat in his cell, and nothing had changed. It had all been a dream.

Damn. Why can't I just be left alone?

Sluggishly, he got up from his bunk, slipped flip flops onto his bare feet, and followed the man out the cell door to stand at the end of the line.

The man who had poked his head into Mike’s cell turned to look at him. I don't get ya’, Ward. Sometimes I think ya' live in another world or somethin'.

Yeah. Whatever. What's on the menu, Keith?

Crap. Same as at lunch. Wadidja expect? Pizza Hut?

Heh. No. You know what I mean.

Yeah. I do. Keith lived as a career inmate. It seemed that he’d spent most of his life going into or coming out of a jail cell. Tattoos covered both his arms and the sides of his neck. He even had a tear-shaped tattoo at the corner of his left eye. Today's crap is supposed to be tacos, but they're not like tacos on the street, bro.

Each inmate inched forward in line. As he approached the secured door where workers served the food, he gave the guard posted there his cell number and last name. Then an inmate working as a server handed over a tray.

Crap. Mike sighed.

Got taco shells for beans! someone called out.

Often inmates worked trades from their meal trays in an attempt to get more of what they liked. When they had so little, they did whatever they could to make their existence more tolerable.

You can have it all, Mike said, slapping his tray down on the steel table.

You're not going to eat that? Keith asked.

No.

Man! Ya' shoulda given that ta' me!

Next time, man. Next time.

Mike returned to his cell and closed the door. He only wanted to be left alone. He only wanted to dream.

He flopped on his bunk with a sigh and tried to recapture the vivid images that crowded the back of his mind. He had always loved to dream. It was better than going to the movies - somehow more lifelike to him and certainly more unpredictable. Since his incarceration, dreaming provided a legal way to escape his cell and travel to worlds heretofore unknown. Without his dreams, he was certain he would lose his mind.

But dreaming was not in the plans for him at the moment. He was too worked up. No matter how much he tried to relax, his mind remained dark, swallowed in blackness. He seemed to feel every wrinkle in his sheet, every lump in his mattress, making him uncomfortable.

Damn!

He grabbed a book lying on the floor beside his bunk. Books presented another means of legal escape, though the author controlled where the pages took him.

I don't get this. I just don't, he muttered as he stared at the cover.

The book in his hand was one of those crime novels where some super criminal committed some super crime, and a super detective went through hell and back to put the bad guys behind bars.

Once a week, the inmates in his pod had an opportunity to go to the jail library and bring back a book or two. Despite a library with a few thousand titles, the vast majority were fictional crime stories.

We're in jail. Mike muttered. "Why would these guys want to read crime novels?"

Frustrated, he let the book drop to the floor where it had lain all week. Dreams eluded him and reading held no appeal. All he had left was to stare at the blank walls in his boredom.

***

Keith’s head poked into the cell's doorway again. Yo! Ward! Ya' off in La La Land again?

The career criminal had a grin that spread from ear to ear. Mike didn't know what was more frightening - the numerous tattoos or that snaggletooth grin. Despite Keith's background, he was an alright guy, and for whatever reason, he had decided that he liked Mike Ward.

Nope. I'm just staring at the walls, trying to see if anything has changed since two minutes ago.

Riiight … Mind if I come in?

An inmate was not supposed to enter another's cell without permission. Mike rolled his eyes at Keith then slowly extended the middle finger of his right hand.

Keith laughed. Don't mind if I do. He waltzed in and plopped onto the concrete floor, placing his back against the wall. How long ya' been here, Ward?

Three months, two days, six hours and twenty-three… no…twenty-four minutes.

I see you're not keepin' track or nothin' like that.

Nope. Not at all. Mike smiled weakly.

Well, ya' gotta come out of your cell every once an' a while. Ya' can't just sit in here an' rot. All it'll do is eat at ya' an' eat at ya' and keep eatin' ya' until there ain't much left.

There isn't much left as it is. What'll be left a year from now?

Come on, man. There's all kinds of things we can do here. We got chess, checkers, cards an' chess and, well, did I mention we got chess an' checkers?

Heh.

Oh! Or you could pick a fight with Carlos. That's always fun, Keith said with an even bigger snaggletooth smile.

Right. And then I'd get to spend a few days in the hold. No, thank you. I think I'll just keep staring at these walls.

Keith's smile faded, replaced by a slight frown. Slowly, he shook his head.

You're gonna lose your mind in this place, Ward. Ya' can't just hide in your hole, comin' out only to eat that crap they serve us here.

I'll be alright. Thanks. I've got things to do.

What? Read crime novels?

"No, I can think … dream."

Think? Keith asked with a look of mock surprise. What's that? Then his face settled into more serious lines. "Dreamin's for children, Ward. This here's reality. Ya' can't escape but for so long in a dream 'fore you wake up. And then? Well, reality hits a lot harder than a dream, an' if you're not ready for it? Whoa! It'll knock your head right off."

What are you, the jail house philosopher? Mike replied with a crooked smile.

No. But I've been here long enough to know how ta' survive. Hidin' in your dreams ain't how ya' do it.

Mike studied the inmate for a moment then turned his head away. A sigh escaped his lips. In jail, everyone had some words of wisdom to share. Keith was no different, and his constant involvement with the law made him think he was the Dr. Phil of the jailhouse scene.

"Dreaming's all I've got," Mike thought.

***

Lockdown! Lockdown! the ceiling speaker blared. Everyone back to your cells. Lights out in five minutes!

The jail's cell doors locked automatically upon closing and could not be opened without a guard in the control booth to release the latch. The day had ended. Night had finally come, and the incarcerated men of pod 1C meandered to their lonely cells. While the guards could certainly make them go to their cells, they could not force them to sleep. Many inmates stayed up through the night reading (a crime novel, of course) or writing a letter to some significant other still out on the street.

This was Mike's favorite time of the day. In his cell, with the door locked, no one could bother him. No one could keep him from his thoughts and dreams. Within the confinement of those four walls, he finally experienced freedom. He had learned long ago that while men could certainly control his body, sometimes forcing their will upon him, they could never control his mind. As long as he could think, he could imagine. And when sleep finally came, he could dream. Dreams gave him escape, like a doorway into another reality - a strange and swiftly changing reality, but a reality nonetheless.

At first during lockdown, pod 1C normally became quite loud. Inmates slammed their cell doors, intentionally and with vigor, letting the world know about the injustice of their confinement, whether any injustice was committed or not. Once in their cells, some would shout one to another as if they hadn't enough time to talk throughout the day. Others might sing, letting the notes fly at the top of their lungs - and it didn't matter if they howled on key or not. A shout to shut up, whether from a guard or an inmate, would only cause the noise to increase. Eventually, talking and singing would subside, slowly drawing to a close. Silence would finally triumph, just as darkness had prevailed upon the day.

Mike patiently waited for the quiet. This was his time, and it would come. It always did. Even as a child, he could remember this as his time - his means of escape. Always a creative child, he had sketched images of undiscovered worlds, read novels about impossible places, and imagined peoples that did not exist - at least not on planet earth. His fueled imagination propelled his dreams to new heights. In some instances, he had awakened convinced the dream was real. At least he liked to believe his nighttime visions were true reality. They certainly held more interest than his awake time.

His parents had raised him in a typical American household where both his mom and dad worked in order to make ends meet. As the old saying went, All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. But in this case, Jack and Judy, both absorbed in their work, paid little attention to each other. And certainly not to Mike. It seemed his parents could only come unwrapped from their careers long enough to produce one child. As a result, he grew up mostly alone. He filled his time with dreams and imaginary friends. By the time he reached nine, Mr. and Mrs. Ward finally lost interest in each other, divorced, and went their separate ways to further pursue their careers. Somehow, this made Mike feel even more alone, and he withdrew further within himself.

Mike had intelligence, coming from good stock despite his parent's lack of guidance. His skill in drawing had advanced above average for his age, but his creativity in inventing imaginative creatures excelled to an uncanny level. In many ways, he carried his dream companions into his real life, allowing them to inhabit the realm where he lived. Drawing also offered a way of escape for him.

As a child, he had actively dreamed virtually every night, and many of his dreams had a quite lifelike quality in their detail. He so enjoyed the content of his dreams that he often longed for the night. He was certainly not a child his parents had to worry about getting to bed.

When he lay down, he had a little ritual. He would lie on his back, close his eyes and count backward slowly from twenty. By the time he reached zero, he was completely relaxed and almost felt like he lightly floated. His mind would immerse in darkness, and he would imagine his bed lifted by imaginary beings. A cave entrance would materialize, and the beings would slowly carry him into it. At the entrance of the cave, a rough-hewn staircase descended into the darkness. Step by step, the bed, with Mike lying perfectly still upon it, would go down, a dim torch occasionally lighting the way. The bottom had an entrance of light. As the beings approached, Mike would suddenly find himself thrust into his nighttime visions. It was as if he had carved a road unto the land of dreams.

Most of his dreams consisted of the standard fare. Sometimes he would float along, not a care in the world. Other times, he ran from some unseen assailant. Unfamiliar places would seem familiar and would frequently change as the dream progressed. Odd and unusual events would occur with alarming frequency yet seemed completely natural. Scattered intermittently between came dreams of remarkable clarity and substance.

One such dream, which occurred from time to time, cast him into a beautiful green garden inhabited by quite strange and intelligent creatures. They did not to take notice of him or, perhaps, they did not know he had joined them. It was a dream, after all. The creatures acted genuinely happy, always at play as if they had no worries. They would dance and sometimes chase each other. Often they sang, but Mike could never understand their words. He always felt happy and content after having such a dream, and he longed to run and play with the strange creatures.

But as he grew older, his dreams began to fade as darkness fades before the rising sun. He assumed it was just a part of growing up. As he took on more responsibility, it became necessary to relinquish his dreams, to firmly fix his place in the real world. Eventually, he rarely remembered dreaming at all.

Life went on, and the daily cares of getting along in the world - first schooling, later getting a job, paying bills and trying to hold his head above water - drowned his desire for dreaming. Nighttime simply became a time to unwind and recoup, preparing for the day ahead.

Now Mike found himself in jail, and that changed everything.

When first incarcerated, he was enraged. He could not believe the circumstances that led to his imprisonment. He spent his first week sitting or pacing in his cell, glaring at the walls and shouting in his mind at the unfairness of it. Then he remembered his dreams and thought that perhaps this entire episode - his charges, his incarceration - were nothing more than a perverse vision of the night. As day dragged into day and he didn't wake up, he came to a realization.

This was no dream.

Despite the unfair circumstances, despite his freedoms stripped from him, the worst part of serving a jail sentence was sheer boredom. He finally began to understand the meaning of doing time. He simply had nothing to do. He could read, but from a limited selection. He could play chess, checkers or cards, but that only entertained for so long. He could sleep, but only so much. Eventually, he would awaken, and further sleep would become impossible. If he didn't find something to do, he would find his mind reviewing the sorry events that landed him in jail in the first place. His mind attempted to do this constantly. If he didn't take control of his thoughts, it would dictate where it wanted to go. His brain seemed content to torment him with his current situation. Mike learned he needed to actively take charge of the direction of his thoughts or he would go mad.

He turned his attention elsewhere, reflecting on sweet memories from earlier times. Sometimes he would lie and daydream, pretending he was somewhere - anywhere but in his cell. In the midst of his reflections and daydreams, he began to remember his childhood longing for the night. As he did, he began to wonder if he could once again dream as he had so long ago. A bit of excitement began to build in Mike Ward and, once more, he began to long for the night.

Chapter Two

Black silence filled the void. It was peaceful, representing nothingness in quite a fulfilling way - no bills, no new obligations to fulfill, no new work to do. Peace. But the calm was interrupted by an irritatingly bright point of light that punctured the darkness. Not satisfied with just aggravating its viewer, disturbing this nothing new, the point began to grow. Within moments, it engulfed the black, replacing it with blinding white. In some ways, this had no different from the black; nothing to see and nothing to do. Still quite fulfilling. Until the white began to give way to blue.

Blue sky, lazy clouds, carpet of green grass. A gentle breeze lightly moved trees at the parameter of the meadow. Then large blue eyes were there.

Three sets viewed him.

See? I told you. Look! the first set of eyes declared matter-of-factly.

It does not look like us, whispered the second in hushed tones. "Bigger. Longer. Strange."

"But it is one of them, right?" asked the third.

"It must be. You saw how it appeared here. First there was nothing and then … there it was!" replied the first.

"But it cannot be. They are just sleep-time story things! My Ablish says so!"

But you can see it with your own two eyes. There it is!

Yes. I see. I see! But what is it I see?

An idea seemed to occur to the second set of eyes. Perhaps we can ask it? Perhaps it will tell us what it is.

You can talk to it if you want. Not me! exclaimed the third with a hint of fear.

Me? No! I will not ask. No, not me.

Flaff! Jiggle-eyes, both of you! It just lays there. What is there to be afraid of? said the first with irritation edging its voice.

"Maybe it is the one my Ablish told me about… the one who takes life." Fear evident in the voice of the third.

Flaff! sputtered the first. "Sleep-time stories! They are only meant to frighten us into doing what Ablish and Imlish want us to do. There is no Life-Stealer."

The second's eyes flashed wide. "Look! Again he fades."

Three sets of eyes stared intently now, all large and blue. The grass, the trees, the sky - it all began to fade into a bright white and then, at last, the white gave way to black.

The nothingness had returned and, with it, a sense of peace.

Chapter Three

The motorcycle felt good beneath Mike though he had never ridden one before. That fact did not concern him. What bothered him was that he rode it in the midst of a crowd of people casually walking through a large store of some kind. The people nearest ignored him despite the roar of his engine. In the distance, an immensely fat lady fell down a long set of stairs. Though her fall looked quite painful, she laughed once she struck the bottom. No one paid any attention to her either.

He steered the bike toward a set of double doors that led outside. Once there, he navigated up a set of stairs and then merged with cars at a traffic light which shone red at the moment. The light turned green, and Mike began to walk forward. He hadn't notice that he no longer rode the motorcycle. He had forgotten it - or perhaps he had never been on one to begin with. It didn't matter. Traffic moved forward and so must he. Familiar people whom he had never met smiled at him, their alligator teeth shining in the moonlight. He left the road and headed off into the woods, floating gently along as he went. No one followed.

Through the trees, a slight buzzing noise grew louder. The buzzing stopped, followed by a sharp clack.

Mike opened his eyes. He had been dreaming. The buzz-clack came from the electronic release on his cell door. Morning had arrived, and he had to get up or miss breakfast - if what they served in the morning could be called breakfast.

Chow! a voice echoed via the pod's intercom system.

Damn. Too tired to get up, he mumbled.

A knock sounded at his doorway, and Keith's head poked in. Get up, dreamer. I think they're servin' us crap for breakfast, and I know ya' don't want ta miss that.

How can you be so damned alert at this time in the morning? And why would you even want to be anything remotely close to awake in this place?

See? That's your problem, Ward, intoned the inmate with an edge of seriousness in his voice. Ya' don't know how to lighten up. Start by gettin' up and come and enjoy your crap. If ya' can't laugh at what they give us to eat, man, then what can ya' laugh at?

***

The inmates in pod 1C had forgotten what it looked like outside for they had no windows. Trees, grass, blue sky became a thing of the past or something to look forward to upon one's release. The pod had three skylights to help illuminate the day room, but coverings of opaque white plastic blocked their ability to see the sky. As a result, the day passed slowly and the only way to tell time was by meal service or end-of-the-day lockdown.

Days blended into days, and it became difficult to determine a weekday from a weekend. But certain events happened on certain days. On Tuesdays, the inmates got a fresh, clean jumpsuit. On Thursdays, the old linens and towels were exchanged for new ones. Without this schedule, they could quite easily lose track of both time and day.

One event took place on most days with the exception of Sunday - mail call. Mail provided the inmate's a lifeline to the outside world. Each evening, a guard came by and began to shout inmates' names who had received mail for that day. Most of the time, everyone stopped what they did and listened expectantly for their name.

Incarcerated for several months already, Mike had gotten used to the routine but could never look forward to mail call. He never received anything. He would often disappear into his cell, though he would listen in vain, hoping to hear his name called just this once. After the guard left, having delivered all the mail, Mike would sigh. He became convinced that no one on planet earth cared about him or his circumstances. This caused him to further withdraw within himself and desire to live in his dreams.

Mail had come and gone again when he received a knock on his cell door. He didn't bother to answer, but the door opened anyway.

Ward, what's up? a broad shouldered man asked as he casually walked into the cell. He had dark skin, almost black, and close-cropped hair, but his bright eyes shined from beneath heavy brows. Like most of the inmates in the maximum security pod, he had numerous tattoos on his arms and neck. If not for his warm smile, his appearance would cause most to avoid him.

What do you want, John? Mike asked with hardly an inflection in his voice.

"It's not about what I want, Ward, but what you need," said the man in a very heartfelt and sincere manner.

"What I need is to be left alone and I certainly don't need what you're selling."

Come on, man. You know I ain't selling a thing. I've come here to give you a gift. How many things you get for free here in this place? And certainly not anything of any real value. You know what I've been telling you is true.

John was known as a jailhouse preacher. Like the jailhouse lawyer, it seemed every pod had one. He made it his particular interest to see that his fellow inmates would not have to spend an eternity in the Big Slammer down below, commonly referred to as Hell. Like everyone else in 1C, John did time as a felon for some crime he had committed out on the street. Unlike everyone else, he believed he had been forgiven and his sins washed away by the Blood of the Lamb - no matter what the local justice system said. John had come to believe he had fallen to temptation so he could be jailed and, therefore, reach the inmates with the Gospel. In other words, 1C was his mission field and John was on a mission. At the moment, it looked like Mike was his target.

John, I've told you before, I don't go for that religion stuff. That's not me. There are twenty-three other cells in here. Surely you can find someone else to bug, Mike said dryly.

"It's not about religion, Ward. You know that. It's about a relationship."

John, I don't want to offend you—

You won't offend me, man.

He began again. "I don't want to offend you, but I don't have a relationship with Santa Claus. I don't have a relationship with the Easter Bunny. And I don't want to have a relationship with any other fictitious or imaginary being. If you want to believe in god and the Bible and all that, then go right ahead, but leave me out of your fantasies. Okay?" His tone was harsh. He had grown tired and bit depressed.

Not discouraged, John said, Well, Ward, you can pretend the Lord is imaginary if you want, but one day you'll—

"Yeah, I know. I know. I'll 'stand before him and give an account.' I've heard it all before."

"Ward, look. I didn't come in here to screw with you. I want to help. I see you got no one on the outside…no one to call…you never get no mail. You've been lookin' down. The Good Book says you can have 'Joy unspeakable' and 'peace that passes understanding.' I just wanted to bring some joy into your life, man. That's all."

Keith walked into Ward's cell with a look of mock anger on his face, waving his index finger as if it were a weapon. Shit, man! Leave Ward alone and go bug someone else, John.

You shouldn't talk like— John began.

Fuck! Shit! Damn it to hell, bitch! Is that better?

I'll pray for you, Keith. And you, too, Ward. John's voice sounded strained, but he turned and walked out of the cell.

Keith to the rescue! Keith said, doing his best Super-man pose.

Yeah. Thanks. For all the pain in the ass you are, for once I appreciate you interceding.

"Inter-what? Come on, Ward. We're in jail. No one in here has an IQ above ten. Ya' need to dumb it down or no one will understand ya'. Not that anyone understands ya' anyway. It's like your head's always in the clouds."

Mike faced the inmate. Yeah. I wouldn't mind being in the clouds right now. Anywhere is better than being here.

What's up with ya' and your constant dreamin' anyway?

Mike studied him as he pondered the question. Keith wasn't mocking him. He seemed to really want to know. Despite their vast differences, the inmate was the closest thing Mike had to a friend while in jail. And judging from the lack of letters he got, Keith might have been about the only friend he had anywhere.

I like to dream, Mike said eventually.

No duh. I know that. But why? I mean, we all dream, right? I dream. You dream. We all dream for ice-dream and all that. But I don't see no one hooked on it like ya' are. Ya' some kinda' dream junky or somethin'?

"Heh. I guess you're right. Dream junky. Never thought of it like that."

Keith blinked and raised expectant eyebrows. So, answer the question.

I guess I owe you that. You did save me from John, he said with a slight smile.

"John was tryin' to save you, I think." A malicious smile reached Keith's eyes.

You know, I've just always liked to dream. Ever since I was a child I can remember dreams being very important to me. They were always a way for me to escape from my life and go to a place that was better … or at least more interesting. In fact, for some time, I was confused as to which was more real - my dreams or my life.

Come on, Ward. Ya' couldn't tell the difference?

Not always, he said with a thoughtful drawl. "I mean, most of my dreams were the ones where almost nothing made sense. You know, where the scene shifts constantly or you're floating along and no one seems to notice. But I had this one dream … every now and then … it would seem so real. And when I dreamed it, it just felt right - like I belonged there or like I fit in. I never quite fit in with the real world."

Keith rolled his eyes. "Neither did I, man. And maybe that's why they keep putting me back in here. But I never had no dream that made me wish I was there or that seemed as real as this," he said while patting one of the walls of the cell.

The light in the room seemed suddenly a bit dimmer, his surroundings somehow less real. His eyes grew foggy as if his mind drifted to a faraway place.

I can't quite explain it, he began, and then his voice trailed off.

Try.

Mike sighed and tilted his head back against the wall as he leaned into his bunk. He rolled his eyes in his head as if searching for a long lost memory.

I dreamed of a tree.

***

The tree Mike described was unlike any tree he had ever seen - except in his dream. In fact, as he began to describe it to Keith, he realized that the one tree was in fact two exceptionally large ones that had grown together and become so intertwined as to appear as one. As the massive trunks of the two arched upward toward each other, they formed a high entrance of sorts, almost a cave - the top of which was almost twenty feet from the ground. Above the arch, the first branches began to appear and seemed as mighty as the rest of the tree - thick and strong, able to withstand any wind. As the branches meandered outward, smaller limbs sprang forth, sprouting numerous leaves of silver on one side and pale green on the other. This created an effect where a slight breeze caused the tree to look as if it shimmered in the sunlight.

Surrounding the tree spread a meadow of soft, green grass, neatly cut and trimmed, or so it appeared, as if a gardener on duty made the place presentable. Velvety, dandelion-like flowers appeared scattered here and there, breaking the ocean of green. At the edge of the meadow, at some distance and surrounding the woven trees in its center, a ring of other trees led into a deep forest. These seemed almost like bushes in the presence of the massive, intertwined trees that commanded the center of the meadow.

Life thrived in the vicinity of the two trees. Birds chirped as they played in the sky, occasionally swooping down on some unsuspecting insect. Squirrel-like animals sat in the trees or leapt from branch to branch, chasing each other. Butterflies with wild and fanciful colors floated from flower to flower, both feeding and pollinating as they went. The abundant sounds of life thrummed everywhere - a cricket's soft song, the flutter of wings, perhaps a frog in the distance. Life was omnipresent yet unhurried and tranquil. For Mike, this place presented the perfect image of peace and contentment.

His vivid description of the meadow had Keith thoroughly enthralled. Trees and grass and birds weren’t so unusual, but his description of the meadow was grand. Keith confessed he longed to go there.

When Mike stopped talking, the image of the place began to fade from their minds. Slowly the cold, bare cell walls closed in on them both, and Keith shuddered a little. Mike stared ahead with unfocused eyes.

Ya' dreamed that? asked the inmate quietly.

I haven't since I was a child, but I can't forget it. The image is engraved on my mind. Often when I dream, I think I am looking for this place, but I seem to have lost it. It's been so many years.

Keith stood and headed to the cell door. Before leaving, he turned. I hope ya' find it, Ward. I hope ya' do. Then he left.

Lockdown! a voice crackled over the system's loudspeaker. The time had come for all inmates of pod 1C to hit their bunks and go to sleep. With a sense of renewed purpose, Mike Ward went to his cell door and swung it closed. It automatically locked fast with a loud clack. Returning to his bunk, he lay down and slowly counted back from twenty.

It was his time once again.

Chapter Four

Darkness.

Darkness always came before the light, but the black had no lasting power. Once it appeared, no matter how much of a strangle hold the darkness had, it always gave way to the light. And, as if on cue, a point of brightness appeared. It hovered, daring the darkness to do anything about it. Such bravado only pure light could have in the face of such all-encompassing black. Then, with amazing ease, the point expanded, pushing back the darkness until all glowed bright, blinding white. With the darkness once again defeated, the light went about its work of revealing what had previously been hidden. Gradually, a beautiful blue began to appear.

Nothing seemed in focus at first. Mike’s eyes still adjusted to his surroundings after their immersion in the white. He blinked a few times, and slowly the images began to make sense. Above him, a clear, blue sky had only a few wisps of clouds. Birds darted happily here and there. He was