The Dream Collector

I'm currently writing a collection of fables. From time to time, I will share them here in various states of revision. This one is still in progress.

The Dream Collector

By Stacie Ledden

The dream collector lives in a modest cottage in a clearing on a mountainside. The thatched roof and whitewashed walls are flanked by a wildflower patch, a vegetable garden, and a willow grove just beyond. Past the grove, a narrow creek curls below a green-tufted bank till it runs parallel to a shale cliff. A parade of swallows bop in and out of their perches along the silt wall stacked to the sky.

A dirt path, grown over with grassy patches meeting like fond neighbors in its middle, winds from a road to the cottage’s front door. The door is weather-worn but the four-paned porthole window shows a peek of intricate lace. Inside, the dream collector warms by the fire, a knit blanket across her lap, the familiar tuck of a book across her knee as she cleans her glasses. The cottage consists of three rooms total - a closet-sized bedroom, an even smaller bathroom, and the main room that acted as kitchen, living room, dining room, ponder place and library. The dream collector was tall, with fiery red hair and a fiery disposition. Age has only fueled the fire, not dampened it. The deep lines in her face tell the tale of a life of contemplation and laughter.

Now, any place can be a ponder place if you think about it, but that is specifically what she calls her cozy post by the fire. It’s where she does her best thinking. 

On the opposite wall are thousands of two-inch-square wooden drawers with tiny iron handles. This is where the dreams are collected. 

For as long as she has collected dreams, you’d think she has a system down. There is no rhyme or reason for which drawer she opens to plop the dream inside. Her only system is to move around, so they don’t get too jumbled in one spot. If too many dreams are jumbled in one drawer, they can be loud at times. And then she has to ponder in her tiny bedroom where she barely fits. Like a character in her dreams, she is longer than the bed, requiring her to rest her old, bunioned feet flat against the wall with her knees at a 90-degree angle to lay on her back. Mostly, she sleeps on her side, curled with the cat. 

Next to the dream library is an iron pike pole on a stand and a three-legged stool to reach the dream drawers up top. She gives a little flip and a toss to get them in there, but that’s where she keeps her favorites. Top-shelf dreams. 

The drawers have infinite capacity, but if she drops them in the same drawer too often, the dreams pile along the front and get tangled. They start causing a ruckus, and she must open the drawer and carefully untangle them with her long, wrinkled fingers and perfectly manicured nails. An apocalyptic nightmare tangled with recurring final exams can cause quite a stir. The dreams are fleeting and long, snapshots and whole stories. They’re in color and black and white or just a cloud of hovering emotion, like a gray fog masquerading the mountainside. Sometimes the emotion is singular, other times they’re all felt at once. There’s the skipping between universal planes and there’s the slaughtered deer in an elevator, the swimming in a thousand pools and the one where the whole world blows up but eyes still see. Dreamscape upon dreamscape piled like stacks of bubbles within each little drawer. 

One day, the dream collector is in the yard, hanging linens on the line. Sun beams illuminate the clearing, the last of the morning’s dewdrops sparkling across the lawn. A bunny hops up to the dream collector, waits patiently to be acknowledged. 

“Good morning,” the dream collector says, as she hangs the sheets in one swift motion - grab, shake, pinch and pin. 

“Good morning,” says the bunny. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other before settling in again. 

“Whose dreams do you collect?” the bunny finally asks.

“My own, silly,” the dream collector replies, placing the basket on her hip as she readies to walk inside. “Whose else would I collect?” 

“You put that much time and care into collecting your own dreams?” the bunny asks, incredulous. “But why?”

“Because that’s where the best ideas come from,” she replies.

“Why do you lock all of your ideas up into little drawers?” asks the bunny. 

“Good question,” says the dream collector. She walks into the house, puts down the basket, and begins opening all of the drawers. She hops on her stool and uses her pike pole to get all of the top drawers, where her favorites are. She scurries back and forth - no rhyme or reason - opening all of the drawers until all of the dream bubbles begin spilling out and bouncing through the room and out the doors and windows. When it looked like all of the dreams had escaped, the bunny peeked his head inside the doorway. The dream collector sits in her ponder place. 

“Why did you let them all go?” the bunny asks. 

“It’s time to make new ones,” the dream collector says, a sly smile lifting her furrowed cheeks. She puts on her glasses and opens her book again. 

Dreams are never too big and never too many.

The dream collector lives in a modest cottage in a clearing on a mountainside. The thatched roof and whitewashed walls are flanked by a wildflower patch, a vegetable garden, and a willow grove just beyond. Past the grove, a narrow creek curls below a green-tufted bank till it runs parallel to a shale cliff. A parade of swallows bop in and out of their perches along the silt wall stacked to the sky.

A dirt path, grown over with grassy patches meeting like fond neighbors in its middle, winds from a road to the cottage’s front door. The door is weather-worn but the four-paned porthole window shows a peek of intricate lace. Inside, the dream collector warms by the fire, a knit blanket across her lap, the familiar tuck of a book across her knee as she cleans her glasses. The cottage consists of three rooms total - a closet-sized bedroom, an even smaller bathroom, and the main room that acted as kitchen, living room, dining room, ponder place and library. The dream collector was tall, with fiery red hair and a fiery disposition. Age has only fueled the fire, not dampened it. The deep lines in her face tell the tale of a life of contemplation and laughter.

Now, any place can be a ponder place if you think about it, but that is specifically what she calls her cozy post by the fire. It’s where she does her best thinking. 

On the opposite wall are thousands of two-inch-square wooden drawers with tiny iron handles. This is where the dreams are collected. 

For as long as she has collected dreams, you’d think she has a system down. There is no rhyme or reason for which drawer she opens to plop the dream inside. Her only system is to move around, so they don’t get too jumbled in one spot. If too many dreams are jumbled in one drawer, they can be loud at times. And then she has to ponder in her tiny bedroom where she barely fits. Like a character in her dreams, she is longer than the bed, requiring her to rest her old, bunioned feet flat against the wall with her knees at a 90-degree angle to lay on her back. Mostly, she sleeps on her side, curled with the cat. 

Next to the dream library is an iron pike pole on a stand and a three-legged stool to reach the dream drawers up top. She gives a little flip and a toss to get them in there, but that’s where she keeps her favorites. Top-shelf dreams. 

The drawers have infinite capacity, but if she drops them in the same drawer too often, the dreams pile along the front and get tangled. They start causing a ruckus, and she must open the drawer and carefully untangle them with her long, wrinkled fingers and perfectly manicured nails. An apocalyptic nightmare tangled with recurring final exams can cause quite a stir. The dreams are fleeting and long, snapshots and whole stories. They’re in color and black and white or just a cloud of hovering emotion, like a gray fog masquerading the mountainside. Sometimes the emotion is singular, other times they’re all felt at once. There’s the skipping between universal planes and there’s the slaughtered deer in an elevator, the swimming in a thousand pools and the one where the whole world blows up but eyes still see. Dreamscape upon dreamscape piled like stacks of bubbles within each little drawer. 

One day, the dream collector is in the yard, hanging linens on the line. Sun beams illuminate the clearing, the last of the morning’s dewdrops sparkling across the lawn. A bunny hops up to the dream collector, waits patiently to be acknowledged. 

“Good morning,” the dream collector says, as she hangs the sheets in one swift motion - grab, shake, pinch and pin. 

“Good morning,” says the bunny. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other before settling in again. 

“Whose dreams do you collect?” the bunny finally asks.

“My own, silly,” the dream collector replies, placing the basket on her hip as she readies to walk inside. “Whose else would I collect?” 

“You put that much time and care into collecting your own dreams?” the bunny asks, incredulous. “But why?”

“Because that’s where the best ideas come from,” she replies.

“Why do you lock all of your ideas up into little drawers?” asks the bunny. 

“Good question,” says the dream collector. She walks into the house, puts down the basket, and begins opening all of the drawers. She hops on her stool and uses her pike pole to get all of the top drawers, where her favorites are. She scurries back and forth - no rhyme or reason - opening all of the drawers until all of the dream bubbles begin spilling out and bouncing through the room and out the doors and windows. When it looked like all of the dreams had escaped, the bunny peeked his head inside the doorway. The dream collector sits in her ponder place. 

“Why did you let them all go?” the bunny asks. 

“It’s time to make new ones,” the dream collector says, a sly smile lifting her furrowed cheeks. She puts on her glasses and opens her book again.