- Author: Camille Peters
Book online «Dreamer (The Dream World Chronicles Book 1) Camille Peters (books to improve english txt) 📖». Author Camille Peters
By: Rosewood Publications
Copyright © 2021 by Camille Peters
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Salt Lake City, Utah
United States of America
Cover Design by Karri Klawiter
To all who dream—whether at night or during the day. May all the aspirations of your heart come true.
Also by Camille Peters
About the Author
Dreams were easiest to spot when they were fresh. They hovered bright and shimmery in the morning air, a flickering invitation to peek inside. Occasionally, I stumbled upon an older dream, its details dimmed with time, requiring me to fill in their missing pieces like I was shading between the black outlines of a picture. I snuck out to view them at the first hint of dawn after yet another night devoid of my own night visions.
I peered through the ruby and gold leaves of my favorite oak tree, my usual dream-watching perch. Its branches hung in a canopy over the market square, the perfect place to spy on the awakening village. Sunshine caressed the sloping rooftops and market stalls set up by yawning vendors. Even from a distance I could observe the dreams, bright bubbles floating lazily near each villager, the rainbow of colors unreflected in their gaze; as always, the surrounding dreams were invisible to them.
Dreams came in a variety of sizes, colors, and shapes, all hints to their contents: the size indicated a dream’s length and level of detail, the color reflected a dream’s emotions, while the shape suggested its theme. Despite these tantalizing clues, the story within remained a mystery unless I viewed it. Numerous possibilities, with limited time to explore a handful before they faded.
I meticulously scanned this morning’s offerings. Murky dreams hid midst the vibrant bulbs and slunk closely behind their viewers, whose dark circles beneath their eyes revealed a rough and restless night. I avoided these, for nightmares lingered for hours after viewing. I also dismissed the dreams whose colors had dimmed, signifying their gradual loss of detail as they slipped from the viewer’s memory. I searched amongst the dreams dipped in soft pastels, colors which promised pleasant stories. Those were my favorites.
Alice, the baker’s daughter, emerged from the bakery, a basket of steaming bread looped through her arm. An aqua dream floated a few inches above her head, still shining with a bright luster, not even an hour old. This was the one.
The familiar whoosh filled my stomach as I focused on it. My skin tingled as my consciousness rose outside myself and soared towards Alice, even though in reality I hadn’t moved an inch from my perch.
The surrounding leafy branches faded into a sea of vivid pastels, brighter than the washed-away murkiness of the real world outside the dream. I now stood in a willow growing in the center of a foamy coral ocean, shrouded in ruby and marigold as if it’d been dipped in sunset. The churning waves below sprayed me with salty mist, while branches laced with purple leaves stretched towards a fern-dappled sky and blew like sails in the fruity-scented breeze.
I barely had the chance to marvel before the dream unfolded, and I was forced to follow Alice’s chosen course from when she’d viewed it last night. Twigs tangled our hair as we explored each area of what turned out to be a marvelous tree ship and crawled along the rifts in the bark forming makeshift stairs towards each new discovery. We passed several sections imploring us to explore—in one, leaves folded and unfolded themselves in origami shapes; in another, branches twisted into instruments formed a leafy orchestra. We brushed past an inviting bough laden with mouthwatering sweets, but as usual, my efforts to veer the dream from its predetermined course were futile. I bit back a growl of frustration.
Alice settled in a section of rose-tinted leaves, which parted like a curtain as a bough lowered to form a stage. One by one, each leaf twirled into a picture with graceful, ballet-like movements. Many of the images were colorless and distorted, their details already melted away, but a few retained their shape—lollipops Alice contentedly sampled, butterflies that fluttered around us, and the face of a boy that had an uncanny resemblance to the blacksmith’s son, Mason. The final leaf twisted into a kitten, which Alice plucked from the air and cradled in our arms, where it licked our cheek.
A clap of thunder rumbled from the real world, instantly jerking me from the dream. Thick clouds had gathered and smothered the sun, a measurement of how long I’d been immersed within another uncompleted dream.
Alice hovered in the doorway of the bakery, inconspicuously eying the blacksmith’s son as he bartered for eggs at a nearby stall. Her dream lingered inches above her head. Although considerably smaller and less vivid than before, there was still time.
I pulled a small glass bottle from my bag and concentrated on my faint, familiar power. After years of practice, I easily located the internal route leading to the budding warmth within me. It began subtly, expanding from my chest and leisurely trickling down my arm through my extended palm.
A sparkly, lilac substance twirled from my hand and through the air. I struggled to push it towards the