Tag: science fiction

bottoms dream 4

Sophi NielsenLeave a comment

Johnson arrived expecting to observe a session, and he expected, as he and the doctor had discussed, one high school volunteer, eyes shut, attached to a complicated set of electrodes. But the full sleep-lab set-up, repurposed for the new cutting-edge research, was formed around two volunteers back to back in the saltwater tank.

“Doctor, would you care to explain?” Johnson brought an accusatory edge into his voice.

The doctor had said nothing of this.

“Ah, welcome, Johnson. Please, have a seat.”

“You still owe me an explanation, Doctor.” The doctor smiled wanly.

“We know what it is to inhabit the unconscious, but what if two were forced to inhabit the same unconscious, the same depths of the mind. Does one mind form to the other or do they grow together? A shared space or a violent takeover? How do they fit into each others’ psyches?”

“You’re telling me they’re dreaming the same dream?”

“Not the same dream, no, but in the same space with the same symbols.”

“What happens when they wake?”

“This is pure science. We are on the edge of discovery, Johnson. We can send them into the depths of their minds, but in all my research, I have been unable to bring the depths up to us.” The question for Johnson was quickly answered but given no explanation. The machine shut itself down with no prompting from the doctor.

Raymond woke up like a sleeping prince, rising gracefully to the surface, but Rose was not so lucky. She moved nimbly kicking to the surface, and ripping the electrodes away from her skin, jumping from the lip of the tank like an acrobat.

Her lip curled as her eyes locked on
the doctor.

“You.” She raised a stone paperweight, jagged and wickedly sharp, from his desk over his head. Her next word was spoken like a spell. “Dolor.” Johnson knocked her down with one blow before she could deliver her pain.

bottoms dream 3

Sophi NielsenLeave a comment

“‘…and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again,’” Rose whispered into the darkness.

“That’s Shakespeare, English playwright. You like?” Her voice may have been low soft but her smile was loud, stretched wide to the right side of her face. She grinned at the darkness and its silence, and cupped her hands. “Flamma.” The crypts filled with a low white light.

Briefly she considered the fresh grave, but she had no interest in robbing a man she had respected, although he would make such an easy target. She drummed her fingers on the waiting tomb of the second prince. “Chaos has come…but what will chaos do?”

Raymond had seen the symbol on the wall above his parents’ bed. He had recognized it, but only in the distant recognition of dreams. As in, he knew what it meant, but he could not account for his knowing. An urge also plucked straight from his dreams pulled
him down to the crypts at a run. Royalty never rushes. It was a favourite aphorism of his brothers, but like most flowery things the crown prince said, Raymond doubted it and its sincerity.

Raymond too was royalty, but Raymond would rush through the crypts as though the deceased Castells were in mortal danger – and maybe they were.

His memories of Rose were vague and obscured, but they all pulled him his heart down in a deep melancholic dread. As his footsteps descended into stony tombs, the crypts fell dark and he caught the whisper of “nox” as it trailed up to meet him. The second prince of Castell may not have remembered Rose or the threat she posed, but he remembered one word, which and he threw this word into the darkness.

“Traitor.”

Rose, unresponsive, edged closer in a cascade of light footsteps. Raymond no longer rushed as dread dragged itself through his stomach. But he could not hold back his legs as they responded to her irresistible pull. The dread that she inspired closed his throat and choked him.

“Flamma,” Rose hissed. A shock ran through them as white light filled the crypts: surprise, recognition–, like high school friends cast in opposing roles–except it was nothing like that.

Their heads twitched and they swam up from the deep.

bottoms dream 2

Sophi NielsenLeave a comment

“’Concern with depth leads us in practice to pay special attention to whatever is below. This has been so since the beginning of psychoanalysis, and its notions of suppression, subconscious, and shadow.’ That was James Hillman. Do you understand?”

“Not really, Doctor, but please go on.”

“Very well. You’ve heard of sensory deprivation tanks I assume? These were thought to transport one into the subconscious mind. Though they are a primitive technology, simply salt water and a blindfold, they really do take subjects somewhere else.

“The problem with this method, however, is that it only offers only entry into the depth of the mind, admission, if you will, but we propose to offer a guided tour.”

“And you think your technology method can accomplish this?”

“Easily. We have located areas of the brain only active during REM, responsible for dreams and only dreams. Stimulating these areas with a mild electric current during sensory deprivation with a mild electric current brings the dreams from their depths. We
can finally access whatever is below.”

“Induced lucid dreaming?”

“In a gross simplification, yes.”

“And you think with this technology you can access the…subconscious?” The doctor picked up his dog-eared paperback again.

“‘Jung considered the fantasy images that run through our daydreams and night dreams, and which are present unconsciously in all our consciousness, to be the primary data of the
psyche.’”

“Hilman again?”

“You catch on fast, Johnson.”

bottoms dream 1

Sophi NielsenLeave a comment

Raymond knelt in dark torch-lit crypts.

His sword hung gilded and decorative at his side as his parents decorated the room with their own useless and empty words. The king pulled his eyebrows together to deliver his poetic eulogy, the queen pushed sobs through her mouth and tears through her eyes to mimic grief, Adrian, the crown prince, maintained his stoic composure, letting it crack so as to pretend it difficult, but only Raymond, the second prince gave into a deep melancholy like his heart was a stone sinking into his boots.

It would not appear that way, but the second prince was the only member of the royal family whose mourning for the late Prince Henry Castell was sincere. The late prince had been a bitter old man and a quick enemy of the insincere.

“A great man has died today, and we deeply mourn his loss,” Raymond’s father
continued. The king had only ever thought his uncle a royal annoyance, useless and unsavory. Amid the empty ring of false condolences, the stone relief was lowered over the remains of a the misanthropic royal. He would have given laughed bitterly at his own insincere funeral. It was not as he had wanted, but his protests had died with him.

The funeral party departed to feast in honor of a man they had despised in life, and Raymond Castell walked alone in these empty crypts. He ran his fingers over the feet of his own marble relief, waiting for his death and his own flowery eulogy. He imagined his brother
giving it and he imagined him meaning not a word.

His head twitched to one side, hitting him like an electric shock or the sudden absence of a current. He twitched again and swam up from the deep.