“We’ve been controlling your dreams for a while, Fern, judging your actions and the consequences involved. We’ve been studying your tree in short.”
Fern knew to be quiet in the moment. Fern knew this was important.
“We see you’re *clearly* qualified to join our group, The Masters. What we, as a group again, aren’t sure of is if you should become president. It’s either me… or you.” He looks at the golden gun on the table. Fern wakes up.
—–
“Were any jokes involved?” asks fellow cereal eating Lichen that morning at the breakfast table, the sun rising over her right shoulder in the window behind her from Fern’s perspective, just like it did with her “rival” in the dream. Lichen’s usually twirling and swirling mouth straw kept still as the sun kept rising.
“No,” she answered. “It was all dead serious. The guy even had a skull for a head. Dead — serious.”
Lichen knew this was bad and that somehow someway she had to entered Fern’s dreams with her. A mind meld came to mind.
(to be continued)
Sunklands 