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ultimately denying the miserable creature its much-sought
freedom. Instantly, the monster’s dream-light became
as confused as the matter it fell upon, becoming both
illumination and sound—a glowing scream that shattered
the glass of the penthouse. My father was absolutely right—
the Wakeless screamed magnificently well.
Within the fading glow and dying echoes of the light-
sound, there appeared a hideous shape straining the limits
of its arms, like some desperate bird trying to gather the
winds of a vacuum beneath its wings. Finding the solid
world disagreeable to whatever life-sustaining systems it
possessed, the creature slowly died, disappearing into a mist
of drifting, freezing light.
My art had always been intended as a gift—an attempt
at liberation, reunion, and completion. Certainly, these
attempts have failed at their ultimate purpose, but while the
Deadworld has yet to be invigorated by a single reincarnate
dream—of the human variety—I have crossed many souls
over into revelation. Perhaps when they are again renewed
in fashions of skin and stupidity, they will be one life closer
to the dream they left behind. However, at that moment,
standing before the body of my family’s defiler, I chose a
new, if only temporary purpose for my art. I would craft a
warning, simple and sincere—trifle with me, and you shall
learn precisely how my art makes corpses of dreams.
Quite adept at the speedy reorganization of the human
body, I fashioned my effigy of warning in short order—a
dreamcatcher made from the emptied shell of the living
nightmare. My wonderful work was held together by a damp
geometry of broken bones, strung with red webs of vein
and artery, feathered with a dripping scalp of flowing hair.
The webbing I embellished with the thing’s stolen teeth.
Unfortunately, I could locate only two burned-out cavities
where the thing’s alien eyes should have been, otherwise the
brilliant spheres would have made for excellent decoration.

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