I was dreaming or rather, he was dreaming. Who he was I had no idea.

  I stood like a ghost in a place I had no justification to be in, unseen and uninvited. The room was dim, the edges dark where no light touched. Only a single lamp, crooked and bent, illuminated a large chestnut desk. Along the walls, two bookcases extended upward – stretching further beyond the limits of the ceiling. Soft white fog floated around them, hiding some of the dust from their tan shelves. Books, pristine and organized, lined their surface. Some held words on their spines, many more did not. For a dreamer – the level of detail was surprising.

  What held my attention wasn’t the clarity of the dream, but the dreamer who sat hunched over, scribbling furiously across a sheet of paper. He muttered under his breath a few times, too quiet to make out. He scratched out a word, rewrote another, decided against it, and tried again. Absently he ran a hand through where his hair would have been. I couldn’t see his face, a telling sign that I never met this man before in the waking world. His head was blurred, like someone had smudged a section of drying paint, leaving behind the imprint that a face had once been there.

  “Not enough.” The man said, frustrated.

  The tone was distorted and faint, reminiscent of someone speaking behind a waterfall in the distance. This too was normal from my extensive experience of dream-walking. When I first encountered this lack of detail and distorted voices, it frightened me. That original fear had stemmed from the mind of a child. I was no longer young – no longer afraid.

  “Damn it. Not enough.” He muttered, dropping the pencil. It bounced soundlessly, rolling to a stop just shy of the paper. The dreamer let out a long, deep, frustrated sigh. He stretched, his back popping from the force. A faint shimmering glow surrounded the forgotten writing utensil and a heartbeat later a coffee mug appeared in its place. Black lettering sprawled across the faded white surface: “This is my happy place.”

  I stifled a laugh at the irony and stepped up to the desk, crouching to rest my arms along its edge. I dipped my head, placing my chin on my arms. Even asleep, he couldn’t hide his essence. I could tell a few things instinctively: he was calm, collected, and carrying far too much stress for one man.

  “What’s not enough, hmm?” My words were nothing more than a faint whisper, dissolving inches from my lips.

  He shifted, reaching across his desk, fingers winding around the mug. “Why isn’t it enough?” He lifted the mug toward his face. The soft slosh of liquid and the sound of swallowing filled the silence. He could have been drinking with his eye or nose. No matter how he drank, he wouldn’t be fazed. Dream mechanics were always so inconsistent with reality.

  “Not enough. Not fast enough.” The dreamer set the cup down, a soft click as if it had been placed on glass.

  He rubbed his head, tugging lightly on what would have been his hair. I wonder what color it is, I thought, absently. It could have been anything, brown, blond, red. In my mind's eye I could see the hair sticking up like someone who had stuck a fork in a light socket. The imagery had a smile pulling on my lips.

  “If I don’t meet this deadline…” He trailed off as he rose in one fluid motion. The chair scraped across the floor behind him. The air around him wavered, a distortion he didn’t seem to notice.

  The dreamer huffed out a breath, head angled downward as though he was glaring at the paper. Yes, the paper is why you’re having problems. Not yourself. He turned away with a huff and walked toward the western wall. He came to a stop, crossing his arms. What he was looking at was a mystery. Perhaps a window should have been there that wasn’t in the dream.

  I pushed off my knees, rubbing my neck. A crick was forming from having to look up at him. The man was unnecessarily tall, probably around six foot one, give or take a few inches. His shoulders were broad, muscled in a way that suggested he swam a few times a week. With my limited information and brief assessment, I’d place him in his early thirties.

  “I won’t get the pay increase.” He muttered, his right foot tapping a frantic rhythm on the carpet. He was already lost in thought, running mental equations like that would magically solve his life.

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  “Will this not let me get tenure either?” he demanded, quite literally addressing the wall.

  The wall didn’t answer back- which normally made sense, but on occasion, dreamers did have long conversations with inanimate objects that would answer them. This man didn’t seem to want a response. Funnily enough, the wall did appear to sweat; a few trickles of condensation slid down the gray surface.

  “I think you may need to work through your problems while awake,” I suggested. “Stress dreams won’t help you solve anything. You’re not going to wake up feeling refreshed either.”

  The man suddenly pivoted around, pointing a finger. I froze, startled. Was he looking at me? That’s impossible. Logically I knew that, but anxiety didn’t care about logic. My stomach twisted, my heartbeat accelerating. The fear lasted only a few seconds before I registered where he was actually pointing. The desk- not me. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “You,” he said, sounding like he was clenching his teeth. “Do you have any idea what type of hell you’ve been putting me through all day?”

  “Listen, pal.” A high-pitched voice squealed.

  I looked down at the desk, wondering what was happening now. The paper he’d been scribbling on had turned animated in the most comical way possible. It leapt into the air, supported by legs that looked like half?chewed erasers. Its arms, two pencils varying in length, waved wildly around. The shorter left arm was missing all its lead, worn down from overuse. The right arm looked like a weapon, the lead so sharp it seemed ready to snap at the slightest pressure.

  The words he had written previously shifted and warped across the paper’s surface. They twisted, revealing a stylized, cartoony face. Two eyes formed, placed disproportionately. The left eye was lopsided, turned up at a sharp right angle; the other bled half off the page. In the center of the paper, a large oval mouth stretched to the corners. Faded, partially see?through teeth appeared. The most unsettling part was the tongue- for reasons unknown, it was human?like. I found myself wondering if the dreamer was mentally stable.

  The paper cleared its throat, tongue wagging halfway out of its mouth. “Don’t you be blaming me because you can’t figure out a thought on your own.” The paper huffed, crossing its No. 2 pencil arms. “I’m just the tool, you are the one who has to use me properly or I. DO. NOT. WORK!”

  “That’s a very audacious statement.” The man said flatly, crossing over to the desk. He grabbed the paper with one hand, holding it close to his face. “You’re supposed to be my inspiration!”

  “Your inspiration? Ha!” The paper jiggled, narrowing its eyes. “You dare to demand poetry from college-bound lines? You’re beyond logical comprehension! You’re nothing but an overgrown, childish nutcase.”

  “I’m the nutcase?” The man asked incredulously. “I think you’re just covering for being inadequate.”

  The paper gasped, flushing as a human would. “Your face is inadequate and you lack the drive. And for another thing,” the paper pointed its sharpened arm like a finger. “I’m not a miracle worker! I can’t inspire a dimwit!”

  They both started to bicker back and forth, tossing one insult after the next. Neither planning to end their verbal assault anytime soon. “I’ve seen some weird dreams in my day.” I said, unable to hold back a laugh. “But what the hell is this?”

  Neither answered me of course. Words flew, tempers rose. It all came to a head when the paper accidentally jabbed the dreamer's arm with the sharp lead. The man, rightfully offended, flicked the paper in the face. The paper responded in kind, punching the man's head. A scene reminiscent of a cartoon played out in the small confines of the study; pieces of shredded paper went flying, one of the pencil arms fell off, soaring across the room. It thunked into the desk, wobbling back and forth.

  I choked out a laugh, wishing I’d had the foresight to materialize some popcorn. I honestly didn’t know who to bet on. The man had fingers; the paper had pure, unfiltered rage. I was just about ready to root for the paper when the dream began to flicker, the world around us destabilizing. The walls shifted from solid to translucent, fading like dying embers. He was starting to wake up.

  “I guess that’s it then.” I laughed, brushing a tear from my eye. It was a real shame the show was ending; I wanted to see who would’ve won. “Catch you later, dream sir.” I gave him a little wave and latched onto the thin mental thread that would pull me out.

  The connection hummed, warmth spreading through my body. If I waited for the dream to collapse on its own, I’d wake up with a migraine from hell. I tightened my grip on the thread as the air shifted around me, the world thinning into mist as I pulled myself out.