Each time The Dreamsinger saw one of their creations, they fell madly in love with it.
The Dreamsinger heaved a sigh before raising their arms above their head, the heavy sleeves of their purple and blue robe hanging from their wrists. With a gentle smile, The Dreamsinger rolled up their sleeves, laid their hands down on the dreamstuff before them, and began to shape it.
The stuff of dreams isn’t always solid, physical material. It’s sand and steam, gossamer and cotton candy—whatever the mind can get a hold of, really. The Dreamsinger couldn’t afford to be picky. But they maintained that the best art was produced under difficult constraints.
The Dreamsinger hummed while they worked. The melody had come to them on a whim and barely made a shred of sense. In fact, the only reason it could be considered a melody at all was because The Dreamsinger had decided as such. Whether the song guided their work, or their work guided their song, they weren’t sure. But with each note, each firm press, the dreamstuff looked more and more like Something and less like Nothing.
It was sculpting, yes, but it was sewing and knitting, shaping and unshaping. Sometimes it was whispering, asking, imploring. The Dreamsinger did best with mixed media. They didn’t have a plan, but by the end of it, it would be beautiful and something, they hoped, worth remembering.
The Dreamsinger was aware that once they breathed life into a creation, it took on a mind of its own. It would dance for a while, with graceful leaps and pirouettes, two-steps, vogues and twists. Then it would flee, off to find its own corner to occupy forever. Whether it hid itself away or kept itself known long after the world creaked with waking thoughts was up to the creation, and the creation alone.
If The Dreamsinger allowed themself to have a preference, they would like to see all of their creations dance in the sunlight of waking. But a creator barely has control over what they’re creating during the actual act, let alone after its completion. The Dreamsinger was content just to watch what they would become.
This work in particular showed considerable promise. The Dreamsinger regarded it with pride. It was a serene, bipedal creature with vacant eyes of sapphire blue, which The Dreamsinger had fashioned out of a couple stray drops of ocean water. The shining hair was repurposed from a thousand shower drain nightmares, dried and brushed and set on the creation’s head. Its clothes were built from clouds and a radiant light.
“Almost,” thought The Dreamsinger. “You are almost complete.”
At that moment, an insect hopped by. The Dreamsinger reached out and snatched the green creature. It made the most beautiful sound, near-rhythmic and echoing through the place.
“Of course,” said The Dreamsinger. “A heart.” They made a cotton-candy hole in the chest of their creation and set the cricket inside, covering it back up. Then The Dreamsinger knelt down and whispered something in their creation’s ear. With a start the creation shot up, its sweet lips curled into a smile.
“Make me proud,” said The Dreamsinger. But the arms flung around their neck, the warm embrace, and the soft beating of the life inside told them that their creation already had.
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