Dream Milk

The very famous writer descended the groaning wooden steps to his basement. He was wealthy enough that he could've had a sleek new staircase fitted ten times over, and not noticed the cost. He felt the ominous squeaking really lent to the ambience, though.

The concrete area below was low-ceilinged and poorly-lit.

The shrivelled things tethered in each solitary stall reached for him. He ignored their piteous cries. Entering each cell in turn, he attached the apparatus to each inhabitant as if they were less than animals, hardly sparing them a thought. Except... goodness, it doesn't seem to matter how drained they are; there's always more to be taken.

Machines whirred and sucked. The milky fluid gurgled up pipes to the storage tanks.

Much like a dairy farmer, the writer was disciplined, living by the clock, and rising early to get what he needed from his captive herd. It was always a good crop at this early hour, with a slightly bizarre flavour leftover from their Dreams. And Nightmares, too. He'd visit again later. DayDreams were less surreal and often had a more golden, shimmering quality. In the evening, light gone, and hope with it, the Stuff was tar-like, black and oozing. There was a separate tank for each time-slot. Mixing occurred only in small quantities, carefully, by hand.

He hosed away the filth, and Dream residue, and then carefully unhooked the suckers and switched off the machines. He'd forgotten, once. He'd thought, why not just let it keep Juicing them while I get on with other things? He'd lost the whole herd. Gruesome business. The shallow mass grave mocked him every time he caught sight of it in his peripherals.

He creaked back upstairs, switched out the light and locked the door.

In his bright, comfortable study, he opened the cabinet on the back wall. Inside, it was arranged like a spice rack. Row upon row of glass bottles, all with neat labels. They'd been tapped from the storage tanks. Some were raw, and some treated, distilled, or mixed meticulously in his own laboratory with samples from other batches.

He sat down to spin the dreams of others into cold, hard money with his pen.

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Sunday 6th October at 11:14AM

Disclaimer: Any similarity to any person alive or dead is purely coincidental.

The story behind the story: This is for Marie Sinadjan's Spooky Bingo. I've given up on patterns at this point and just gone with the theme Magical Realism.

It was inspired by Antoni's story, but I went in a darker direction.

Image: AI had real beef with this one due to "ethical considerations". Well, no shit, AI.

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 280 daily microfiction story streak since 1st January.

ONLY EIGHTY-SIX DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed!

Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. I am catching up on reads and will reciprocate as soon as I can!

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Thank you again!