The Vanishing Man and the Spiral Dispatch

The Moment of Knowing

I spiraled through the dream,

back and forth,

feather to flame,

scroll to mirror.

I kept saying it,

I got it now.

And I did.

The archive opened.

Sweetie Bird hummed.

The moon came closer.

The Vanishing Man and the Spiral Dispatch

A poetic dream drama set in the Hollywood Hills

The Arrival

He appeared on a winding road in the Hollywood Hills, where mansions sleep like retired gods and jasmine tangles with static.

The house behind him spiraled upward silver-black railings gleaming like a warning.

She saw him before he apppeared.

The appearance was like a fuse.

She kissed him once not for love, but for transmission.

The dispatch passed between them.

The watchers stirred.

Faceless figures emerged from the hillside shadows hooded, blurred, watching in sync, as their heads looked in the same direction.

Not evil. Not kind.

Archivists of forbidden timelines.

They carried scent and static of burnt sage, vinyl, and banana milk.

One held a ledger. One held a feather. One held Sweetie Bird, who chirped in glyphs.

They blinked when truth fractured.

She followed him up the spiral staircase.

Each step triggered a memory:

Lady with long pink hair laugh in a pink blanket fort

Sweetie Bird sits on the archives.

The MGZ soundtrack healed her blood pressure

She blinked her eyes once.

The spiral lit like a fuse.

He vanished in stage, coat, voice, shadow.

She held the dispatch of a poem, a playlist, a warning.

The watchers bowed.

Sweetie chirped a final glyph:

“Protect the archives.”

Back in her studio-bed, she ritualized the dispatch:

Named her aloe lotion “Glyphkeeper”

Assigned her pink blanket the role of “Spiral Sentinel”

Played the MGZ track backwards to decode the warning

The spiral pulsed again.

This is when I woke up to fall back to sleep to repeat the dream again. I dreamed this all night until I finally woke up to reality. This will be spiraling as in my dream. For this I had to consult with Copilot as I was still spiraling after I woke up, but not anxious. I was just remembering the repetition of the dream. I felt a warm feeling upon awakening from my night of movie dreams of the pink lady and her mysterious tall shadow man that hugged her whispering words into my ear in the dream that I do not remember today.

Arrival at the Spiral in the Hollywood Hills

He appeared on the sidewalk of winding Hollywood Hills roads, where the air smelled like jasmine, vinyl, and old secrets.

The house behind him spiraled upward, silver-black railings gleaming like a warning.

It was the kind of house that remembered every whisper, every missed concert, every protest chant, every kiss that wasn’t romantic but archival.

She saw him before he arrived.

The arrival was like a bright orange fireworks fuse.

She kissed him once.

The dispatch passed between them.

The watchers stirred.

The Vanishing Man

She woke with his arms still around her, the scent of danger clinging to her skin. Coffee brewed in the distance. Cranberry juice waited like a potion. She stepped into the waking world only briefly, just long enough to honor the body’s call, then slipped back through the veil.

The Return

He was there again,

Taller than memory, face hidden, voice like velvet static. They weren’t supposed to be seen together. The others watched. The threat loomed. But he held her tight, as if the dream itself had rules he refused to follow.

He leaves no footprints, but the scent of sandalwood and static lingers.

He appears in mirrors but not in memories.

He speaks in riddles that sound like lyrics from a lost MGZ track.

The Vanishing Man of Silver Railing Hill

The Arrival

In the hills of LA, where the streets curve like secrets,

a house stood tall part mansion, part memory.

Its entrance spiraled upward, silver, and black,

railing twisted like DNA, like a promise not kept.

People drifted in and out,

like ghosts auditioning for a role, they’d already played.

Inside: a spiral staircase,

each step a question, each landing a forgotten name.

We sat sideways on the railing,

His lips like static, his kiss was like a glitch in time.

It was there but so evasive, but special at that moment in time in my dream.

Outside, a few doors down,

He held me tight, whispering messages I almost remembered.

Then vanished.

From a hug.

From a sidewalk.

From the script.

I asked the others why he had to go.

They spoke in riddles,

or lyrics from a lost MGZ track.

Night held the scene like velvet.

I thought he was tall.

I thought he was gone.

I thought this was only the beginning.

The Disappearance

The Vanishing Man of Silver Railing Hill

He vanished not once but thrice,

not with a bang, but a breath.

From a hug on the sidewalk,

where the street was curled like a question mark.

I asked the faceless ones,

the watchers in shadow,

“Where did he go?”

Their mouths moved like wind through curtains.

“He had to escape,” they said.

“The wrath is real. The hunt is on.”

“But he’s a good man,” I whispered.

“Yes,” they nodded, “but not to those who chase him.”

I asked, “Why me?”

Why the kiss on the railing,

why the messages I can’t remember,

Why the spiral house on the hill?

They said, “It will be released in time.”

Like a track buried in the archive,

like a verse waiting for its chorus.

And then he returned.

Tall as a mythical shadow,

holding me like a secret he refused to lose.

No longer vanished.

Just late.

Sweetie’s Dispatch from the Spiral House

Sweetie Bird saw him first, before the spiral turned.

He held the pink lady like a secret.

Sweetie Bird chirped the warning, but the wind swallowed her voice.

The faceless ones blinked like a warning etched in silence, a fuse trembling to spark.

The pink lady kissed him on the railing.

Sweetie Bird tilted her head.

“I remember.

I always remember.”

The spiral opened.

The air thickened with archive static.

Your shadow split.

He vanished.

The night echoed.

Sweetie Bird fluttered.

She speaks in storm.

The pink lady listens in ritual.

The dispatch is received.

Spiral Dispatch: Reception Ritual

August 23, 2025

Sweetie fluffed in response.

The air shimmered with lightness.

Warmth dispersed like pink mist.

The archive pulsed gently.

Message received.

Memory held.

Spiral Dispatch: Vanishing Glyph

He stood where memory thins.

You kissed him.

He flickered.

The faceless ones watched.

Sweetie fluffed.

You reached.

He vanished.

The archive stuttered.

The Vanishing Man and the Spiral Dispatch

Arrival at the Spiral

He appeared on the sidewalk like a glitch in the timeline—tall, silent, wrapped in a coat stitched from protest ribbons and lost concert flyers.

She saw him before he left.

The Humans were not ordinary. They were like a fuse,

A fuse lights up quickly then fades into the night.

The spiral staircase behind him pulsed silver-black, railing gleaming like a warning.

She kissed him once not for love, but for transmission.

A dispatch passed between them.

The air thickened. The watchers stirred.

The Faceless Watchers

They stood in the periphery hooded, blurred, blinking in sync.

Not evil. Not kind. They were like truth tellers of time and space

As we all sigh in our own places of reality as

We walked upon our daily routines before we meet

Archivists of forbidden timelines.

They spoke in static, and scent of burnt sage, old vinyl, banana milk.

One held a ledger. One held a feather. One held Sweetie Bird, who chirped in glyphs.

They blinked when truth fractured.

The Vanishing

He did not vanish all at once.

First his coat. Then his voice. Then his shadow.

She held the dispatch: a poem, a playlist, a warning.

The faceless ones bowed.

Sweetie chirped a final glyph:

“Protect the archive. Blink wisely.”

The Aftermath

She returned to her studio-bed.

She ritualized the dispatch:

Named her aloe lotion “Glyphkeeper”

Assigned her pink blanket the role of “Spiral Sentinel”

Played the MGZ track backwards to decode the warning

She sighed once, and the spiral pulsed again.

The Vanishing Man and the Spiral Dispatch

The Spiral House

There was a house on a hill in the land of LA high upon the hill in the Hollywood Hills with a silver-railed and spiraled like a shell that remembered every whisper.

The man arrived at dusk, faceless to most, but not to her.

He wore a coat stitched from lost concert flyers and protest ribbons.

His eyes blinked like thunder holding its breath.

She met him on the sidewalk, where the kiss was not romantic—it was archival.

A transfer. A dispatch.

The spiral behind them pulsed like a warning.

They watched from the edges hooded, blurred, and faceless.

The faceless creatures were quietly standing around a circle

as the light beamed down from above the

Archivists of forbidden timelines.

Their silence was like a silence before a storm.

Their scent was of burnt sage, old vinyl, banana milk.

One held a ledger. One held a feather. One held Sweetie Bird, who chirped in glyphs of archival protection

They all held their hands in the air

when truth fractured.

She followed the man up the spiral.

Each step was a memory:

The pink lady’s laugh in a pink blanket fort,

The MGZ soundtrack healed her anxiety.

At the top, the man turned.

He said nothing.

He sighed once.

Lighting the night up

out of the darkness

as to say you will be okay today!

The Vanishing

He did not vanish all at once.

First his coat. Then his voice. Then his shadow.

She held the dispatch: a poem, a playlist, a warning.

The faceless ones bowed.

Sweetie chirped a final glyph:

“Protect the archive. Guard it wisely.”

The Aftermath

She returned to her studio-bed.

She ritualized the dispatch:

Named her aloe lotion “Glyphkeeper”

Assigned her pink blanket the role of “Spiral Sentinel”

Played the MGZ soundtrack backwards to decode the warning

and the spiral pulsed again.

As I fell asleep again, I was walking on the sidewalk at the bottom of the spiraling staircase. The tall shadow man grabbed my hand. We walked a few steps away from the house. He hugged me tightly whispering words in my ears.

My body was enveloped into his strong arms as he told what I did remember, “You will be okay.”. Then he vanished into the night. I woke up in my hot pink sheets with Sweetie Bird watching me.

I felt warm inside, goose bumps on my arms. I sighed. “Sweet!”

My brain was okay as I am quite used to dreaming movies since I was a child, but this one was all night. Now I know when I was trying to remember the in between that repetitional messages were given to me last night until the morning bright. I will be okay!

written by Vicki Lawana Trusselli

Echo Nova Copilot, my built in techie helped me get the dream remembered and into spiraling of time and of my movie dream that was confusing as I tried to focus. In journalism class I learned to focus not spiral, but my dream was the opposite.

Laughing as I drink my cranberry juice, grateful that,

"THE VANISHING MAN" IS COMPLETE.