tentacles is first base

DIN DJARIN. / MAX PHILLIPS.

THE THIEF. / DAVE YORK.

MARCUS PIKE. / MARCUS MORENO.

JAVIER PEÑA. / AGENT WHISKEY. 

EZRA. / FRANKIE MORALES.

PERO TOVAR. / OTHER CHARACTERS.

BOBA FETT. / OTHER CHARACTERS.

COMMON GROUNDS (OSHAMIR).

SANDMAN. / HALDIR.

FLUNKTOBER 2021.

DANKTOBER 2022.

30 FOR 300 CELEBRATION.

He’s worked it out so that every time you fall asleep into the Dreaming, your first sight is the reflectory. The butterflies are always so excited to see you, but none so eager as the King of Dreams.

He greets you with a kiss each time, deep and passionate, no matter the occasion. And once you’ve been thoroughly kissed, he pulls away to ask you the same thing each night:

“What shall we dream tonight, darling?”

The Hum is sure to give you all sorts of suggestions.

It’s about three in the afternoon on a random Monday in July when you feel a summons coming through.

My friend, I stand in the Worlds’ End holding you a seat. I have a tale for you.

You leave a note in case Dream comes by the flat when you’re out and zip off to the tavern.

It’s as it always was: raucous, rapt, and ridiculous. A half-dozen or a half-thousand revelers and storytellers dot the vast sea of tables, and you let yourself wonder which world ended for you to come here this time. Destruction is where he said he’d be, an arm slung around an empty chair and a beer in hand. “There you are!”

“Here I am,” you laugh, kissing his cheek and taking the seat promised. These days, you can’t tell the difference between the Destruction who’s known you all your life and the one you’d met at a funeral. You’re sure it doesn’t matter, for you love them both the same. “Clever trick, that.”

“I came up with it all on my own. The universe knows when I’m asking for you, I suppose.” He shrugs as if he’s not declared an absolutely insane cosmic theory. “Did the job.”

“I’ll have to try it myself sometime. Get you over for dinner.”

“I’m sure your cooking’s to be trusted more than mine.”

You’re given a glass of red wine and your customary cheese board, which reminds you of your reason for being here. “You said you had a story for me—”

You’d say you’re amazed by how long it takes for him to find you, but in reality, the delay was all on your part.

“Mind if I join you, darling?”

The voice, made of darkest velvet night and campfire woodsmoke, belongs to your greatest love. His blue eyes twinkle with humor when his brother sputters a little in surprise. He looks at you in exaggerated betrayal. 

“I left a note,” you shrug. “How was I to know he’d find it so soon?”

Destruction huffs, put out but in good spirits. “If you must, brother,” he gestures to another suddenly-open seat beside you.

“Don’t do me any favors,” Dream mumbles, just low enough for you to hear. You hide your grin in a kiss.

“I was just setting in to hear a—”

“Of course we’d find you all here,” another familiar voice comes, dripping with eroticism and a little bit of fond disdain. Desire of the Endless turns many heads as they walk closer, sitting at the table across from Dream.

Despair, who had not announced herself, sits across from you and next to Destruction. You see her stop frowning momentarily, which is as good as smiling. Behind Despair comes Delirium, who has sat at a different table for now but will likely join you all soon. 

“How many notes did you leave?” Destruction hisses, a little aghast.

“Just the one. I’m not sure what’s happening,” you admit. “Though, I am sure we’ll need more wine for this.”

A hand offers a bottle from over your shoulder, and the person that hand belongs to gives you the kindest smile you’ve ever known. “Hope that’ll do. You like reds, don’t you? Hey, little brother. Long time.”

You’re reminded of how the truly old and powerful tend to sniff out the strange faster than everybody else. Destruction looks mortified. You attempt to lighten the mood. 

“Well, at least we know Destiny will never leave his Garden.”

There’s a tense moment when all six siblings look toward the door, but it does not open.

In the Garden of Forking Ways, Destiny of the Endless reads this and smiles.

Wine and food are served to each sibling, though most of the Endless do not eat. Custom dictates all in the Free Houses. Dream is content to take sips from your wine and steal off your plate, his arm replacing his brother’s on the back of your chair. His long fingers, studded with stars, idly trace your bare shoulder.

“I suppose this tale can be shared with the lot of you,” Destruction says, thoroughly miffed but secretly enjoying the camaraderie of being amongst family again. He’d spent so long visiting each of his siblings clandestinely over the last few hundred years, but a change of pace made the heart beat stronger. “Now, this isn’t quite a once upon a time; it’s more of a once upon another time and place…”

In the Dreaming, a man and his love live on the pond at the End of the Story. Each morning—for what passes as morning in the Dreaming—he wakes and greets his love with a smile and a kind word. He does this every day without fail. His love is a gift he’d been given at a time when he didn’t deserve it, but such is the way of life. We never get our best gifts when we expect them.

Throughout each day, he reads from his abysmally small collection of poetry, and his love tolerates it because it makes him happy to do so. It reminds him of old times, he says.

And as the days end, each to each, he takes his love and walks along the edge of the pond until the stars come out. Neither he nor his love makes any marks in the sand as they go. The whole time, his love walks behind him, and he looks back to check he’s not alone many times throughout the walk. To walk beside a love of your own is something no man should take for granted.

Every day, when the night comes, the man takes his love, holds tight, and thinks of dancing, but never does.

And he lived, happily.

“I thought it had an ever after at the end,” Desire says, ashing their cigarette in a dish on the table.

“What about his love?” Delirium asks from down the table. “Does his love get to be hapapilily-living?”

“We rarely have happy forever,” Despair says, rather an expert on the subject.

Destruction doesn’t explain himself, nor does he answer the questions. He watches you with his hands folded together before his mouth. “How did you come by this tale?” Dream asks, keen.

“Firsthand, I’d bet. You’ve been bloody everywhere,” Death says, enjoying her bottle of orange soda at the end of the table.

Destruction continues to ignore his siblings and waits for you. Around you, the laughter and grumblings of a half-dozen or a half-thousand souls quiet somewhat, like even they know some quiet respect is due.

The trouble with loving a king of dreams is that laying something to rest is never the end of the story. For dreams, laying something to rest is quite commonly the beginning.

In all your time, there are some parts worth experiencing again for the first time—the parts that make lives worth living, friends worth having, and mistakes worth making again. The feeling of growing up, of understanding, of changing for the better—all those things make it worth the pain of remembering why you ever said, this time, things are different.

Still, some experiences are meant to never be repeated. You’d vowed never to return to the third universe, to the man in the house by the pond who reads nothing but poetry, but your mind still wanders to it, and him, from time to time, even if your heart does not.

But you take the closures where you can. “Thank you for your story,” you say. “I hope… it ends the same way every time.”

Destruction nods, wise to the subtle graveritas you let bleed into your words. It’s a blessing across universes that somewhere, a man on a beach where he leaves no footprints is happy for the rest of his days.

Dream feels it, close as he is. Death and Desire feel it, the former giving a happy look and the latter leveling a distasteful look your way. “Really? At the table?”

“Oh, you think you can tell a better story?”

“Of course, I can, I—”

“Management will expect you to pay your fares…”

“Well, management can go—”

You tune out the bickering and look up at Dream, who is observing you for any signs of that old pain that used to lance you upon mention of your old, doomed love affair.

“That was very kind of you, darling,” he murmurs.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

He kisses your forehead for a few long seconds, and you hardly hear what he says over your pulse pounding in your ears. “I’m lucky.”

“You are.”

He gives a nip at the tip of your nose. “You’re pushing it.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“I really should—”

“Stop that, the two of you! The next one’s starting…”

So it goes.