Bridgewater College Digital Commons

DeWan, Olivia

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 42 
12-5-2024 
Forward She'll Go 
Olivia DeWan 
Bridgewater College, odewan@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
DeWan, Olivia (2024) "Forward She'll Go," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 42. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/42 
This Fiction is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Forward She’ll Go
By Olivia DeWan
Essie screeches with frustration, bringing the point of her dagger down onto the metal surface of the
coffin lid. When sparks fly, but not a dent appears, she chucks her weapon to the floor.
“Gods forbid something be easy in this wretched, miserable life,” she seethes, unclasping the latch of
her navy cloak. “I have not come this far to be stopped by something as trivial as a lid.”
She rolls the sleeves of her dress to her elbows, ignoring the bruises that decorate the insides of her
wrists like some macabre bracelet. She slaps her hands to the ledge and shoves with all her might. The coffin
doesn't budge. Fine. She’ll kick it off instead. Essie gathers the hem of her dress, fully preparing to shed the
clothing for more range of motion, when the lid jolts.
Her stomach plummets like she took a dive off a cliff. A sharp clang vibrates through the air as
muffled curses echo from inside the coffin, accompanied by another bang. Essie swallows hard and takes a
good ten steps back. This is certainly the most terrible, horrible idea she’s ever had in her entire life, and she’s
had many of them.
Her gaze locks on the dagger at the other end of the room. If she moves fast enough, perhaps she
can-
The lid explodes back in a swirl of dust, swinging on the hinges with a shriek. Essie yelps, taking in a
mouthful of dust that induces a coughing fit. This is exactly how she wanted this to go. Picture perfect, really.
The only thing that would make it better would be— a deep groan cuts through the silence. Essie locks her
legs to prevent them from trembling. Fear has no place here. She is surely above fear and not delusional at all.
Gods, she should have listened to the stories. Essie shuts her eyes so tightly that black spots dance in
the darkness. Why does she have to be so stupid? Life at the manor wasn’t that terrible. Sure, her mother
sought to control her every move; what dresses she wore, who she spoke with, when she got up and went to
bed. Sure, she was going to be given away like a prized cow to the slaughter without a second thought, but at
least she was alive. Now, she’ll be facing down one of the most fearsome creatures in all of her people’s
history and-
“What madness has taken hold of you, girl?” a very annoyed, very exhausted voice demands.
Essie, against her better judgment, dares to look. Her mouth opens in shock, then clamps shut again.
A woman with a head of wild, black curls lounges in the coffin like it’s the most luxurious bathtub to have
ever graced the earth. One hand casually slung over the side, glittering with ruby and emerald rings, gestures
to Essie with a lazy wave.
“Hello? Child? Are you deaf?”
It was at that moment that Essie realized she’d been staring at the woman without answering her
question.
“Are you the Collector?” she asks, her words shaking only slightly.
The woman groans. “Not this again.”
Essie brightens immediately and nearly trips over herself to get closer. “Oh Great Divine One, The
Silent Collector, The Tapestry Weaver, The Guardian Of-”
“That is more than enough, good gods,” the woman says, effectively cutting her off. “Come here and
help me up.”
“Certainly!”
Essie dashes to the woman’s side. The mysterious lady’s elegant fingers wrap around Essie’s worn
ones; a stark contrast to the rough calluses on her palms and raw skin from the elements.
“May I ask how long you have been trapped here, my Lady?” Essie questions as she helps the woman
climb out of the coffin.
“Trapped?” the woman scoffs. “Hardly. I put myself here. It’s terribly tedious work, you know.
Answering questions and dealing out prophecies like I am some kind of sorceress is not for the faint of
heart.”
“Um, well… aren’t you a sorceress?”
“They wish.” With a toss of her hair, she adjusts her velvet dress. “You know me as the Collector,
yes? That means you hail from the north.”
“That’s correct.”
“What is your name?”
“My family calls me Esther, but friends call me Essie.”
“Well, Esther, it’s a damn miracle you made it here alive.”
Essie bristles. “I am more resilient than I look.”
“There must be something special about you if you’ve traveled through the Wraithwood and over the
Deadwaters.” She studies Essie with piercing blue eyes, seeming to look through every part of her. “I do not
want to be impressed, but you are surprising.”
“I would hope so.” Essie raises her chin. “I came here for help. I am prepared to beg, if I must.”
“Hm. Alright. You may call me Sable.”
“Thank you, Sable.”
Sable plucks a piece of fuzz off her flowing sleeve. “What is it you seek, Esther?”
“Information, of course.”
“Naturally,” Sable deadpans. “Information about what?”
“My marriage.” Essie spits the words like poison.
Sable gasps, clasping her hands under her chin. “Oh, a wedding? I love weddings! It’s been a century
since I’ve been to one! Do I get an invitation, dear Esther?”
“There will be no invitation because there will be no wedding,” Essie replies firmly. “It is against my
wishes. My mother is desperate for money and the man is nearly as old as he is rich.”
Sable’s mouth curls into a snarl. “How horrendous.”
“I know.”
“What is it you wish for then? Information on the most creative way to kill him? For a journal of the
most vicious toxins that will render him useless in five seconds or less?”
“No.”
“Pitty.”
“I was hoping for something more along the lines of-”
“Stop right there,” Sable snaps. “You will get what I deem worthy to give you.”
Essie swallows her retort. “Of course.”
The Collector, or Sable, is infamous across the realm for her talents in securing information. She
knows quite literally everything there is to possibly know: everything from the past, and everything in the
future. Her name is written in books and myths that are centuries old, and then one day, she disappeared off
the face of the earth.
Essie only sought her out when she grew truly desperate. She prayed her months of researching old
poems and books would pay off to finding the Collector’s location, and thank the gods it has. She wasn’t even
sure if the Collector was real or just a figment of her people's overactive imaginations. Yet, here she stands;
regal in a dress the color of plums and decked out in jewels a king would salivate over, locked in a metal coffin
covered in dirt.
“Your thoughts are very loud, Essie,” Sable says.
Her jaw drops. “Can you read my mind?”
“No, I can read your face.”
“So, will you help me?”
“I have been rather bored. Eternal sleep is wonderful until your dreams start repeating themselves,”
Sable muses. “Here is the deal: I will tell you the most advantageous path for you to take in exchange for your
darkest secret.”
Essie’s breath catches in her chest. “You can’t be serious.”
“I most certainly am.”
“But-”
“One secret for your future happiness. Is it not a fair price?”
There’s a gleam in the Collector’s eyes that makes Essie shift on her feet, her boots scuffing the
wooden floor. Essie really is out of options. She knows exactly what the Collector is fishing for, too. It’s the
thing she’s been too terrified to say out loud; to even admit fully to herself. But for her future, she must.
“Alright, you have yourself a deal,” Essie agrees.
Sable’s teeth flash. “Wonderful.”
With a snap of her fingers, Essie’s dagger flies across the room and into the Collector’s waiting hand.
A sharp, metallic scent floats through the air, nearly choking Essie who fights to breathe through it. The
Collector grabs the hilt of the weapon and slices a clean gash across her palm.
“Your turn, girl,” she demands.
Essie’s eyes widen in horror, locked on the abnormally dark blood that pools from the wound. “I-”
“Oh, for gods’ sake.” Sable grabs Essies wrist, yanking her closer, and slashes the dagger over her
hand.
“Hey!” Essie shouts, a sharp sting seeping through her veins as she struggles against the Collector’s
grip.
“Don’t be such a child, it won’t hurt that bad.”
“What won’t hurt-”
Her palm burns with all of the fires of hell as she gasps for breath, clutching her hand to her chest.
She desperately bites back the whimpers of pain that want to escape her lips.
“Stand up,” Sable hisses. “You are no coward. The deal is done. Now, speak.”
“I’d rather cut my tongue off and eat it,” Essie snaps with bitter rage.
“I highly doubt that,” Sable chuckles. “We have a deal, girl. Do you want to know what happens if
you break it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Too bad. My blood runs in your veins now. Should you break our accord, it will pollute your entire
system, turn your bones to ash, and explode you from the inside out.”
Essie gulps. “How lovely.”
“I won’t tell you again. Speak.”
Essie bows her head, her blonde hair pouring off her shoulders in a waterfall of defeat, before she
rises. She smooths down her dress as she secretly hopes for any kind of distraction. She finds none, and she
knows there won’t be any. She has one choice: face her truth or die.
She might as well do it with her shoulders pulled back and her weapon raised. She snatches her
dagger from Sable’s hand, running her fingers over the leather hilt for comfort. Part of her relishes in the
outrage that would cross over her mother’s face if she knew Essie held a weapon. So she takes strength in that
while Sable practically vibrates with excitement, a wild energy skating around her.
“I hate where I am right now,” Essie admits.
Sable raises a brow. “Here, in this room?”
“No. In my life.” Essie’s voice breaks. “I hate waking up every morning just to do the same thing
over, and over, and over again. I hate not knowing what to do, or where to go, so I just end up feeling stuck. I
hate the intense longing for love, knowing that what I want is unrealistic, and yet wanting it all the same. But
more than anything, I hate being alone; so completely alone that even in a room full of people, I’m nothing.”
She doesn’t know what she expects: maybe for Sable to laugh in her face, or tell her that she’s
ridiculous and unstable. But she doesn’t expect Sabel to give her a soft smile full of understanding.
“Well done, Essie,” the Collector says.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Essie whispers.
Sable laughs. “My dear, once secrets are told they are no longer secrets. They are only truths or lies.”
That’s…
“Now! Your path, as promised.” The Collector claps her hands. “Take that noble steed of yours and
ride south. Your family will be fine without the money. Your mother has been lying to you.”
“She’s been what?”
“That’s unimportant.”
“I disagree!”
“Fine, fine.” Sable waves her hand like she’s chasing off flies. “The dowry she’s seeking would be but
a drop in the vast ocean that is your family's wealth. She is not hurting for money.”
“That can’t be possible,” Essie sputters with disbelief. “I’ve heard for months how we’ll have to start
begging in the streets! She tried to sell my horse.”
“I assure you, it is the truth. The rich always want more. It’s a status thing with the upper class, I’m
sure you know. ”
Essie’s brow furrows as the pieces start to click together. “That must be why she’s desperate to buy
one of those absurd gowns—the kind stitched from the finest silk shipped from across the seas. Gods know
why she needs another dress when she already has thousands. But Lady Rabirth has one, and she never misses
a chance to remind everyone. Father, too preoccupied with his mistress to notice, doesn’t care, but Mother
seethes every time Lady Rabirth flaunts her wealth. She’s determined to own a gown just as grand, if only to
see the look of outrage on that woman’s face.”
“There you go. Greed is her master, and as her only child, you are her reckoning. Your mother is a
wicked, wicked woman. I am not ignorant to what she has put you through. I notice the bruises blooming on
your wrists, stark reminders of your necessary defiance, left by the sharp crack of her cane. I see the slump of
your shoulder from cruel words, beating down upon you like unforgiving fists.”
“Oh,” Essie whispers. Then, as if remembering who she is, she straightens her posture. “It was
nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“I know that as well, but you should not have to bear it. You are meant for so much more. You can be
so much more if only you have the strength to take your fate by the reins.”
Images flash behind Essie’s eyes, unwelcome reminders of the past: her feet aching in impossibly
high heels as she twirls for hours on a dance floor, suitors circling who see her as nothing more than a trophy;
her father’s angry tirades when yet another betrothal fell through; her mother’s disapproving glare as she
dismounts after a forbidden ride through the gardens, because a lady should never sit astride a horse; the
heavy thunk of the door locking her in for days, the key dangling just out of reach—unless she bows to their
demands to smile and wave, existent in their view, but absent from their ears.
Essie nods, her resolve firmly established. “What do you recommend?”
“Ride south and don’t look back. Your new beginning comes at the price of your former self.” Sable
winks. “But I think you’re more than ready for that. Especially when you find everything you’ve been
searching for, and more.”
“Thank you, Sable.”
“Don’t mention it.” The Collector stretches her arms over her head. “I think it was high time I woke
up anyways. The world could do with a bit of chaos.”
“I think it would be better with less, actually.”
“Better off, maybe, but it definitely wouldn't be more fun,” Sable says, her tone far too mischievous
for Essie’s liking.
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“Now, run along. I have things to do.”
“Can I ask just one more question before I go?”
“If you must.”
“Why were you in a coffin?”
Sable smirks. “Nobody bothers you when you’re dead, and metal is much more difficult to break
open than wood.”
From outside the cottage, her loyal draft horse whinnies with impatience as if he can sense the
impending adventure.
Adventure.
That’s exactly what she wants; to find something that impassions her; to find something that matters.
With a grin, Essie sheaths her dagger and shoves her way out of the cottage, away from the gleaming eyes of
the Collector. The only way to go is forward, so forward she’ll go.
Olivia DeWan studies Professional Writing and Communications at Bridgewater College.


English

Forward She\u27ll Go

Archival photograph from Bridgewater College Special Collectionshttps://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/volleyball_photos/1006/thumbnail.jp

Bridgewater College

Bridgewater College, Photograph of a volleyball game, undated

Fogleman, Ashlyn

Northrup, Jonathan

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 7 
12-5-2024 
Forbidden Love 
Ashlyn Fogleman 
Bridgewater College, afogleman@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Jonathan Northrup 
Bridgewater College 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Fogleman, Ashlyn and Northrup, Jonathan (2024) "Forbidden Love," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 7. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/7 
This Multimedia is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Forbidden Love
By Ashlyn Fogleman and Jonathan Northrup







Ashlyn Fogleman studies Music Performance at Bridgewater College.
Jonathan Northrup studied theater and Music Performance at Bridgewater College. He graduated in 2024.


Forbidden Love

Galloway, Stan

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 41 
December 2024 
Odesa Steps 
Stan Galloway 
Bridgewater College, sgalloway@bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Galloway, Stan (2024) "Odesa Steps," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 41. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/41 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Odesa Steps*
By Stan Galloway
How many Russian syllables
have poured down your terraces
(eight steps lost to silt
boot tracks overlaid by sun-
moonshine)
into harbor
markets?
How many leathered souls
molded plastic treads
in 180 years
have kissed your stones?
Despite decades
independence
funicular spirits rise and fall
like a carnival’s high striker
echoing nightmare
memories
calling into question:
what falls
what rises
now?
*The Potemkin Stairs were built 1837-1841, originally 200 terraced steps leading from the city to the shoreline
of the Black Sea. Today 192 steps remain usable above erosion and sand deposits.
Stan Galloway teaches Writing and Literature at Bridgewater College.


Odesa Steps

Preece, Grayson

Philomathean 
Volume 4 MMXXV: Secrets Article 47 
December 2024 
Nightfall 
Grayson Preece 
gpreece@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Preece, Grayson (2024) "Nightfall," Philomathean: Vol. 4, Article 47. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol4/iss1/47 
This Art is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Nightfall
By Grayson Preece
Grayson Preece studies Art and Music at Bridgewater College.


Nightfall

Nyland, Grant

Philomathean 
Volume 3 MMXXIV: Where Our Dreams Take Us Article 4 
2-14-2024 
Searching 
Grant Nyland 
Bridgewater College, gnyland@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Nyland, Grant (2024) "Searching," Philomathean: Vol. 3, Article 4. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol3/iss1/4 
This Art is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Searching
Grant Nyland
Grant Nyland studies Business at Bridgewater College


Searching

Whitaker, Kiya

Philomathean 
Volume 3 MMXXIV: Where Our Dreams Take Us Article 11 
2-14-2024 
Dream Catcher 
Kiya Whitaker 
Bridgewater College, kwhitaker@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Whitaker, Kiya (2024) "Dream Catcher," Philomathean: Vol. 3, Article 11. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol3/iss1/11 
This Fiction is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Dream Catcher
Kiya Whitaker
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I say, hesitantly taking a seat in the brown leather chair.
“Thank you for coming,” she says, smiling and spreading her notebook neatly before her.
I remember her name from the business card: Elora Rayes, paranormal investigator. “What can I
do to help?”
“Well… I’m not sure. You probably deal mostly in ghosts and demons and stuff…” I
shift to the side, picking at the armrest. “I wouldn’t know what to call this.”
“It depends. Everyone has a unique experience with the unknown.”
“Right… I just needed to tell someone, and you’re the only person I could think of who
wouldn’t instantly turn me away. I’m not going crazy. I know I haven’t been sleeping much
but… There’s a good reason for that.” I avert my gaze as she scribbles away in her notebook.
“I see,” she finally says after a long moment. “Why don't you start from the moment
things stopped being normal? I won’t interrupt, just tell your story.” There’s that smile
again, warm and inviting. I tug at my collar, itching at the scars underneath.
With a light nod, I sift through my memories, trying to organize the confusion and fear
into something coherent. Where would I even start? When were things ever “normal?” I pull my
journal from my jacket pocket and flip through the pages, barely scanning any of its words. I
land on the first page and decide to go from there.
“I think… Everyone’s had that dream: the one where you realize you’re dreaming, but
the realization only lasts a couple of seconds before you wake up. Some people try to get to that
moment, stay there, and control what happens. Lucid dreaming. It isn’t a new concept, but it
has always fascinated me. Hell, everything about the mysteries of dreaming and the mind did.”
She nods and starts writing. I swallow and continue. “So, when this dream study
appeared on campus, calling for volunteers, I jumped at the opportunity. The group was small,
and we all kept dream journals, meeting once a week to discuss our experiences. The
organizers, a couple of second-year psych students, jumbled together all the popular techniques
people online used to lucid dream: keeping a dream journal to build ‘dream recall,’ practicing
reality testing —checking your hands is common— and using mnemonic devices to manifest
lucidity. Little things like that. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“If you’re successful, you’ll enter what they called the ‘Dreamscape.’ Out of everyone, I
was the last to get there. It started with normal stuff. I’d be at school or the park, somewhere in
town, or during some weird scene my brain created, and I’d become aware of everything. Then I
just started messing around. Sometimes I’d fly, conjure celebrities, or break reality itself. My
experiences were no different to anyone else in the group or anything we read online. Everything
started off normal.
“In the first unusual moment, the Dreamscape brought me to a road in the middle of a
desert. I could feel the coarse pavement beneath my feet, the sweat dampening my clothes, and I
even had to shield my eyes when looking around. I felt as if I was truly there. But, when I
looked at my hands, they were fuzzy, almost like how AI programs can’t render hands when
they generate art. I started down the road, walking for quite a while, though my perception of
time was altered. I know my pace became sluggish, and my body layered in sweat, but I dragged
myself further. I hadn’t seen anything but a vacant horizon for what felt like hours. And then, I
came across a dead-end sign before the landscape changed.
“The ground disappeared completely, but I still stood on something solid. Beneath me
was the town, and as clouds trudged beside me, I realized I was standing in the sky. I could point
out my house, school, the grocery store, all the familiar places from up high. As I kept moving,
the ground shifted, becoming lighter. I wasn’t moving on solid ground anymore, but with each
step, my foot sank into the surface. Almost like stepping onto a mesh net. It thinned more and
more before I felt as if my foot would break through at any moment.
“Somehow, I slipped. I lost my balance… or I was pushed… I’m not sure. I fell toward
the city below, but I didn’t wake up with that fleeting sensation of falling. No. I felt my stomach
drop, the wind rushing past me as I flailed around, and a rising sense of dread as the surface
loomed ever closer. And I remained in the dream… even as my body slammed to the ground
and split open… In dreams, you aren’t supposed to feel pain. It isn’t supposed to be real. But I
felt my bones out of place, cracked and twisting in ways they shouldn’t. I’d say there wasn’t a
place in my body free of pain. My vision blurred, my head spun, my cracked jaw hung open,
and my ribs pushed into my lungs, straining what little ability to breathe I had left. As my vision
finally faded, I noticed a figure approaching me, but I awoke before they got close enough.”
Elora nods again, still writing. Still silent. I wipe my palms on my sweatpants and
refocus. “When I awoke, my heart pounded, and I still felt wet, believing it to be sweat at first.
But when I went to the bathroom to grab some water, I saw myself in the light. Every inch of me
was covered in blood. I quickly tore at my clothes, examining my body for cuts, gashes, or
bruises, but found nothing. Even after I showered, scrubbing aggressively, I found nothing. I
didn’t feel anything either. I think I was too tired to acknowledge everything and chopped it up
to the dream until I found my clothes and towels on the floor the next morning… stained a dark
red…
“After that, I was hesitant to try lucid dreaming again. I didn’t mention anything to
the group either, the others still sharing their normal, cheery stories. I didn’t mean to enter
the Dreamscape again, but when I awoke within it, I stood in town. Per usual, I checked my
hands, but they weren’t as fuzzy as the first time. They still had this layer of blurriness, as if
the texture hadn’t fully loaded in. I started walking or floating really, finding shadows
appearing and disappearing at various points on the street. I guess it was less like shadows
and more like people who were in motion but stopped abruptly, like when you take a picture
of a moving object and it’s all smeared. Anytime I got too close to one of them, I heard the
muffled sounds of words, but I couldn’t make out any actual words —and not that it was in
another language or plain gibberish. I’d describe it as the murmurs of a crowd speaking over
each other. Maybe you’ll get a word or two, or a phrase here and there, but you can’t fully
understand what’s being said.
“I kept moving, seeing cars and other vehicles with a similar, strange look. The sounds of
their horns or engines sounded distant, even as I stood right beside them. Buildings moved
slightly, with the red and blue aura of a 3D effect outlining them. If I stared at anything or
anyone for too long, I’d lose my balance with dizziness. I decided to walk home and go to sleep,
a common method in lucid dreaming that allows you to enter actual sleep. However, when I
reached my street, my house was different. It flipped as if I was looking into the reflection of it
in a mirror. I went to open the door and phased through instead. One moment, things inside the
house looked normal and the next, everything flipped itself right in front of me. Still, determined
to reach my bed, I slowly drifted toward my room. Now left instead of right. As I approached the
bedroom door, the walls turned to waves, and the hallway pulled the door further from me. I
could hear a familiar voice on the other side growing louder and this time I understood it clearly.
It was my voice repeating, ‘Hello?’
“Now the walls moved inward, drawn to each other, and trying to flatten me. I quickly
reached the doorknob but couldn’t fully grasp it as my hand kept phasing through it. I decided
to throw my body into the doorway, and that’s when I woke up. At least, I thought I woke up.
My room still seemed to move, but my hands were full of stark details. There’s a term for when
you wake up from a dream, but still feel like you’re in the Dreamscape. It’s called a
hypnopompic hallucination and is supposed to be temporary. Before the study began, we were
told this might often occur. I asked and I’ve researched, and there is no term for when the
Dreamscape bleeds into reality because that’s impossible… It’s supposed to be impossible.
“There was a loud banging on the front door, and I leapt from the bed. I even gripped
the doorknob tightly, walking through normally. But when I stepped outside of my bedroom… I
walked right back into it. In front of and behind me was my bedroom, and in the room ahead,
someone was still lying in bed. As the figure sat up, their back towards me, I realized I was
looking at myself. And then I… It spoke.
“‘Hello?’When its head turned to face me, it looked at me without eyes, speaking
again with no mouth. ‘Who are you?’
“I awoke in reality this time, arms covered in goosebumps, body trembling, and unable to
shake the feeling that there was someone else in the room. Before my eyes could adjust to the
darkness, I rushed from my bed and fumbled around until I found the light switch. Even though I
could see I was alone, I didn’t feel like it. And I didn’t like the way I looked in the mirror. I
could tell it was meant to be me, but it wasn’t entirely right. It doesn’t make sense, but none of
this does. I’m certain someone was watching me that night… and that feeling didn’t go away.
Everywhere I went I felt eyes on me or that someone was following me. And every time I turn
around to get a good look at them, they disappear. Even if there is no crowd for them to blend
into. I can’t look at my reflection anymore. It looks back at me strangely. The world changes too.
It flips without warning. Objects that shouldn’t move do, and people seem distant. They’ll talk,
and their words fade into that unintelligible garble, their faces contorting, disappearing.
Sometimes I disappear…
“On the rare occasion I do fall asleep, I end up in the Dreamscape against my will. I
think I stopped keeping notes in my journal at this point, but I remember it well. I’d wake up
somewhere around town or in some room of my house, knowing that thing was there with me.
It’s your typical ‘being chased’ dream, but when I’m caught, I wake up in the real world, with a
scar to show for it.”
I roll up my sleeves, revealing the long, jagged scratches running up my arms. I pull
down my collar, showing the claw marks and scars streaming down my neck and chest. Elora
gasps, her pen falling still, and I continue. “I haven’t successfully escaped it… not once. I don’t
know how to beat it. I don’t understand what game it’s playing or why I’m part of it. I haven’t
been back to the group, and I’ve stopped sleeping altogether, or at least I’ve tried to. Day after
day, I feel like my reality and the Dreamscape are becoming one and there’s no way that can be
possible. Someone did something to me. This thing is after me… In the dreams, it’s getting more
violent, and in reality, it inches closer to me every day. I don’t know how much more of this I
can take.” I choke down a sob. “If these dream wounds are already becoming real… I can only
imagine what it’ll do to me in the real world… if this really is reality…”
I meet Elora’s gaze, searching her face. Her brows furrow, her lips purse, and then
she turns back to her notes and draws in a breath. She seems confused, of course, but mainly
concerned. She looks back at me and opens her mouth to say something, interrupted by rapid
knocking on the door.
“I’m meeting with a client-” she starts, but the door is already swinging open before
she can finish. I shift in my seat to view the intruder, and my entire body freezes. Slumping
against the door frame is… is it…wearing my clothes, though disheveled, and wearing my
face, breathless and eyes wide when they land on mine.
“Whatever he says, don't believe him!”
Kiya Whitaker studies Digital Media Arts at Bridgewater College


Dream Catcher

Carter, Katelin

Philomathean 
Volume 3 MMXXIV: Where Our Dreams Take Us Article 21 
2-14-2024 
Ephemeral Dreams by the Shore 
Katelin Carter 
kcarter3@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Carter, Katelin (2024) "Ephemeral Dreams by the Shore," Philomathean: Vol. 3, Article 21. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol3/iss1/21 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Ephemeral Dreams by the Shore
Katelin Carter
Caught in the ebb and flow of an ocean's gentle hold,
I gradually draw nearer.
The shoreline displays its rugged edges,
and they dig into my delicate exterior
I find myself strewn upon the shore
My very essence, exposed.
I implore him to halt
Yet secretly, I ache for his unwavering advance.
I immerse myself in the waves crashing upon me
powerful and aqueous
I can feel his longing for me, and mine for him.
It's not his body I desire, but his soul.
I dream of his words,
his smile,
his deep blue eyes
I long for his gaze to find me,
to cradle me in his arms,
to heed my voice,
But he remains blind and deaf,
and so, I have severed his grip.
The ocean is now tranquil,
yet I yearn for the next tempest.
Katelin Carter studies Political Science and Professional Writing at Bridgewater College


Ephemeral Dreams by the Shore

Herbst, Samantha

Philomathean 
Volume 3 MMXXIV: Where Our Dreams Take Us Article 26 
2-14-2024 
The Most Peculiar Dream 
Samantha Herbst 
sherbst@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Herbst, Samantha (2024) "The Most Peculiar Dream," Philomathean: Vol. 3, Article 26. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol3/iss1/26 
This Poetry is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
The Most Peculiar Dream
Sammie Herbst
I had the most peculiar dream last night
I was chased by an unseen fiend
I had no control over my movements
I had no control over anything
All I could see was a misty darkness
All I could hear was a heinous laugh
All I could understand was the hatred behind me
All I could make out was that evil
Over and over again
Over the unseen traps beneath my feet
Other forsaken creeps of old
Overseeing me was that fiend
Under the stairs I would hide
Under the ticking of that clock
Underneath those stairs I shook
Utterly alone
Everything seemed to come at me at once
Every hand would grab me
Every laugh would tear at me
Every toothy grin would consume my soul
I had the most peculiar dream last night…
Samantha Katlyn Herbst studies Professional Writing and Music at Bridgewater College


The Most Peculiar Dream

Green, Caroline

Philomathean 
Volume 3 MMXXIV: Where Our Dreams Take Us Article 43 
2-14-2024 
Growing Pains 
Caroline Green 
Bridgewater College, cgreen2@eagles.bridgewater.edu 
Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean 
Recommended Citation 
Green, Caroline (2024) "Growing Pains," Philomathean: Vol. 3, Article 43. 
Available at: https://digitalcommons.bridgewater.edu/bc_philomathean/vol3/iss1/43 
This Art is brought to you for free and open access by the Journals and Campus Publications at BC Digital 
Commons. It has been accepted for inclusion in Philomathean by an authorized editor of BC Digital Commons. For 
more information, please contact rlowe@bridgewater.edu. 
Growing Pains
Caroline Green
Caroline Green studies Digital Media Arts and Communication at Bridgewater College
