Here is my submission for writer's jam.

Word Count: 1960

Main Theme: Facade

Mind Gardner

The bloody corpse of some sort of harpy creature dropped at my feet.

As I watched the half-nude bird-lady crumble, I thought to myself—not for the first time—it’s amazing what a person will accept while dreaming.

We’ve all been there. You wake up from something so strange and wildly nonsensical, you can’t help but ask your brain:

“What the everlasting fuck?”

And:

“Why didn’t I wake up from THAT?”

Really, why would any intelligent being accept a dream as reality?

But that was part of what made us human, wasn’t it?

Yet there I was. Standing in a dream. Or, more accurately, someone else’s subconscious. A dead bird-woman slumped in the weeds before me. The harpy wasn’t real. Neither was the vine-choked, overgrown garden I stood in. But for the dreamer—the client I was here to help—it was real enough to be reality, at least for now.

All fake. All façade. But useful.

The clinic always induced our clients to dream of a garden. Something about a “natural but controlled environment” made things easier—easier for the patient, and easier for people like me.

The official title on my personnel file was something like Clinical Subconscious Support: Tier 4, but with the garden motif we worked in while inside a client’s subconscious, most people called us “Dream Gardeners.”

Forcing the client to dream up a garden gave structure to the ever-shifting chaos most dreams were. A dream needed to stay stable long enough for us to work, and having a familiar frame of reference made the unnatural elements we were here to hunt easier to spot.

Like the harpy I’d just taken down.

“I’ve dealt with the Id,” I said, stepping back from the body and slinging the hedge trimmer across my back.

Well, it wasn’t really a hedge trimmer—more like the concept of one. It’s not like we could bring anything physical in here with us. At the start of every mission, after entering the subconscious, all of us Dream Gardeners would conjure some kind of garden-themed weapon so we could defend ourselves.

We needed them to deal with the… occupational hazards. Tools had to be dream-appropriate, so garden tools it was. It took me quite a few missions, but eventually I landed on giving myself a hedge trimmer that looked like a chainsaw built for vines. It was good for cutting down mental defenses and clearing paths through thick brush or hedges some of the more imaginative clients dreamed up.

“How are you getting on with the Ego and Superego?”

I didn’t expect an immediate reply. They’d hear me, but depending on how focused they were on their prey, it might take a few seconds.

Also, time didn’t quite behave here. It wasn’t anything too out of whack, but it definitely seemed more flexible.

One nice thing about working inside a mind? You didn’t need radios or implants or anything fancy. Just intention. Think it, and they’d hear it. You could even talk to the dreamer if you wanted to—but that was almost always a bad idea.

You had to get past the mind’s defenses first. That’s why we were here.

People needed help with everything from depression to addiction to straight-up self-loathing. Most clients didn’t come willingly. It was usually a desperate family member or overworked social worker who brought them in—someone at the end of their rope, trying to save a person who didn’t want saving.

We couldn’t just reprogram the clients into accepting help. Even unconscious, their brains fought back. Its defenses manifested in archetypes: the Id, the Ego, the Superego.

Beat them, and the client might just lower their guard long enough to accept help. Maybe.

You couldn’t help someone who really didn’t want it. But you could clear the path and encourage the spark if it was there.

“Still working on it,” came a young woman’s voice—Sarah. A little strained. Focused. She was still new to the team, eager to prove herself.

“You’re welcome to join us,” said another voice—this one smooth, calm, and unfazed. “If you can find us in this mess, that is. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a mind garden this cluttered. We might need backup to draw out the two Egos.”

That was Hilda, our team lead. Veteran Dream Gardener. She had paired up with Sarah to mentor her.

“Sure, I’ll see if I can find you,” I said, scanning the twisted greenery. “Any landmarks?”

“We’re following a stream right now,” Hilda said.

“A stream of consciousness?” I blurted out.

I couldn’t help myself. If there’s an opening for a pun, I take it.

Two very loud groans echoed in response.

After a pause, Hilda added, “There are a lot of Greek or Roman-looking statues. Kind of vague—like when a client knows what something should look like, but doesn’t have a clear mental image.”

“Their Id was a harpy—or maybe a siren,” I said. “So Greek mythology tracks. The subconscious is probably pulling from that.”

“A half-nude bird-lady representing the primal urges of the Id,” Sarah said dryly. “How very... male.”

“She was tastefully nude, if that makes any difference,” I said, suddenly on the defensive. “The feathers were very... strategically arranged.”

“It doesn’t,” both women said, in unison.

“And what is it with guys’ obsession with Greek and Roman stuff?” Sarah continued.

Hilda cut in. “Listen. We’re inside someone’s subconscious, projected by a machine, fighting the personified aspects of their psyche—who, I’ll remind you, can and will cause real-world harm if they kill us in here.”

She paused. “If this gets any more Freudian, God help me—I’ll marry both your mothers when we’re done.”

“I need clarification,” I said. “Are you personally going to marry each of them, or are you officiating a marriage between them? Big difference.”

What followed might’ve been the longest sigh in recorded history.

A moment passed. Then Hilda cut in: “Hold on—we’ve got something.”

I was about to ask what was up when the next thing I heard was—

“Oh sh—”

The audio cut.

Which, considering we weren’t using actual equipment, wasn’t supposed to happen at all.

“Hilda? Sarah?” I questioned into the void. No response.

I pulled the hedge trimmer into my hands and began to jog, looking for some sort of elevated area where I could get a better view of the garden. To my left, the ground sloped upward, so I headed that way.

I had to slash through a tangle of knotted vines that blocked my path. Finally, I reached a clearing at the top of a small hill.

A narrow stream bubbled along the far side, with statues lining the banks.

I jogged toward the water, eyes scanning for any sign of a threat. A scream echoed in the distance, and I began running toward it.

I came upon a small series of pools the stream emptied into before reforming further down the hill. Standing in one of the pools was a large, hulking figure wearing a business suit.

It turned.

I saw a single eye in the middle of its face—then the figures it clutched in each of its massive hands.

Hilda squirmed, trying in vain to break free. Sarah hung limp and unmoving.

I couldn’t recall ever encountering a mind’s defense this massive. I tried to think back, but adrenaline fuzzed my thoughts.

All I knew was: I couldn’t just stand here. I had to act.

I started the hedge trimmer and charged the figure.

The cyclops saw me. On my approach, it flung Sarah’s lifeless body straight into my path. Her corpse slammed into my chest and hurled me backward. The hedge trimmer flew from my hands.

I lay on my back, wind knocked out of me. I heard Hilda scream—a gasp, a shout—then a final cry.

Then nothing but the bubbling stream.

I gasped for air, lungs struggling. Back in the real world, the techs were probably working frantically to stabilize Sarah and Hilda. It was always a long shot to save someone who died in someone else’s dream, but people had been brought back before.

I rolled, twisted toward the cyclops. It was moving now—one intimidating step at a time. Intent on me. Intent on killing.

And then a horrifying thought struck me:

Why wasn’t I being pulled out?

Surely they were monitoring my vitals back in the lab. With this disaster, the mission should’ve been canceled.

Why was I still here?

Why could I still see the hulking business-cyclops taking slow, deliberate steps toward me?

I tried to stand, but my breathing was ragged. Failing to rise, I crawled toward the hedge trimmer lying next to Sarah’s

crumpled form.

I reached for it—

—and felt a massive hand clamp around my foot.

I was lifted into the air, dangling upside down, face-to-face with the cyclops.

It sneered, then turned its head and spoke over its shoulder—presumably to someone else. Its voice was surprisingly human.

“Got the bastard that took down Becca,” it said.

Another massive figure emerged, equal in size to the cyclops. A man with a beard and toga. Lightning flashed around him.

If I had to guess, this was the Superego—taking the form of Zeus.

Zeus squinted, frowning, and looked me over.

“Of all things... using a hedge trimmer as a weapon,” he muttered.

They’re talking, I thought. Should they be talking?

I couldn’t remember them ever talking.

The blood rushed to my head. Everything was spinning.

“Poor bastard probably thinks he’s in here to help,” said the cyclops, looking me over. “Delta Corp always sends these suckers into the subconscious of a victim thinking they’re the good guys. This guy’s probably just another rando they pulled off the street, probably signed a contract that promised easy cash before they hooked him up and threw him in here.”

“It’s literal brainwashing,” Zeus said, lightning flashing across his eyes. “Their handlers give them the vague impression they’re ‘helping a client’—that it’s their job. And if they succeed? The poor sucker they kidnapped gets stripped of all their memories and rewired. Meanwhile, we have to intercede remotely to keep these assholes from succeeding.”

My mind reeled. Everything was fuzzy—and fuzzier still.

What were they talking about?

They were constructs. Dream things. Not real.

Weren’t they?

What did they mean I was pulled from the street?

I’d been doing this for years!

I remembered doing this for years!

I tried to recall a mission. Any mission.

But all my brain gave me back was static.

No. My life, my job—this was real. It had to be real!

Zeus spat. “We’re wasting time. Take him out already. We’ve got other minds to defend.”

I tried to speak. Tried to do something. But the pain and the dizziness overwhelmed me.

I felt myself lifted higher. Then the ground rushed toward me.

And in one final moment of clarity I saw my life, my real life. I had been a pawn, a loser who had been in a dead-end job, barely making rent. They had reached out, promising me to make my money worries go away if I agreed to to into the mind of someone and take out their defenses. I was nothing more than a cheap soldier they could use.

This had all been a façade.

When I entered the dream, I had been given just enough of an impression to believe this was real. I was made to believe that this was my job and that I was good at it. I hadn't even known Hilda or Sarah up until I was sent in here. I didn't know them because I had made them up.

Who even was I? At that moment, I couldn't even recall my name.

As my life came to an end, all I could think was:

“It’s amazing what a person will accept in a dream.”