A flash based in dreamlore is tricky to write, and even trickier to publish, as this ephemeral form often proves enticing for the writer, but ultimately, too elusive for the reader. Not so for “Incomplete” by Isabel Fontes. Here we have two dreamers intertwined by separate sleeps, enacting an entirely new reality. When waking life fails to deliver, dreams become dangerous. —Court Harler
André is thirty-nine.
He wakes at the same time every day – whether he wants to or not.
The alarm rings before it should.
He is already awake when it happens, staring at the ceiling, heart alert for no reason he can name. The woman beside him murmurs something and turns away. He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t touched her in weeks.
The marriage means nothing to him anymore. He shares a bed, not a life. His body lies beside another, but his thoughts are elsewhere.
He goes to work. He does what is expected. The smiles around him feel rehearsed, automatic. Everyone moves as if following instructions written long ago. More and more, he senses that he’s only watching his own life unfold.
That night, sleep comes quickly.
Too quickly.
Clara is thirty-six.
She lives in a modern flat with a husband who loves the idea of them together. She works in public relations, surrounded by voices, meetings, and noise. None of it reaches her.
Every morning, she looks at her reflection and feels delayed, as if the woman in the mirror arrives half a second too late. Her days follow a strict sequence – wake, speak, smile, return home.
At night, she clutches her pillow and closes her eyes.
That is when the dreams begin.
Between sleep and waking, they find each other.
They don’t know names.
They don’t see faces.
But they are not alone.
Their breathing aligns without effort. When one inhales, the other follows. When one hesitates, the other waits. It feels natural, necessary – like something finally returned to its place.
Here, they feel whole.
The first thing André notices is how thin the days become.
He forgot a meeting. Then another. His reflection pauses before copying his movements. He types sentences at work that feel unfamiliar, as if written by someone else.
At night, he dreams of a glass breaking.
The next day, one shatters in the office kitchen. The sound makes him stop. He waits for the echo. It never comes.
That night, sleep pulls him under again.
Clara dreams of standing in a room without walls.
The next day, she feels exposed everywhere she goes.
Her husband asks if she’s listening. She nods. His voice feels distant, poorly tuned. She rushes through meals, through conversations, through hours.
Night becomes the destination.
They grow closer in sleep.
Where André feels hollow, Clara fills the space.
Where Clara fades, André steadies her.
Together, they fit.
During the day, both of them think further. Clara’s hands tremble when she’s awake. André’s name is spoken twice before he responds. They stop correcting these things. They stop caring.
Awake, they are fragments.
Asleep, they are complete.
Sometimes André wakes with his chest tight, lungs waiting for air that arrives late.
Sometimes Clara wakes holding her breath, unsure why she ever stopped breathing at all.
They begin to dread mornings.
The alarm becomes an intrusion.
Waking feels like a loss.
The dreams deepen.
They don’t speak there. They don’t need to. Movement is effortless. Time doesn’t resist. It feels like remembering something that was never allowed to exist.
Outside the dreams, their lives erode quietly.
One morning, the alarm rings.
Only one of them wakes.
The other never does.
Born in Lisbon, ISABEL FONTES is the author of three poetry books and has published internationally, including recognition in the United States. She is the creator of Jazz’n’Poesia and the television programme A Conversa Com. She lives in London and shares aspects of her life and creative process on Instagram @isabel0fontes.
Featured image by CHUTTERSNAP, courtesy of Unsplash.
Flash the Court 