### Hands of Dreams
0 Points
0
### The Dreaming Artisan
In the quiet town of Aeloria, where cobblestone streets crisscrossed under the loving gaze of ivy-draped cottages, there lived a humble man named Maelor. By day, he toiled as a simple blacksmith, never drawing much attention to himself. But one fateful night, as the waning moon showered its silvery dust over the rooftops, Maelor fell into a dream so vivid, it felt altogether real.
In his slumber, Maelor wandered the labyrinthine alleys of Aeloria, feeling an odd sensation prickling just beneath the skin. It was as though he possessed a power so grand, it could reshape the fabric of his world. As he meandered through the marketplace, teeming with early risers and traders, he noticed something strange.
One by one, the hands of the men he passed began to buzz with surreal energy, their fingers wiggling as though possessed by a will of their own. With an almost poetic ease, these rugged, strong, dexterous hands detached harmlessly from their wrists, drawing gasps and exclamations from their confused and astonished owners.
These hands, characterized by muscular forearms, calloused palms, and meticulously sculpted knuckles, scrambled toward Maelor, as if magnetized by his mere presence. Without uttering a single command, Maelor realized that these hands could translate his thoughts into reality. A flickering image of a fresh loaf of bread sprang to mind, and instantly, one skillful hand darted into a baker’s stall, emerging moments later with a warm, fragrant loaf.
Soon, the town of Aeloria descended into chaos. Shoemakers’ hands abandoned their posts, leaving half-finished boots strewn across workbenches. Farmers’ hands left plows mid-field, the oxen braying in confusion. Maelor moved through the pandemonium, a reluctant conductor of this dissonant symphony.
An army of disembodied hands now encircled him, each unique in their craftsmanship and strength. Some bore the scars of countless battles, others the stains of ink and paint, but all conformed to a single purpose: to serve Maelor’s unspoken desires. In unerring harmony, they massaged his shoulders, caressed his weary brow, and embraced him in a tactile symphony of solidarity.
The sensation was overwhelming—a flood of tactile intimacy that preyed on his deepest longings for acknowledgment and reverence. Now embraced by this tide of devoted appendages, Maelor felt himself slipping away into a peace he had never known.
Suddenly, he awoke.
The dream shattered like glass, and Maelor awoke to find himself confined within the mundane trappings of his small, wooden bed. Morning sunlight trickled through the curtains, mocking him with its banal normalcy. He sighed, profoundly saddened by the ephemerality of it all. Glancing around, the room was still, every shadow and speck of dust in its place.
Defeated by the reality of his limited human existence, he lay back down, allowing sleep to reclaim him. Little did he know, his dream had lost only a part of its hold on reality. Unseen, at the foot of his bed, several pairs of male hands twitched with restless energy. They waited patiently, possessed by no more than a remnant of his dream's magic.
As Maelor's eyes fluttered shut once more, these hands rose in unison. They tenderly lifted the blanket over his slumbering form, massaged away the lingering tensions of his waking frustrations, and settled into vigil. Unbeknownst to Maelor, the boundary between dream and reality had blurred, leaving him forever touched by the magic he once believed was lost.
In the encroaching darkness, Maelor slept, while the disembodied hands remained ever-diligent, ready to serve him in his dreams and beyond.
This story was generated by user bud with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: write a story of a man who dreams that he has the magical ability to steal the hands of other men, causing them to harmlessly detach from their former owners' wrists and crawl, move around and manipulate objects on their own. the male hands include a variety ranging from heroically large, strong and rugged ones to skillful and dexterously artistic, all unmistakably masculine. as he walks through town, the man creates chaos as the hands of men that he comes across detach from wrists, scrambling to follow him and form an army to obediently carry his wishes, not even needing spoken commands, and turn his thoughts into action. as the hands all coalesce around and over his body in a sea of massaging fingers and caressing palms, the man wakes up to find himself in bed. sadly disappointed that it was all a dream, he lies down to go back to sleep. unseen by him are a several pairs of male disembodied hands at the foot of the bed, waiting to tuck him in and massage his sleeping muscles once he slumbers.
Response: ### The Dreaming Artisan In the quiet town of Aeloria, where cobblestone streets crisscrossed under the loving gaze of ivy-draped cottages, there lived a humble man named Maelor. By day, he toiled as a simple blacksmith, never drawing much attention to himself. But one fateful night, as the waning moon showered its silvery dust over the rooftops, Maelor fell into a dream so vivid, it felt altogether real. In his slumber, Maelor wandered the labyrinthine alleys of Aeloria, feeling an odd sensation prickling just beneath the skin. It was as though he possessed a power so grand, it could reshape the fabric of his world. As he meandered through the marketplace, teeming with early risers and traders, he noticed something strange. One by one, the hands of the men he passed began to buzz with surreal energy, their fingers wiggling as though possessed by a will of their own. With an almost poetic ease, these rugged, strong, dexterous hands detached harmlessly from their wrists, drawing gasps and exclamations from their confused and astonished owners. These hands, characterized by muscular forearms, calloused palms, and meticulously sculpted knuckles, scrambled toward Maelor, as if magnetized by his mere presence. Without uttering a single command, Maelor realized that these hands could translate his thoughts into reality. A flickering image of a fresh loaf of bread sprang to mind, and instantly, one skillful hand darted into a baker’s stall, emerging moments later with a warm, fragrant loaf. Soon, the town of Aeloria descended into chaos. Shoemakers’ hands abandoned their posts, leaving half-finished boots strewn across workbenches. Farmers’ hands left plows mid-field, the oxen braying in confusion. Maelor moved through the pandemonium, a reluctant conductor of this dissonant symphony. An army of disembodied hands now encircled him, each unique in their craftsmanship and strength. Some bore the scars of countless battles, others the stains of ink and paint, but all conformed to a single purpose: to serve Maelor’s unspoken desires. In unerring harmony, they massaged his shoulders, caressed his weary brow, and embraced him in a tactile symphony of solidarity. The sensation was overwhelming—a flood of tactile intimacy that preyed on his deepest longings for acknowledgment and reverence. Now embraced by this tide of devoted appendages, Maelor felt himself slipping away into a peace he had never known. Suddenly, he awoke. The dream shattered like glass, and Maelor awoke to find himself confined within the mundane trappings of his small, wooden bed. Morning sunlight trickled through the curtains, mocking him with its banal normalcy. He sighed, profoundly saddened by the ephemerality of it all. Glancing around, the room was still, every shadow and speck of dust in its place. Defeated by the reality of his limited human existence, he lay back down, allowing sleep to reclaim him. Little did he know, his dream had lost only a part of its hold on reality. Unseen, at the foot of his bed, several pairs of male hands twitched with restless energy. They waited patiently, possessed by no more than a remnant of his dream's magic. As Maelor's eyes fluttered shut once more, these hands rose in unison. They tenderly lifted the blanket over his slumbering form, massaged away the lingering tensions of his waking frustrations, and settled into vigil. Unbeknownst to Maelor, the boundary between dream and reality had blurred, leaving him forever touched by the magic he once believed was lost. In the encroaching darkness, Maelor slept, while the disembodied hands remained ever-diligent, ready to serve him in his dreams and beyond.
Post your own comment: