prompt: rock, title: the oceans near the shore in misc. flash fiction

“It wasn’t a dream,” a voice called from the darkness, “we had to pretend it was for a while but we’re sorry nonetheless.” As Dorothy opened her eyelids, vibrant colours made it clear this was indeed not Kansas, she was in Oz. The woman standing over her was regal, in an almost-boyish way, her hairstyle a flapper’s bob, her robes on closer inspection not a princessy gown, rather a flowing pantsuit. She wasn’t like any other princesses queens or witches Dorothy had ever met.

“Who are you, ma’am,” she quickly corrected, “I mean, your highness?”

The woman was briefly confused but then smiled. “I’d forgotten you were a Dorothy that hasn’t met me yet. I’m such friends with most of yous.” She extended a hand and pulled Dorothy up to her feet with a strength that belied her royal bearings. “Most of mes? I don’t understand at all.”

The woman smiled. “Explanations will come. First! Greetings Dorothy, Slayer-of-Wicked! I’m Princess Ozma and I am honored to welcome you to your rightful place with the Parliament of Gales.” “The who-what now?”

With that, doors framed in emeralds and burnished bronze opened onto a roundtable ringed with sixteen chairs, seated in them fifteen Dorothies, all awaiting one more. None looked exactly like Dorothy, or even like each other. Some carried chickens instead of Totos, one looked like Diana Ross, one like Fairuza Balk, some younger, some full-grown, yet all equal in Dorothyhood with the teenager in the blue-gingham dress.

“Welcome, sister!” they exclaimed, nearly in unison. “This must be so much!” one counseled. “It certainly was for me!” agreed another. Turning back toward Ozma, she could only repeat herself, “Who-what now?” “The Parliament of Gales,” Ozma said kindly, “the caretakers of our reality.”

“You were from The Movie, the one their world would remember the most, so you were made to believe Oz was a fever dream and not a real place, that they might not catch on how real we are.”

Ozma paused wistfully. “Sometimes truth must be hidden for a while, kept safe for when people are ready,” then she winked slyly, “I, myself, was a boy named Tip for a spell.” Dorothy looked even more puzzled than before. “I’ll explain later.”

She looked at the table, surrounded by the reflections of herself, a jade-tinged crystal ball at the dead-center. “How would these mes caretake reality? What do we do in this parliament?” “How does any world maintain itself, Dorothy? By telling stories.”

“Tell stories to who?” Ozma pointed at the image inside the crystal ball, “To the man who writes them down, of course.” There inside the rock was a sleeping L. Frank Baum, receiving their Parliament’s tales of adventure inside his own dreams. “We live out our stories,” Ozma told her, “then through our stories we can live on forever, if we’re lucky enough to have good tellers.”

So, Dorothy went to that great-glittering table, sat down and began to tell her own stories as well.