Dream Symbols Fire Novels & Stories

she whispered quietly as she looked around the room. The curiosity and concern overwhelmed me as I looked at my longtime friend. I leaned in close to her and asked just as quietly, “What is it?” “Well,” she began taking another look around the room before continuing. “I have been having dreams as well but not of Laylan, or unicorns, or fairies, or anything like that. I always thought that maybe I just had multiple personalities and the other happened to be a man named Daemon. But recently, I have been dreaming dreams as if they were his memories or something,” she stopped and looked at me.

She was asleep, as if she was having a nightmare. In her dream, she stood alone in the fire, surrounded by thick smoke, choking her out of breath... She wanted to run, but the broken walls around her kept falling down, blocking her way out. "Help, help..." Gladyce cried helplessly in her dream. The oxygen in her lungs was disappearing little by little, but no one came to save her. As soon as she turned around, she saw a tall figure in the firelight... Gladyce's eyes hurt from the smoke. She didn't know if it was because of this, but tears kept falling. She raised her hand and reached for that person, pleading, "Help me... I beg you, take me out. I want to go home... take me home!"

I had experienced vivid dreams time and time again, but this was the first instance where I would wake up with a souvenir from my subconscious wanderings. The echo of crackling flames and the acrid scent of burning wood lingered in my nostrils. Was it possible that someone nearby was burning something, and the smoke had found its clandestine way into my room? A rational explanation, yet the eerie feeling persisted as if the dream had left an indelible mark on my reality.

“I am not tired.” That was a lie. She was exhausted down to her very bones. But whenever she closed her eyes now, the dreams returned with greater intensity. They had grown worse in recent nights. She saw fire consuming entire cities, crowds screaming as they fled in terror, and the same mysterious woman from the ancient memories, the first Phoenix. Only now those dreams felt different. They felt closer and more personal, almost like fragmented memories rather than distant visions. Each time she woke, the fire in her veins burned a little hotter, as if the dreams were feeding it.

I reminded him. “Physically, maybe,” he said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, “but your mind never rests. You think I don’t notice you staring off into space sometimes, lost in worry? You’ve been carrying this constant fear that something’s going to go wrong. You need to trust that we can handle whatever comes.” I wanted to believe him. The way he spoke made it sound so simple. Trust. But the images from my dream refused to fade. “I could smell the fire,” I said again. “It wasn’t imagination. It was something trying to warn me.”

Throughout the night, Anna tossed about in her bed. She was having a nightmare. Fire. Acrid smoke rising into the atmosphere. A sharp piercing cry filled with terror. Pounding feet. The clatter of burnt and blackened woods against burning wooden floors. The sound of sirens blaring from ambulances and firefighters. People escaping and choking due to intense inhalation of smoke. A dead body being wheeled out of the burning building. More cries. This was what haunted her dreams almost every night. And now, after awakening with a jump start, Anna climbed out of her bed and hurried towards her dress stand.

His eyes, once filled with tenderness, now brimmed with anguish. “You have to remember,” he said, his voice desperate. “It’s the only way to stop this.” The flames consumed everything, pulling her under. --- Aria woke with a gasp, her body drenched in sweat. She clutched her chest, the burning sensation still lingering. Her birthmark throbbed painfully, glowing faintly in the darkness of her room. The dream was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It wasn’t just vivid—it felt real, as though it were a memory rather than a figment of her imagination. But how could that be possible?

The only answer. So why did it feel like a lie we were both trying to believe? That night, I dreamt of fire. In the dream, Saint stood at the center of the flames, his body blackened, his eyes burning. He held out his hand to me, but when I reached for him, the fire swallowed him whole. I woke with a scream lodged in my throat, sweat cold on my skin. He was there instantly, pulling me against him, murmuring words I barely heard. His arms were strong, his body warm, but it didn’t stop the fear from clawing at me.

Veyra's sleep was restless that night, tangled in the web of dreams. As always, they were dark and cryptic, a reflection of the chaos that stirred inside her. Her body was still, but her mind raced, locked in an endless dance of shadows and light. The familiar sensation of a presence far more powerful than anything she had encountered before lingered in the dream, like a weight on her chest. The image was clear—a pair of eyes, silver flames flickering at the edges, burning through her thoughts. A voice, like cracked stone, whispered to her, "The chains are breaking."

I interjected, "That fire seven years ago was brutal, wasn't it? Saving him must've been strenuous. Any scars?" She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a faint mark on her arm. "Yeah, it left this. Not exactly pretty, but Damian means everything to me. I'd run through fire for him again in a heartbeat." I was stunned by her audacity. She'd go so far as to flaunt a fake scar to uphold her lie. "That blaze killed many people," I pressed. "You were just a middle-school kid, small and frail. How did you manage to drag him out of those flames?"