Beach Ball Blob

I was brushing my teeth when the cab arrived. It honked, so I hurried; I wiped my mouth, grabbed my purse, and ran downstairs. I checked the front door, then walked out the back and locked it behind me. The cab waited in the grassy alley beyond the back yard.

Inside my friends Kelly and Matt waited with a month-old girl: their (dream-) infant, Mona. I climbed in. Kelly's forehead was set with deep lines. Matt pushed his glasses up on his nose and gave me a half-hearted smile.

As we drove away, Kelly handed me Mona, an angel wrapped in a green & white checked blanket. Her beauty was like a balm, lapping at me, covering me in her glow. She slept in my arms as we bumped down the alley, turned onto the road, and headed into town.

The taxi dropped us in front of the hospital. We took the elevator up to Pediatrics. Kelly sat on one of the hard plastic chairs, her mouth pinched in a line. Matt paced the length of the room. Finally we were called back for Mona’s appointment.

The doctor took Mona out of her blanket and put her into one of the little cart-beds hospital nurseries use: a clear plastic bin on a roller cart with lock-able casters. Then he looked at each of us in turn. My hands were shaking a little. Kelly kept stepping forward and backward, as if she wanted to see, didn’t want to see; wanted to see, didn’t want to see.

The doctor waited, and then suddenly Mona became a blob—a mushy, transparent, gelatinous-but-not-slimy blob about the size of an extra-large beach ball. She was like a giant cell: a clear outer lining protecting a mess of stuff inside. I could see bright bits of her, but it was like a Picasso—jumbled, little in the right place. She was going through a developmental stage all children experienced: necessary for some reason, but dangerous because the infants had to become self-contained for a few moments, receiving no help or care from parents, doctor, or world. It was a transition like the one newborns go through when they stop being kept alive by their umbilical cords and have to survive or die on their own.

We waited.

Then at some signal I couldn't see, the doctor plunged both of his hands into this mass—not hurting Mona—and in so doing effected some sort of medical-magical prestidigitation...and then Mona was just an infant again, perfect and healthy and pristine.

the end.

Ground Rules

Just to be clear, I won't always relay dreams exactly as they occurred. They'd be impossible to understand if I did. For clarity and narrative cohesion, I may do any of the following:
--amalgamate multiple characters into one person,
--give names to the nameless,
--clearly describe locations that may have been indistinct, and
--cut action & dialogue extraneous to the main narrative thread.

Yep.

Cat Nightmare (Nap Dream #2)

I have a recurring nightmare: I'm living my daily life, wandering through my house, when suddenly I remember that I have cats—some number of cats, usually mostly kittens—who I've forgotten. I've left them for some terrible length of time without food, water, litter, bedding...anything. It's horrific.

I rush down to where they are—usually in a closed-off basement room, dim, dank, and awful. I always have to search and search to find them. The poor things are never dead (thankfully), but they are neglected, and the guilt and panic are suffocating. Almost never can I get to the point where I give them the water, food, and care they need.

This dream assaulted me again today...with a terrible addition. I won't write it; I don't want to memorialize it. I can only implore the dream gods not to make this a standard addition. Shudder.

I wish I could burn out the synapses that send this horror into my dreams again and again. I'd offer a LOT in return.

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If you can, give an abandoned or abused animal a home. Animals are utterly defenseless against humans' inhumanity. Remember this. If you know an animal is being abused, please do something about it. Consider stealing pets from abusive owners--yes, I said steal them. People who abuse their animals don't deserve ownership rights. You might be the only thing that stands between a harmed and hurting creature and death. Please.

ASPCA: http://www.aspca.org
PETA: http://www.peta.org>
Humane Society: http://www.humanesociety.org
Pet Finder: http://www.petfinder.com/index.html

Blue Streak

Creepy.

I was alone. The house was shaped like my childhood home: kitchen at the back, bar-type counter making a half-wall between the kitchen and the adjacent den. I turned off lights in the kitchen, leaving one shining above. I looked up. The light was bright, cold. I turned it off. The refrigerator door was open, so I closed it.

I walked into the next room, where—unlike like my old home—a large roll-top desk dominated the space. The roll-top was see-through, made of smoky glass. Inside was a pile of candy canes. One of my favorites. I wondered if I could open the desk without bothering anyone else in the house. But—were there other people in the house? I opened the desk, trying to be quiet, and took a candy cane.

Behind me was a bed I hadn't noticed before. I lay down and unwrapped my candy cane. It was a good one—none of that sharp aftertaste. I heard footsteps. My parents were here!

They walked in, said hello, and leaned against the desk.

I held up the candy cane and said, "Thanks. The only bummer is that now I have to get up again and brush my teeth."

My dad said, "Maybe not," and smiled. I was glad because I felt kind of tired suddenly. I didn't want to get up.

We chatted a bit, just little pleasantries. I was feeling more and more drowsy. Then my dad said, "I saw Meg Carter today."

"Really?" I said. "How was she?"

"She was good." He looked at my mom. "Especially when—"

"—it was her time to turn blue," said the woman, and she pulled a squirt gun out of her pocket and shot me in the neck with a hard stream of blue liquid. Then she morphed in front of my eyes into a stranger...with fangs and eyes that were black from lid to lid.

"I got her," she said, and looked at the thing that had imitated my dad. It started morphing, too, but just kept changing and changing and changing, like it couldn't decide what to be.

My neck stung where she'd shot me, but it wasn't wet. The liquid had gone right through my skin. And I couldn't move.

I was being drugged. I was being knocked out.

I was petrified.

The things just watched me. Who were they? What were they?

I was slipping under. Struggling to keep my eyes open, barely able to feel my arms, I realized suddenly that I was dreaming. I reached out to touch my husband David so he could wake me up. I grabbed his finger. I forced out his name, slurring, but trying over and over again: "David. Help. Help. David. David. Wake up. David!"

Then I woke up.

David wasn't beside me.

the end

Mallard's Last Stand (Nap Dream #1)

I crossed a field on what looked like a college campus—brick buildings, clean sidewalks, lush grass in between—talking to a student. Up ahead there was a fountain, and standing before it, a pair of men who had blue-black tattoos on the crowns of their heads, covering their pates; just a large blob of dark color. Hair would cover the tattoos, but both men had super-short buzz cuts, so you could see that they were marked.

As we got closer to the fountain, a bird flew overhead. It looked like a mallard but with brighter colors. The student told me the tattooed men were going to kill the duck and eat it.

And they did.

the end

My First Post: Party in the Warehouse

Since I don't remember last night's dreams--an ill omen, perhaps, as I decided yesterday to start a dream blog?--I'll post here an oldie. Be warned. My dreams are no less nonsensical than anyone else's.


And a note: all names are, of course, changed to protect the innocent. And the guilty. And the really, really odd.


-----------------

I walked in a field on a warm, late-summer evening, leaving a party that was winding down. More people sat than danced, but the band still played.


On the far edge of the field stood a small, hangar-like warehouse. Its wide entryway was open. When I reached it, I stopped to look inside. It was dim, filled with stacks of wood crates. The walls were corrugated metal; the frame, a bare metal skeleton.


Standing to one side in the entrance was a man. Older. In uniform. An official—a general or a politician. Maybe both. He was also an important member of an African tribe. Five of his men stood here and there in the building, watching, waiting. I greeted the general politely, then turned to leave. But as I crossed the threshold I nearly collided with two or three more men, walking to the general, carrying something between them. I stepped back and began to apologize—and saw what they were carrying. It was a dead body. Brutalized and bloody.


The general nodded to his men, and they continued into the warehouse, trudging off into the dark. The general turned to me and told me to cover my eyes. Though I'd already seen the body, I did as he asked. After a moment, I said, “I didn’t see anything. Trust me. I can keep a secret. It's one of my virtues." I opened my eyes.


The general smiled in a kind, sad way (though he was neither) and said, "No. You must die. You have seen my complicity in murder. There is no other way."


"No!" I said. "Can't you please just let me go? I promise I won't tell a soul. There's nothing to tell! I saw nothing." He just shook his head, glanced at his men, and left, walking slowly into the night.


His henchmen started discussing how they should kill me and what they should do with the two bodies, arguing and shouting and gesticulating with machetes. Their edges gleamed and shone even in the dim warehouse light.


As they kept talking I began slowly edging away. They noticed and grabbed me, and for a time they held me and discussed whether they could cut off one hand and threaten to take the other if I told anyone about the body...but then one of them said no, they had to follow the general's orders. I had to die.


Then the band from the party started a new song—and it was the tribe’s theme. As if compelled, every one of the henchmen commenced their tribal dance, and while their attention was thus diverted, I slipped out under a loose section of wall.


the end.