Maybe It Was Allegory

Last night I dreamed of a goldfish who lived in a glass bowl in the middle of a swimming pool. He kept jumping out of his confined bowl into the "freedom" of the pool. I spent all my time catching him barehanded and putting him back in his bowl. Each time the little fish jumped into the pool, he grew a little bigger. Naturally, this made it easier for me to spot him and catch him, but eventually, he became too big to fit back into the bowl. I sat on the edge of the pool with the little glass bowl in my hand and watched him as he became much too large to swim freely in the pool. He jumped out and told me he was going to find the ocean. By this time, he had grown so large, he was bigger than me, maybe twice as big, and I could no longer scoop him into my protective hands and put him back into the safety of his bowl or the pool. I couldn't even drag him into the ocean. A sadness grew in me for the loss of my little fish, because I knew he would not make it on his own, and I was useless to help him. I woke up wondering how to find the ocean and bring it to my little fish, and only when I was awake did I realize I could have dreamed it into happening. I could have dreamed of a secret passageway out of the pool directly into the ocean, but I forgot I was in a fantasy world. I forgot I was in control. That is the way of dreams.

The Five...or Maybe Six Stages of Grief

     I resisted my friend's rude intrusion last night while I snoozed in my bed. He kept shaking me and telling me the toilet was overflowing and the bathroom was flooding, but I only wanted to snuggle deeper into my pillow and pretend the world could get along fine without me. I don't ordinarily get the kind of sleep where I don't know I'm sleeping, and I had been thinking to myself that this sleep was that kind of sleep.  I wasn't aware of my dreams all night, so my brain was finally achieving a level of rest I had been seeking for my entire life. These nights are the best nights. But my rude bed buddy persisted in waking me and insisted I take control of the increasing horror going on in the bathroom.

     Here's the thing. Three or four degrees decorate his wall. People far less educated than him have been able to figure out the overflowing toilet problem for generations. What is his freakin' problem? For that matter, what's my freakin' problem? How am I always ending up with the kinds of guys who can't or WON'T take the initiative to fix the problem (whatever the problem may be) when the problem arises? Why do I have to be the one to give up all the excellent sleep? Why do I have to do everything myself?

     I would have given him my third-born child if he would have just taken care of it and let me roll over and get a couple more hours of sleep. I'm tired, bitches.

     But...he was right. It's my bathroom, my responsibility. It's my toilet.  I'm the one who knows where I hide the plunger. I understood at that point he would never be able to find it slightly to the right of the toilet tank. I groaned as I rolled away from him to my side of the bed.

     I sat on the edge for a few seconds. Through bleary eyes, I stared at the clock and tried to calculate how much time I had been asleep and if it was going to be enough to get me through my day, because I still have to do homework for five classes, and hang out at my job for eight hours or so. If this toilet situation didn't abate, I might have to deal with a plumber on top of everything else.

     Whatever. I'm Supergirl. I can handle it.

     The bathroom is about fifteen feet away from my bed, and in the time it took for me to drag my tired body over there I had prepared myself for the worst case scenario. The sights and sounds, and OH MY GOD, the smells of what I was about to face...

     But you know what?

     There was nothing there. Just a nice, clean, orderly bathroom. The mats on the tile floor remained fluffy and un-disgusting. The pristine blue water rested in the white porcelain bowl without a hint of overflow. Nothing needed my special attention.

     I looked twice, just to be sure, and maybe again, because why would my friend tell me there was a situation when there was obviously no situation? Was he dreaming?

     I decided he must have been dreaming, so I returned to the bed to shake him awake and let him know that the toilet was not overflowing. The horror was not increasing. We could all go back to bed and get some well-deserved sleep.

     And then it hit me.

     He was not there. He was never there. I live by myself. I don't ever have a bed buddy. That guy doesn't even know where I live. We don't hang out.  The last thing he said to me was he'd see me this summer and, I haven't seen him all summer. He would never be cozy enough with me to be shaking me out of my dreams.

     Ain't that a bitch? I can't even dream the good dreams when he finally shows up in them. I can only dream the dreams that have me wishing for a better dream.

     Or at least for a couple more hours of sleep.

     

DREAM: We Let the Damned Thing In

     We’d thought the floods were bad, but they were just the beginning. We traipsed through the mud for days, pulling out random objects as we came upon them. The mud pulled back, and, depending who was stronger, or perhaps who wanted it more, our precious belongings were released with a loud sucking smack, back into our possession. We gathered, and we thought about rebuilding, but…

     Who’s in charge here?

     I am.

     Is there anyone better?

     That rubs me the wrong way. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of accomplishing. What’s the point of asking for somebody better? To insult me? To doubt me? To anger me?

     I’m all you got.

     I would have shrugged and left it at that if not for the scene behind his silhouette. Four black spires twisting on the horizon, connecting cloud to earth.

     Into the house we race. The big ones are carrying the little ones when they trip and fall. Some are shouting, some are crying, and all are hoping the wickedness lifts itself up and passes us by without a glance. Of course, none of us believes that will happen. We know all too well we are not immune to tragedy. So into the house we go, and as far down as we can get to escape the curling, creeping fingers of destruction.

     Destruction comes in many forms, though, and he stands silently in the corner while we pray for safety. He lurks in the darkness of a dank and dirty basement and leers at the unsuspecting children, counting potential corpses.

Dream: The plumbing never works in those old houses.

That old, condemned house again.

I don't like the looks of the left leg, so I think I'll trim it down a little.

It's easy, see, just a little pressure right there, and a slice.
The problem there is that it's lopsided now, so I'll take a little from the right leg.

Hold these bones, sister, while I try to get this just perfect.

I'll have to do this side right-handed. The left hand won't reach around.

Dammit.

Guess I'll just have to do away with both legs below the knee, for balance. And a little off each thigh. The thighs have always been too thick.

I have no idea who clogged the bath tub.

Dream: 1981 (that is to say, I had this dream in 1981)

That old vanity where she always put on her makeup and curled her hair had a mirror big enough for the two of us.
It looked like rock-n-roll and royalty. It smelled like cigarettes and seventeen.
I liked to watch her in the reflection: her perfect eyes, her luscious red lips, her confidence. She blended and highlighted and brushed like an expert.
She'd been the only girl.
After having three rowdy boys by natural means, my grandmother decided not to take any chances. She adopted a girl.
And so, my aunt garnered quite a bit of attention from the rest of the family, including me.
She was the center of the world. She listened to the loudest music, had the wildest friends, knew the sexiest dance moves. She was living the life, and I wanted to live the life, too, so it didn't faze her to have me always at her side, soaking up some of the awesome she exuded.
The vanity, that's where it happened.
That's where I became suddenly aware of the other presence in the mirror.
A small child with big, blue, adoring eyes and soft, blond curls stared back at me.
A beautiful girl with a crack running across her face--a big, black crack from ear to ear.
The Me in the chair looked at the Me in the mirror, wondering--what could it mean to have such a crack straight across like that? What damage could it cause? How should this be handled?
The Me in the mirror had no qualms. She reached up with both hands, lifted the upper half of the head and revealed the brain within.
No worries.
The crack sealed itself up once the deed was done, and the Me in the mirror placed a finger on her lips and smiled back at the Me in the chair.
The Center of the World never even noticed

Dream: Heavy

I guess something had happened between us, something had bonded us together. We were spending all our time doing the mundane things with each other, driving through traffic, grocery shopping, eating, reading-- your general passing of life, and dragging the kids along, which somehow made it seem like we were all united as a family.

You, me, and all the kids.

But not really all the kids. Just your kids and my kids crossing over and matching and switching ages. My two boys who have the same names as your two boys were my boys, but they were the same age as your boys, and they were your boys in the dream, not mine. And then my other two were babies again, instead of being grown kiddos like they really are. And for some reason, that made more sense than what goes on in our real lives, because I always feel like I'm just starting out, and I haven't had enough experience to know anything about parenting.

But, then again, do any of us have any experience parenting before we become parents? Of course not.

We're all just kind of "winging it."

So there we were, in the grocery store, moving down the aisle of the store together with the kids in tow. You were holding my hand, and I kept looking down at our joined hands in bewilderment.

Those other girls were flirting with you, the way they always do, and you were dismissing them, the way you always do. You're too cool, or too busy, or too bored for the flirts.

But they're so assertive, and I'm rolling my eyes, because I know these girls are knocking on a firmly bolted door. You smiled at me and whispered, "I'm going to tell them."

And I said, "Tell them what?"

You turned with your hands held up to get their attention and announced to the entire store that we had gotten married.

*@#$%$#$&*^#!!!

I didn't remember getting married, so I tried to deny these horrendous allegations. You looked into my eyes with your bewitching eyes and smiled that mesmerizing little smile, insisting that we were indeed wedded.

The ring on my finger was your proof, and suddenly, I couldn't even lift my hand from the massive weight of a wedding ring on the left finger, right where it really shouldn't have been.

When the hell did that happen? Who put that thing there, and why did I agree to it?

Assuming that I did, that is.

Even in my waking state, even in the clear light of day, I say you must have tricked me into it somehow...

Dream: This Ain't Alaska

His first mistake was thinking I'd go down without a fight.

He shoved me into the walk-in freezer and bolted the door. I didn't know how long it would take for the human body to freeze to death, and I sure as hell wasn't going to put it to the test. I formulated a plan for survival right away. I needed to knock those fans off the ceiling. The problem was I didn't have a crowbar handy.

When we were kids in Alaska, we called them snot-sicles. I could feel them forming on my face as I desperately searched through the cardboard boxes for anything that would help me. I opened them one by one and tossed them aside as I rejected them. I knew I was running out of time. I needed to stop crying, or my face was going to freeze like that, literally.

His second mistake was thinking the dismembered body of another of his victims would deter me from my goal.

I'm sorry, dead girl. I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry you're dead. I'm sorry I had to use your frozen arm as a bat to disable those fans. I'm sorry you had to watch it all with your frozen dead eyes, staring at me in disbelief.

With magnificent strength, I swung, and the metal box that encased the freezer fans came crashing to the floor. The chamber echoed eerie silence.

His third mistake was coming back for me.

Charmer

     Years ago you had that unexpected dream that changed the way you saw me. I remember your eyes boring into me when you told me about it. You told me you loved me, really loved me...in the dream. I halfway thought you loved me right then, but I wasn't ready to deal with it. I laughed it off and commented how funny dreams could be to make you have feelings for somebody who was completely off your radar. You flinched, as if I'd hurt you, but you recovered quickly and half-laughed as well. Our friends were listening in on our conversation, trying not to be obvious about it. Failing.

    I danced clumsily with that other guy one night, and you got jealous. I called you out and kissed you on the patio in the rain. It was a quick wet, drunken smack delivered in a moment of complete stupidity, but I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see that smug little smile of yours. You knew you had me then. It was only a matter of time.

     Everything's been messed up ever since. We're so scared to take that leap over the edge, we're clinging to each other, hovering right there on the precipice of truth and life and love. Somehow it comforts me to know that although we're not making any progress, at least we're not doing it together.

     Today when I saw you, I wanted to tell you about the dream I had last night that made me feel so close to you.  I looked into your deep eyes and stumbled on my own tongue. We laughed at my awkwardness. I couldn't form the words. I couldn't tell you how  you loved me, really loved me...in the dream.

Nightmare: Power Outage

I was supposed to be working or studying, or something else equally mundane and demanding, but I had been distracted by the power outage. My computer was still glowing on battery back-up, but the room had settled into an uncomfortable, dark silence. I realized then that I had no idea how long it had been that way. I had been so immersed in my studies, I hadn't bothered to acknowledge the world around me. I grabbed my giant, silver flashlight and headed toward the front of the building.

The regular noises were gone. The fans overhead had stopped their roars; bones did not screech against the power of the saw blade; knives did not thunk against the chopping block with each slice of meaty flesh. The silence had grown so loud, the only noise I could hear was the trickle of blood pooling from the cutting board onto the slippery floor.

My co-workers had disappeared. They weren't prowling around, using their cellphones as flashlights as they had done before. Nobody cheered for the break in labor. It seemed that I'd been abandoned, but that extra sense I sometimes get told me the others were simply hiding. From what, I had no idea.
I was determined to find them. Why wouldn't they have warned me of the impending doom? Did nobody think I was important enough to save?

I flicked my light into corners and crevices, searching for familiar faces, but none were found. I moved through the building alone. It had changed since I had sat down at the desk. The sales floor was gone, replaced by more work tables, more machines, more storage shelves. The customers had disappeared as well, I suppose because there was nothing set up on display for them to buy.

I was in the bakery when I heard the first murmurs from the women. I followed the sounds past the big mixers, around the walk-in ovens, beyond the freezer. All things here were covered with a thin coat of flour. My fingers reached out to the baker's block and etched the algebra problem I'd been working on before. Find f(g(-3)) if f(x)=4x-9 and g(x)=3x^2. It looked simple enough, but it might as well have been written in Chinese, because the numbers and letters were just swirling together in one big doughy mess. I grunted and smeared the problem away with a swipe of my hand. It was silly to be standing there working out math problems when I should have been looking for the others.

I found them in a bigger storage room I had never known was there. All the women from all the departments had gathered here. I saw Deadra from Bakery holding hands with Angie the POS clerk. Linda from Fuel was halfway hidden by Dominique from Deli. Janet from the Hot Bar sat in a chair in the center of the room, glaring at me. Each of them cringed away from my beam of light like scared children, except for Janet.

Sweet Janet with the long blond braid and the big smile was hissing at me. She reached forward and knocked the torch from my grasp. My light bounced and rolled into a corner, where it flickered and died. I felt the hot sting of a flesh wound on the back of my hand. I pressed it into my shirt and blinked into the darkness.

We were now shrouded, not just by the darkness, but by a heavy, frightening presence that we could not see. I felt it move past me, an invisible, slippery creature that preys on fear. And it had us. We were frightened. I must have screamed or made some kind of demand for explanation because Janet swung her claw at me again, this time across the face. She told me to shut up, and I was getting pissed at her. When the lights came back on, I was going to kick her ass!

I dropped to the cold concrete floor and began to feel around for the flashlight. The creature, which I couldn't have seen even in the light, ripped me away from myself. It had my body pressed up against the wall, about to tear me to bits, but my spirit remained on the floor looking up. Now that I was no longer confined to the physical laws, I could see the hollow, ugly thing shredding me to pieces, and I knew that the same fate awaited the other women there. I was powerless to stop it. I wondered briefly what had happened to all the men?

I searched the faces of the women, and all I could see was fear and hopelessness. I felt the pain of heartache, although I had no heart. It was then I decided I didn't like being dead. I pulled my body back around me, pushed my fear away and told myself to ...

wake up...

Dream: Come See Me

My mother's call left me worried. "Come see me," she'd pleaded. "I miss you." I scribbled down the new address and checked the map. She was fourteen hours away.

Funny, how we do that- measure trips in hours instead of distance, as if we plan to drive straight through, dismissing the sights. 

That's how my father always did it. The shortest distance between two points, and all that nonsense. He was pissed with me when I was twelve years old. I'd pointed out to him that, factoring in the curvature of the earth and the fact that road builders rarely construct straight paths between cities, the shortest distance between two points might actually be an arc. 

He told me to shutthehellup and let him do the driving. 

Maybe that's why my mother divorced him. 

Or maybe not. She told me once that she was tired of playing Caroline to his Charles. I was astonished that she could ever say such a thing, but it rang true. My father had always pictured himself building a cabin, praising God and living off the land. 

My mom, on the other hand, was more of a Hot Lips Houlihand. I never saw her any other way.

She's been calling out to  me for several nights in a row. Sometimes she's still with my father. Sometimes it's my Poppy or James. Sometimes it's a new man altogether. Never mind that she passed away four and a half years ago. That issue never seems to come up when I see her in my dreams. 

I wonder what she's up to that she should need to call out to me so often. It doesn't matter. I can never reach her. There's always a flood or a fire or maybe the roads wear away into impassable rivers of mud and sludge. I get bogged down in the muck. No matter what vehicle I take, car, boat, bicycle, Radio Flyer, I can't seem to remember until I wake up that I know how to fly...

Dream: Treasure

We ran into the trees, eyes forward, as fast as we could carry ourselves. We couldn't hold on to one another for fear it would slow our progress, but I listened for his heavy breathing and his footfalls to be sure he didn't fall too far behind. I listened also for those who chased us to be sure we were getting some distance between us.

Eventually, the angry shouts gave way to the eerie silence of the forest. We slowed ourselves until we were almost tiptoe-ing across the forest floor. The full, bright moon hovered low in the sky, playing sentry to our little scene. Perhaps it was recording facts and memorizing names. Who knows to what higher authority it reports. The Sun, maybe? They meet twice a day at dawn and dusk to compare notes. I wonder what they have to say about us.

We hid from the moon under the thick canopy of trees. Random moonbeams shot down between branches and formed puddles of light against the detritus. Those were the spots we avoided, just in case. We kept to the shadows, slinking between tree trunks until the clouds rolled overhead. A flash of bright lightning was overpowered by the grumbling thunder. The rapid tattoo of raindrops  on the treetops filled our minds like buzzing bees. I covered one ear and pressed the other against his warm chest until all I could hear was his heartbeat.

"What's that?"  he asked, nodding toward the thick dead leaves covering the ground. Something was there, out of place, winking up at us. I brushed the leaves away, dug into the soil and came back with a handful of coins and dollar bills.

"Nothing," I whispered as I let it fall back to the ground. "Only money."

He wiped the residual dirt from my hand, kissed my palm, and held me close. We began to move once again, this time holding on to one another.

Dream: Out There

Blind.

That's what I was, and I was thankful that I'd practiced being blind as a child...just in case.
But this, this was not the same as toe-ing my way across my safe bedroom, bumping into soft, upholstered furniture, giggling at my own awkwardness.

I crawled sightlessly across a strange, cold, cement floor on my stomach. The coppery, pungent smell of thick blood filled my nostrils, and I realized that the blood was mine. There was little pain at this point. I'm not sure if that's because I wasn't hurt as badly as I made myself out to be, or because my subconscious was repressing the pain in an effort to keep me sane enough to escape this increasingly perilous situation.

Somebody had done something bad to me, and now that it was over and the Bad One had gone away, it was time to find my way back home. Blindly.

My fingertips traced the cracks in the floor. I pushed into them, using them for leverage to pull my weak and damaged body along. The slipperiness of the warm blood helped me to slide myself more hastily.

I had no idea where the exit was. A welcoming waft of air blew past me. I turned my face into it and smelled the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked blueberry muffins.

Mom. 


Home.


Safety.

I followed. I grunted as I scooted, scaring myself by not crying. Surely I should be crying. How inhuman could I be that I didn't think this was worth a few sobs?

Fuck it, I thought. I'll cry later when I'm safe at home with my mom and a basket full of muffins.

But that couldn't happen either. Mom was already gone. Much more gone than I was at that point, and I almost cried at the memory of that, but stifled it when I remembered that I was wasting time thinking about this nonsense. I should have been concentrating on getting the hell out of there.

A wall. I bumped into it and felt along the bottom, struggling to reach a doorway. It seemed to take a very long time, but the closer I came, the louder the low hum of an air conditioner became. I don't know why I didn't notice that before. I could have used it as a guide.

I think I was in a garage. I began to notice the stench of my father, like motor oil and cigarettes swirling in my head. This made sense to me, because he had been a mechanic all the years I lived with him growing up. Nowadays, he's a truck driver, and I have no idea what he smells like.

Irrelevant!


The passageway was there. I felt along the bottom where the door meets the threshold, and I pulled myself up by grabbing the knob and hoisting my body against the wall. I was heavier and weaker than I had ever been. I wasn't sure if I would be able to walk after this. Just my luck to be blind and crippled in one little outing. This is why I should never have left the house. These are the kinds of things that happen out there.

The light spilled over me like pink, silk ribbons.

Mom.


Home.


Safety.

Dream: Needs

I am a fifty foot giant, traipsing around the supermarket where I earn a regular paycheck, and the grocery aisles are arranged like a maze for laboratory rats. I can see the shoppers, racing around, finding their prizes and ringing their bells. They're stocking up on the must-haves and arguing over the want-it-bads.
This woman needs her roast; there's been a death in the family. That woman needs her cake; her granddaughter is turning five. That man has to have the Official Dallas Cowboy beer cooler; the game starts at three.

Each person's event is the most important event, and if we don't meet their needs, their lives will crumble.

I am a small ghost. I slip in between them and fill their carts.They don't see me. They don't hear me; even if they do, they don't recognize me. They don't need to.

I am a person. I need three o'clock. If it doesn't come soon, my world will crumble.
.
.
.

Chew me Up, Spit me Out

The dream I'd had was misleading. I don't know for sure who he was. He was nobody I'd ever seen before, but he warmed me with nothing but a touch of his hand. I wanted to hold on to that fuzzy coziness he brought into the dream. I wanted to think he could be real, but from the corner of my eye, I saw the row of razor sharp teeth beneath his angelic smile.

I jerked back into the cold world at thirty minutes after midnight.

It's times like these I consider Insomnia to be a good friend of mine.

Moving On

We're not that close these days. You ran off to New Mexico, and now you're on the verge of getting married to a girl I've never met, but I'll probably like. Or maybe you're already married. If so, I guess we really have grown apart.

I can't even remember if you called to wish me a happy birthday. You haven't missed one yet since we split up, not even when you were in Fallujah. For some reason, though, you just weren't at the top of the list of people I wanted to hear from.

To dream about you now seems ridiculous. I'm not at a point in my life where I need a friend who really understands me. I'm not missing you lately, and I haven't met anyone who reminds me of you.

But there you were in my dream, smiling, teasing me with your empty promises.

Your mother was there, in the dream, and she was pissed at me. She's been pissed at me for this entire time, I think. She always wanted to be my friend, but I couldn't bring myself to do much more than tolerate her. So into the dream she goes.

My hysterectomy was in the dream, and the kids were there, waving from the side of that crazy cruise ship with the wings flapping. What was that all about?

I stood on the dock, half-way waving goodbye to the kids with one hand, clutching an I.V. stand with the other. I wondered for a second Where are the babies? My grandsons? And then reminded myself they hadn't been born yet. After all, the kids on the ship were only small children themselves.

And then we were back at the resort.

He was waiting for me in the lobby. In the dream I knew he wasn't real, but he could be real, if I could learn to open up, give myself over to him completely. His smile lit me up. His tender touch ignited me in a way you never had. As much as I loved you back then, I never gave myself to you fully. I always kept part of my heart in that safe place, scared you would stomp it to death.

And you would have. I was right to guard my heart from you.

I climbed those stairs to your room and laid on the bed beside you. I watched you snore and wondered where you'd been, what you'd been up to. Why don't I know? Weren't we supposed to still be friends? Isn't that a promise we made to each other?

You opened your eyes and looked right into me, and I knew then, that yes, we'll always be friends.

But you won't always call to wish me a happy birthday.
.
.
.

Don't Try to Find Us

As far as I'm concerned, there are no definite, die-hard, one-size-fits-all rules for dreaming. Each dream is as unique as the dreamer. Some folks say you only dream in black and white, and others claim you can't read in your dreams, but I know both of these are false statements. Some folks say you always know when you're dreaming. Some say they never suspect it until they wake up and sigh with relief.

The other night I had a dream that was as real to me as the keyboard under my fingertips. I could see every vivid color, every slinking shadow, every trick of the light from the corner of my eye. I could smell every tantalizing aroma, and every acrid odor. I could taste the honeyed kisses on my lips and feel the liquid heat and the sharp cold and the rubbery floor under my feet. I could read the love notes written on cerulean paper and the words across the window backlit by a periwinkle sky. I could hear every baby's cry.

It was the baby's cry that woke me. I was startled by it because I realized in the dream that I was hearing a sound that came from the depths of my real house. I sat up and stared into the darkness, confused by the heavy silence. I struggled to hear the cry again. Lyric, my grandson must have awakened, turned over, and gone back to sleep. I waited, stretching that part of my mind out to him, that mother's intuition that strengthens with the addition of grandchildren. He didn't make another sound, but the shuffling I heard from the kitchen, just off my bedroom, worried me.
I threw the sheet back and ventured out.

In the space beside the refrigerator, I found her.

A small, blond-haired, blue-eyed child, malnourished and dirty, as if she'd been sleeping wrapped in newspaper under a bridge.

I was shocked to see her there. My hand automatically covered my mouth to keep myself from scaring the poor urchin with my gasps of horror. I reached for her, but she curled into the space between the fridge and the wall. It took quite a bit of coaxing to convince her I wasn't going to hurt her, or eat her. She stared at me with those giant sapphire eyes, unblinking.

Who had left this girl here? Had they been in my home? Were they still here? Or had she simply wandered in the back door, which is often left unlocked for the ones who return home late?

I carried her in my arms like a baby as I searched the house. She must have been at least two years old, but I thought she was closer to three. She was all knees and elbows. She might not have eaten for days.

Content with my cursory search of the house which yielded no invaders, I fed the child.
Not too much, I thought to myself. Her stomach might revolt and she'd end up puking it all up.

I read once that after the Jews were rescued from concentration camps in WWII, many became ill or died because they had become accustomed to starvation, and the sudden nourishment was too much of a shock to their skeletal bodies. I didn't want that to happen to my new little friend.

I gave her a bath next, wondering if I should call the police or social services. Somebody was missing their child. Surely they had reported it. But on the other hand, this child was a skinny sack of blood and bones. She had scrapes and bruises. She had a look in her eyes that said she'd been through hell.

Whoever'd had her hadn't bothered to take very good care of her. Why should I attempt to return her?

I dressed her in one of my daughter's shirts which fit her like a dress. She smiled and patted her hands down the front of it. She was starting to feel more comfortable with me. I guess she'd decided I wasn't hungry enough to feed on human toddlers.

When I turned her around to brush her hair, I found the note. Actually, it was a tattoo. I rubbed my hand across it a few times trying to get the ink off her skin, but it remained etched into her permanently.
Her brothers had done this to her. My blood boiled and my skin heated with with growing fury. Why would they scar her like this? How could they defile her this way? What were they trying to prove?

Please, save our sister. Don't try to find us. Our mother will hurt her again.

And suddenly, I knew exactly who this child was. I could see her mother's face. I could feel her brothers' desparate love. I could taste the bile in my throat as the realization of this tiny angel's life unfolded in front of me.

I wrapped my arms around her and sobbed into her soft, freshly washed hair. She cried with me.

It was the baby's cry that woke me.

It was the most realistic dream I've ever had.
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I Could Hear You Laughing

I had a dream last night that you and I were chasing each other through a house that had never-ending rooms.  I could have dealt with it better if there had been hallways. It might have given the house more definition. Perhaps I would have felt I had more choices, this door or that? Kitchen or bedroom?
 It wasn't like that at all. Once I opened a door, my eyes immediately focused on the next doorway, and I had to get to it to go through it into another room that had a doorway into yet another room. The doorways faded away as soon as I passed through. There's was no going back, only forward.
I could hear you laughing in the distance, calling for me. I was looking for you. You were looking for me.
The gremlins and pixies were everywhere, tripping me, snorting giggles, distracting me with bubbles and funeral music.
When I finally caught up to you, you were staring out the window toward the soldiers on the battlefield.
You couldn't see me at all. You'd forgotten to keep looking for me.
Somebody had wrapped you in duct tape, like a mummy. It covered your entire body in neat, silver lines all the way up to your neck. Your wild, red tendrils of hair snaked out and up and seemed to writhe with your every breath. You smelled of gunfire and gasoline and carefree adolescence.
"Are you going to die now?"  I asked.
You turned to me with those deep black, crazy eyes and said, "I will if you will."
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101 Words

My dreams last night featured an albino cockroach, my grandson's other grandma, fires, secret passageways, and some beautiful green eyes the color of sea moss.
There was also an army of zombie-like creatures, a boy from my jr. high, and an eviction notice.
I didn't get the chance to write anything down today, because I woke up briefly, realized that today was my day off, and then went back to sleep. I slept and slept and slept until 6:56 am.
It was the best sleep I've had for weeks.
I was supposed to give up coffee yesterday. That didn't happen.

In High School, I Was Voted Most Likely to Change the Subject

My mind is all over the place lately. I blame the weather. There's been no rain for weeks. Just wind, dust and fires. I should move to Oregon or Washington, where I hear the sun never shines. (Or at least, thet's what my Facebook friends who live in that area say all the time.) My knee and elbow were throbbing all day yesterday, but there was no rain in the forecast. This means nothing to me. Northwest Texas weather will change more quickly than my mood. I looked this morning, and there are thunderstorms in the forecast for Sunday. It will change again before tomorrow.
My mind has been on the children. Little boogers. I shouldn't post about them here. I have mixed emotions about motherhood. I was a great mom when they were little, and they thought I ruled the world, but now....
I probably messed them up, encouraging them to think for themselves. They've grown into four of the most independent-minded people you will ever have the privilege to know. That may sound wonderful in theory, but the truth is, a little bit of conformity can be a good thing too. Unfortunately, I skipped that lesson when I was raising them. I've never been a conformist myself, and children learn by example.
Changing the subject completely, my manuscript was not rejected, but was sent back to me via email because the agent's inbox was full. This tells me nothing, but it my mind, if you're going to offer to accept manuscripts by electronic mail, you probaly ought to clear your inbox every once in a while. It kind of pissed me off, and now, I want to move to a different literary agent. Maybe God is trying to tell me something. (I always go there, to the GOD excuse. I don't know why.)
The dynamics at work have changed. Johnny got transferred to another store. I saw it coming. He hasn't been gone long enough to miss him yet. I worked side by side with him for six or so years. I always wondered what it would be like without him there. Turns out, it's business as usual, without the distraction of his class-clown attitude. He was immediately replaced by a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy named Jacob. One of the other guys, ETHAN STEPHENSON, made a comment to me out of the corner of his mouth that we were "thinning the herd." When I asked him what he meant by that, he said, "Getting rid of the Mexicans."
Racism pisses me off.
Ethan pisses me off on a daily basis. Because I'm white, he thinks I'm "on his side."
I assure you, that is not the case.
I have a new "assistant." I put that in quotes, because she's really just a co-worker who was hired to help me do my job, but I'm not her boss. I'm just bossy. I like her. She's easy to get along with. Too bad the poor girl got stuck with me.
On the Dream Front: my dreams have been ordinary lately. Well, ordinary for me. When I start telling other people my dreams, they think I'm bonkers. I know there are other people that dream as much as I do, and in vivid, lucid color like I do, but I don''t meet them very often.
Last night my dreams included a litter of puppies, a japanese sword and the guy I have a crush on at work.

Dream: Evidence of Violence

I must have had that dream before because when the car pulled up next to me, the man was in the back seat, but I thought to myself, Last time, he was driving. He must have gotten a promotion. He no longer drives, but he is driven.
The reflective window rolled down slowly with the whir of a power motor, and for some reason or other, Irish Mike (from work) was awaiting my report. Under cover of darkness and more silently than whispering shadows in the trees, I confessed the goings on of my little operation. He nodded once in understanding and the window whirred back into place.
Because timelines in dreams do not follow the same guidelines as real life, I immediately found myself leaning against the doorframe of my daughters bedroom, watching her brush her hair in the vanity mirror. And when I say that, I mean, she was inside the mirror reaching through through the quicksilver surface to the hairbrush on the vanity. Mirror Sara smiled at me and brushed her long blonde hair, making me realize that this was Mirror Child Sara, not Mirror Grown Sara. Grown Sara had chopped off all her hair and dyed it so many colors, I had forgotten it was blonde to begin with.
My sister reached from behind me, to grab the duct tape (another dream trick. I was now seated at the vanity, Mirror Child Sara gone from view.) My sister ripped off a piece of the silver tape, pushed her dangling eye into her socket and secured it with the tape.
"How's that?" she asked.
I could see the shape of her eyeball bulging behind the tape, moving around as if trying to escape.
"Great," I lied.
My cousin Christy moaned from the bed, and Aunt Brenda  pushed past me to tend to her daughter.
There was blood, but it wasn't Christy's. I supposed it was left over from the last wounded soldier. Or woman. It was hard to tell the difference in this dream.
"Did you hear from Mom?" I asked. Aunt Brenda pursed her lips together and shook her head at me. I could tell she was lying, but I didn't push it. She would tell me what she knew, sooner or later.