Tuesday, December 27, 2011


I was telling you about that apocalypse dream I had. Do you remember? The one where everybody from work got blown up by a bomb- everybody but you and me. You were smiling with your sea-moss eyes and paying close attention to every word I said. You seemed to like the way I used my hands to portray how huge the explosion was and you laughed when I threw in sound effects.

You told me I have the craziest dreams of anyone you know, and I should write them down in some sort of dream diary and take it to a psychiatrist to be analyzed. I tried to tell you about the blog, but for some reason, I stopped short of telling you how to find it, because I remembered what had been written there.

The goblins giggled as they passed us by on their makeshift raft made of a refrigerator door. They teased us with a childish playground song about k-i-s-s-i-n-g. You stuck out your stick to push the annoying little bastards further away. One of them grabbed it and tried to take it from you, but you were prepared for that kind of devilry from them. Two smacks to the head, and that goblin was mermaid food. I never imagined that goblins can't swim, although I seem to recall some rule about not getting them wet. Or maybe that's gremlins.

Satisfied, you nested the stick into the special crevice you'd made for it and asked me to tell you another dream.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Other people's dreams

I fell into somebody else's dream last night- a man with two wives, one white, one black. He'd kept them secret from one another, but one had discovered his deceit.
The white wife, who'd always demanded the best of everything from him, followed him to his other house and discovered that he'd been keeping another wife with two sons in a small, dingy, inner-city, two bedroom house with only one wall heater and no curtains.
The black wife was beautiful and loved her husband and sons very much. She struggled at a job waiting tables and gazed out her windows when her husband was away.
The white wife saw her husband enter this strange woman's home with a smile on his face and arms open wide to embrace his family. Oddly, this had no effect on her. She spotted the bare carpet, worn down by time; she noted exactly four presents under the Christmas tree; she crinkled her nose at the tuna casserole on the kitchen table.
She backed away slowly, ignoring the laughter of the children, returned to her Audi and drove home to her mansion. Once there, she instructed the cook to prepare a four course meal, complete with dessert.
Her husband would no doubt be very hungry for some real food when he got home.