Afloat

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.
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