In My Dreams, I’m Dying All The Time

A series of flash dreams. (Some of the ideas to these stories are given to me by my FB friends.)

In my dreams, I’m dying all the time. There is something chasing after me. I can feel its hot breath behind me. I turn but there is only the night forest and fog. I run without knowing where. Every direction are identical. The wall of trees closes in on me. The forest becomes thicker. Thicker and tighter until they are actual walls. My shoulders graze against the forest wallpaper as I run. There are no doors. There are no windows. Only darkness in front and the thing coming after me. The hall becomes increasingly narrow and the ceiling shorter until I am forced to crawl on my knees. The thing behind me growls and gnashes its teeth. I wedge into the tight hallway, now a tunnel, hoping the thing can’t get me. Hoping that it won’t fit. I wait.  Continue…

Drip. Drip.

“We’re going to have to remove your left ovary.” The doctor had both hands around his clip board. “Sydney?”

There was no change in Sydney’s expression. She sat there on the exam table in her crumpled paper robe just staring past the doctor at the sink behind him. The erect metal faucet jutting out over the sterile metal sink. Drip. Drip.

“Huh? Yea, my left ovary. Needs to be cut off. Got it.”

“It seems the cysts have rapidly multiplied and there are just too many to save it.”

“Is it still possible to have kids?” Her focus went back to the dripping faucet behind him. Drip. Drip.

“Well, yes. You will still have the right one, so as long as it functions correctly, you will still ovulate.”

“But while you’re in there, couldn’t you just remove them both?”


My Big Polka Dot Dress

Polka Dot Dress

When we finish singing ‘Tomorrow,’ Mrs. Linden motions me to step down from the riser. The microphone waits in the spotlight on the foul line of the basketball court. Someone coughs in the audience. The piano boy adjusts in his seat. I try not to focus on how big my dress looks on me.

It’s a black and white polka dot blouse sewn onto a two tier wave of velvet skirt. The long satin sleeves with the ruched padded shoulders ascend like an arm float. I stand there, each hand running down the opposite sleeve to deflate the bulging fabric. Still, it keeps rising. I feel red in the face and I almost regret wearing this horrid thing, but it’s a gift from Grandmother and she always buys clothes that are too big. Buy them big so they last, she would say.


The Man In Suspenders

She steps into the dark mouth of the church, the only light coming from behind the cross through the thick mosaic glass, stained with grime and old age. The light streams of mote and fine dirt, reminding her of the deep lonely sea. She takes a seat on the farthest bench at the back watching the back of heads nodding to the stream of words, like bobble headed dolls, some with bonnets over their hair and some bald, the cold sweat glimmering in the dim light. The priest was only a dark silhouette in a long black robe, the white of his clerical collar glowing like a light house.