Thursday, June 25, 2015

No Rest for the Wicked

The river and harbors have breached their banks. There are floods filling up the roadways, the sewers so full that they backup into the streets. I run along the sidewalks just out pacing the flow of the rising waters. The stinking, chunk-filled liquid laps at my heels. I race up the stone steps into the long-abandoned convent, through the halls to the stairwell that takes me up to the roof. Water rises to the gables. I stand on the parapet, my toes curling on the edges, holding on with a talon-like grip. I take a deep breath and leap out into the air. Wind whips around me, blowing my hair into my fave, the tips poking me in the eyes causing them to water. I blink to ease the pain and block the view. I don’t want to look down but I’m drawn to the vision of whirlpools and waves demolishing the buildings of brick, cement and steel below me. Uprooted trees float like corks upon the aqueous turmoil.

Thermals lift me higher and toss me about disorienting me and making me dizzy. I no longer know which way is up. Or down. I fall, tumbling feet over head. My fingertips brush the wet rage engulfing the world. I take a deep breath expecting to plunge into the abyss when I find myself in a cardboard box. I collapse in relief, my fingertips gripping the damp edges. I’m whisked off over the edge of a cliff but unlike the coyote, I don’t drop down and go splat into the dry desert. Instead I go higher, across the canyon and above the opposite edge. I come to a soft landing in front of my old elementary school. I finally feel like I can relax until the 1930’s style gangsters show up in their Cadillac V-16 with their Thompson Sub-Machine guns and aim for my heart.

I start running and they give chase. The dirt road is filled with little, sharp stones that bruise and cut my feet. I run so fast that I kick up a cloud of dust that blocks the vision of the hoods trying to reach me. They start firing blind. Bullets rain all around me but I’m protected by my white sphere of light which lifts me into the air like Glinda the Good Witch’s rainbow bubble. Only my bubble is made of bullet-proof glass so I escape and end up in my special place.

The moss is as soft as cotton. A brook babbles next to my head. Spring-green leaves dance overhead in a light breeze. A spotted fawn lies beside me and keeps me warm. The alarm goes off. The bowl of salt water on the side table didn’t absorb any negative energy. The dream catcher over my head didn’t catch any dreams (at least, not before they got in my head.) Starting the night with self-directed dream scenarios didn’t keep my thoughts on a more congenial path.

I groan. There’s no wondering why I wake up exhausted.   


  1. This is a wonderful tale--I hope it isn't a dream you actually had, but I do have some dreadful ones myself so if it is, I sympathize.
    Much of my writing comes from nightmares I've had, to be truthful. I suppose this is why I don't hate my nightmares as much as some people hate theirs. They fuel the creative fire.

    1. Thanks. Dreaming is exhausting. I've had this same dream (with minor variations) 2 to 3 times a year every year since I was about twelve. I like to sleep because my dreams are so vivid and entertaining.