My dreams take me to the wierdest places—sometimes good, sometimes bad—but there are some of them I just don't want to forget. So good or bad, they go here. My dreams take me on a journey into the farthest parts of my mind. If I can figure out what they mean, maybe I can understand myself a bit better. You are more than welcome to take this journey with me, but don't judge what you read. Remember, it was just a dream.

That said, a lot of these dreams have at least one part of them that would be great in a story. Some of them would make amazing stories all on their own, so I do get a lot of writing inspiration from these pages. Maybe one day you'll read one of my stories and know exactly which dream inspired it!

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

The Apocalypse that Wasn't

I don't remember why the world should have ended, but the whole group of us knew it wouldn't be worth living in. There were at least eight of us, and we were all huddled together in this small room. In the center sat a collection of black boxes, the largest of which had a red segmented display counting down from ten minutes. I looked at those numbers and I knew this was it. The world was ending...my world was ending, at least.

My husband hadn't noticed the countdown yet. For the first half of the timer, he stood against a wall talking to one of the guys about something in a book or magazine. The timer was already nearing the four-minute mark when he pushed away from the wall and came to wrap his arms around me. When he did finally notice the bomb, he said it very casually, as if he had instantly accepted that we would die there, two minutes from that moment. Or maybe he only accepted it because I seemed to have already.

He held me tighter and I pressed my cheek into his chest, tears streaming down my face. I began babbling, clearly not ready to die. I remember saying, "There's still so much I haven't done yet." I looked up into his eyes, the timer ticking away beside us, and told him, "I'd rather spend a lifetime of uncertainty fighting to be by your side than only two minutes of surety, knowing we'll die together."

In the last thirty seconds, we ran. We couldn't take it, we needed to try. We locked hnds, the two of us, and we ran. We made it into the next room and dove down to the floor beside a bed just as the bomb went off. Miraculously, the explosion had stayed contained to the room. Horrifyingly, on the other hand, all it had done was mangle our friends. They were nothing but piles of limbs and bloodied torsos. We crawled around to the other side of the mattress and covered ourselves in pillows and sat there for a while, just in case something else would happen or there would be another explosion. We were happy though, because whatever came next, we would be together to figure it out. And we would be alive.

Friday, July 8, 2016

Mike and Roger

In my dream last night, I found myself torn between two people. Two men who both seemed to want me but who were very different people.

They were both very handsome and kind. On the one hand, I had Mike. He and I ended up in the same apartment somehow and I offered to help with some things, cleaning and such, and after joking and laughing he asked if I was interested in going out. I thought he was extremely handsome and fun and of course I said yes. I feel like 90% of our conversations were perverted or sexual and kept light. Nothing deep, no long conversations. It was nice to feel connected but detached. I felt free. I also felt like it was a waste of time and I was constantly nervous because I didn't feel like he really wanted to be with me, and wasn't sure why he even asked.

At one point we had to take out the trash (it was a lot). We were staying by the beach and we looked over the balcony to see if there was a good place to burn the trash and one of the neighbors looked over at us and commented how he had just burned his trash earlier and pointed out a good place. We went back to the apartment to get it but I said I needed to change first. While I was in the bathroom changing, a stranger came to the door and was teasing me, saying that he knew I was 'having fun' in there because he could see my feet under the door and he knew I wasn't dressed yet. I played it up and took a while longer to get dressed, until the guy had left a few minutes later. Finally, I came out and went to the beach where Mike was. I told him about the guy and we laughed about the joke, about what he had thought I was doing.

When we left the beach and went back inside, friends started coming over. We were having a party. By some miracle, every time he would do something he would ask me to join in. He'd put his arms around me or he'd corner me against a wall and press himself up against me and ask if I wanted a drink or if I wanted to 'make some' (I had no idea what he meant by that but his eyes were seductive and I instantly said yes). At some point though, another guy came up to me.

I don't remember his name, just that I called him Roger. I don't think that was his real name, but the two of us had played a game where we make up names and he had ended up with Roger. He was really sweet and directed all his attention to me every time we talked. He seemed genuinely interested in me. He looked like Mike crossed with BJ Novak. We laughed about his crazy ex who would write on his windows about how she couldn't connect to his WiFi or something. It didn't register until later that he had been warning me that she would do that if she saw me, because he was interested. This guy really stole my heart, but Mike had my body. At least, he had it if he wanted it. Throughout the entire dream, Mike never even kissed me. It was like he claimed me because he wanted to, but I was just a puppy following her master.

A girl had gone up to Mike and hit on him, and I heard him invite her along and flirt with her. I was a tiny bit jealous, but the overwhelming emotion I had was one of not caring. It was like somehow I knew we weren't exclusive or something. I wanted to be, but if we weren't I couldn't force him to be. I think I knew that it just wasn't serious. So I turned back to Roger and we laughed and talked. People were getting ready to head out to go do whatever it was Mike had asked me to do, when Roger asked me if I wanted to stay and watch a movie or something. He may have even just outright asked me out. I don't seem to remember exactly what he had asked. But I know I was torn.

My options were Roger, this sweet guy I really connected with, or Mike, this fun, hot guy I lusted after. I wanted to stay with Roger but had already committed in some way to Mike. I felt giddy and excited about spending time with Roger, yet I had a loyalty and real want to also be beside Mike. Mike had brought me into his world and made me a part of it. I clung to a gift from him (a piece of sausage I think?) debating. I really did like Mike. I didn't want to lose him.

I knew both guys were waiting on me, and I found them in the bedroom, which was dark, both sitting/laying on a large bed. I stood between them at the foot of the bed and just broke. I said I couldn't decide between them. They were both awesome but any decision I made would hurt one of them more than likely, so I didn't choose. I laid down between them and stared at the ceiling.

Mike spoke up. He sat up and was working on his laptop, and said it wasn't a big deal. He said he was just gonna pull out of the choice to make it easier. Without ever looking at me, he said, "We have the book anyway." On his screen was the cover image of my children's book he was illustrating for me. I was grateful not to have to choose on my own, though I knew that was the choice I would have made anyway, and it did feel better knowing it was his choice so I felt like I hadn't really hurt him. I could tell by the vibe I got that he really was upset though, like he felt that things always happened this way for him. He was putting on this unfeeling front but inside he was hurt. In truth I was hurt too. I felt like he had never really cared, that I was just a toy he was done with, though I knew that wasn't true because we had never done anything.

Roger had been silent during that, and finally I looked into his eyes. He seemed very patient, like he was waiting for me to affirm that I chose him. I told him how he made me feel, and how Mike and I, we were friends. All we had really done was took out the trash. (To which Mike laughed, but it was true.) But Roger and I, we had taken out the past. We had talked about who we were and who we wanted to be. We connected. Roger and I got lost in each other for a few minutes, during which time Mike left to go with his friends.

We went to the living room, which was lit up, and Roger took his place on the couch. We both seemed happy. I was in a recliner. He told me he had a last name now (in our name game, he had never chosen a last name). He said what it was (I didn't hear it) then said Junior. I laughed and teased him about being a Junior, and moved over closer to sit beside him on the couch. He looked into my eyes and I felt that spark, that feeling that said I was where I was supposed to be, and he leaned over and kissed me.

It was amazing. Hours seemed to pass in those few seconds, and though only our lips touched, I felt like we were closer than I'd ever been to a person. When we finally separated he didn't even move. He looked lost in a daze, and all he could say was, "Wow." It was more like he had breathed it, it was barely audible. I told him I was sorry I didn't have more to offer, and he told me not to worry about it. He had everything we would need and he would take care of me now that I was by his side. I woke up as the dream version of me curled up to fall asleep in his arms.

Saturday, June 11, 2016

The Child of 551 and Tipper

551 and Tipper.
That's where it happened.

I think I visited the past or a memory. At some point, I remember seeing a father with his baby, who was considered to be a special needs child, alone without the mother. Somehow, I knew she had passed away. It was sad to see a broken family but I was glad the father had stayed with his child despite the additional hardships that his condition surely brought about.

Then I was back in the past. We were in a car. The father was driving, I was lying in the seat behind his. I'm not sure how I had room to lie down but somehow I did. The mother was in the passenger seat and had the back of the seat fully reclined into a makeshift bed. She was still in a hospital gown and had a thick sheet over her lower half, much the same as the kind they have in hospitals. The baby was bundled up and lying on top of the center console, which was a large flat rectangle. It clearly wasn't safe to be driving that way, but no one thought anything of it.

I looked at the baby and he looked back at me. He was barely a few days old. One of his eyes was a bit larger than the other; not enough to cause any mental issues but enough to be considered a deformation. He was a cute baby though.

The mom was exhausted. She was lying in  her chair, staring at her baby, with lightly-curled strands of her black hair fallen in front of her face. Without thinking about it, I reached forward and brushed her hair to the side so she could see more clearly.

I looked back to the baby, and the mother finally spoke. She was teasing me, asking if I wanted to feed the baby. She sounded as if the two of us had been the best of friends. I laughed, and I told her I was probably dried up with as old as my own kids were. My daughter was almost two, so she had stopped feeding months ago.

The mom smiled and eased herself up a bit to take her baby. Time seemed to pass quickly here, and the next thing I knew she was putting the baby back on the center console. I think she fed him, but I didn't get to see that part.

But as she set him back, her grasp of his blankets slipped a bit. The baby missed the console and hit the front edge of the passenger seat, by her feet, before falling to the passenger floorboard.

I jumped up and grabbed the baby to make sure he was okay. He seemed fine; his blankets must have kept him protected from the fall. I looked to the parents to see if either of them had freaked out too. The mother was trying to lay back down. I don't think she was even aware of the fact that her baby had fallen. But when I looked to the father...he didn't react the way I expected him to, the way the man I had seen before, holding his child, would have reacted. I knew he was driving, so he couldn't just jump over to grab his son, but he looked so casual. Like he was watching me collect his child as if it had been my purse that had fallen. As if I were just picking up the spilled contents of a sack of leather. He had no attachment, no worry, no care. That bothered me.

I laid the child back in his place on the center console, making sure he was okay and that he was safe. I was about to turn to the father to scold him about his lack of caring when the mother made a sound. It was something like a cross between a moan and a gasp, and it didn't sound good.

I turned to look at her. She was sitting up slightly, leaning back. Her gaze was out of focus and her shoulders weaved back and forth slightly, like she didn't have balance or control. She whispered, "Please call nine-one-one...and tell them...I'm bleeding." Then she pulled her right hand out from beneath the sheet. It was soaked—coated entirely—in dark blood. The color is what really stuck with me. It wasn't bright red, like fresh blood, nor was it thin or aqueous. It was thick and congealed, with a mucus-like texture that spread between her fingers. It was a dark, mauve-like purple with brown, like old blood, bad blood, but it shone black. It ran down her fingers, over her wrist, and began oozing down her arm. There was so much of it. So much blood. Bad blood.

I screeched at the husband to stop the car, and I could feel his panic. At least he had emotions, that was something. I pulled out my cell phone at stared at the screen, but for a moment I was frozen. I knew I needed to dial a number but for the life of me I couldn't remember how to access the phone itself. I knew this was it. This was how she died. What could I do to save her? Could I save her? I only paused for a moment before it clicked into place and I brought up the keypad, carefully dialing the right numbers and hitting the button to call. The car stopped and I leapt across the mother and out the passenger door, away from traffic.

As I waited for the operator to answer my call, I saw myself standing there. The whole world was a stage, and the spotlight was on us. Only the car, the intersection, and myself were visible beneath the glow of a nearby street light. Like an old-fashioned movie, everything seemed to be black/brown, with the night closing in around us. The hazy light was a brownish yellow and I could see mist or fog in the air. No other cars were moving, nor could I see them anyway, but I felt their presence. But it didn't matter, because in that moment, all that existed was a dying mother who wouldn't be able to care for the child she loved, the child who needed her, and the father couldn't care less. He seemed worried for his wife, but I don't even know if he acknowledged that he even had a child.

They finally answered the phone, and I rambled on for help. I told them about the mother, I begged them to send an ambulance. They asked me where we were. The sign in front of me by the side of the road wasn't helpful. It listed all the upcoming stops and roads we were nearing for future exits, but they didn't tell me where we were. I shouted into the car, asking the husband, "Is this the interstate? Are we on the interstate? Where are we? Tell me, damnit! Where are we?!" He seemed shaken at my outburst. He looks up at the traffic light and says, "551."

I glance up at the traffic light. Suspended in the air in the center of the intersection were the street signs—why didn't I see those before? The road we were on was 551, and the cross street was Tipper. 551 and Tipper. For a moment, I could see the other cars at the intersection. They were older cars, 80s or older. They were all stopped at the intersection as if every single lane was at a red light. The driver closest to our car was the only one clearly visible, but he looked at me like I was crazy for asking which street we were on when it was clearly labeled in the center of the road. I was embarrassed, but I didn't say a word or acknowledge them. I was distressed, surely they could forgive my oversight.

The woman on the other end of the line assured me the ambulance was on its way, and time leapt forward. I didn't have time to worry, because before I could blink, the ambulance was there.

Reality blurs here, as the medics prep her and remove her from the car, transferring her to the ambulance. That was the last time I saw her. I was holding the baby now, though his blankets were messed up. The world spun and shook, and the gray-brown of the intersection became white. We were in a room. It looked kind of like a hospital room, like a small room at a doctor's office. I stood to one side, leaning against a counter. A female police officer or detective—not sure why she was there—was helping me get some last-minute things together and closing out the room. She seemed sympathetic, though I wasn't sure if she felt bad for the baby for losing his mother or if she felt bad for me, the stranger who now had the baby.

I tried to talk to the officer, to get her to understand that although I wanted to see the baby safe and sound and with his family, I wasn't related and I'm not even sure how I knew the parents. The phone on the wall rang, and the officer held up a finger to silence me as she conversed with whoever had called.

After a few minutes, discussions of work must have trailed off because the officer was talking about going for drinks and hanging out later in the night. She was talking about how she was just getting off work now and she'd be there soon, wherever 'there' was. When she hung up, she glanced around the room and said that it looked like I had everything under control.

I immediately voiced that I didn't. I didn't have anything under control. I looked around the room and noted umbrellas, shoes, blankets, and my own daughter curled up on the floor by the door, asleep. I told the officer that the baby was cold and his blankets were messed up, and on top of all that I had to get the baby and all the things in the room out to my truck, and I had three kids of my own to handle, I couldn't do it all by myself. Reluctantly, the officer began helping me to fold up some of the baby's blankets so we could wrap him. The blanket was huge though, and it took both of  us to fold it. The officer was only half-attentive to what she was doing; I could tell her mind was counting the seconds that ticked past her final hour of the work day. I almost felt bad for making her work overtime, but I was really only asking for a few minutes, for a little help. Where was her sense of compassion?

We finally folded the blanket, and I set the baby down to arrange the blanket in my arms so we could wrap him—an odd method, I know. The officer set the baby down in my arms but wasn't even paying attention to exactly where my arms were. He nearly slipped, but I caught him and adjusted my grasp to keep him secure. I threw a frustrated glance at the officer, but she had already turned to pick up some of the shoes and umbrellas. Bit by bit, everything got moved to the truck. My boys were already out there, and I had set the baby down in the truck, so I just had to get my daughter and make sure the room was clear. As we walked down the hall way just outside the room, I realized the walls were lined with rows of baby clothes.

The officer was holding up some of the outfits and showing me how cute they were. They were so small. When I noted that, she told me that everything here was for the preemies. The tiny babies who were too small to wear anything aside from doll's clothes. It made me immeasurably sad. I couldn't even look at the clothes, because I could only think of the parents whose babies didn't make it, which then reminded me of the babies whose parents didn't make it, like the little infant boy I now had to care for.

Everything finally made it into my truck, and the officer vanished. It was just me, my three children, and the baby whose only loving parent had been lost. The father had disappeared.

I wondered why things had worked out so differently than the way they had been before. Before, the father had held his son. I thought he had loved him. Did he, really? Or had he wished for a way out? When we relived the past and I had been present for it, was that all the reason he had needed to leave the child behind? Would he ever come back for his son? I had so many questions.

All I knew for sure, looking down at that child, was that I'd raise him as my own. I'd love him, because he'd need me. Because he deserved it. Because she'd want me to.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

The Blonde and Rumplefoodkin

I woke up next to girl. It was dark, and the bed was in a wide, dark studio. The head of the bed was up against a thick beam or pipe, there was a soft yellow light coming from somewhere in the room, and toward the foot of the bed was a hallway with a bathroom.

The girl was venting, commenting about her boyfriend. She was upset because they wanted different things in their relationship, one of them to get married but the other didn't and she wanted to feel alive again. She mentioned how she never gets to leave the house. She is sitting up at this point and is very beautiful. A thick head of bouncy blonde curls. Small nose. Green-blue eyes. Freckles everywhere.

I wanted to make her feel better, so I sit up as well and tell her that I know the feeling. I think back for something to say to bond with her, to connect over. I mention that when I was pregnant with each of my kids, I never got out of the house or went anywhere either. As I'm saying this, I look up and my husband is right there, coming out of the bathroom all dressed for work, still rummaging around for his work things. She accepts this and vents again about her boyfriend and how confusing he is and that she's not sure what to do next.

She turns to me and asks if I'm gay. It catches me off guard, because surely she sees my husband in front of us? Then again, I'm in bed with her. I deny it with a laugh, but then I toss in "sometimes." I can't look straight at her because I feel awkward and embarrassed and pretty certain I've just said more than I needed to. I repeat "sometimes" while turning deep red. Looking past her, I see a metal ladder, maybe pipe? It feels out of place.

Hubby comes back into the room and starts telling me what he is going to do that day. He points beyond the head of the bed, saying he's going to get his truck or bobcat out of the lot. I turn around to see that the pole the bed is up against is actually a power pole, and the entire bed is outside!

I warn him that he's gonna get stuck if he's not careful. He said, "Nah, I'll be fine." But I look around and it's beginning to snow. The flakes are large and beautiful. Even as they land to blend in among each other, I can tell they are each unique and special. I tell him he might not think he'll get stuck, but in all this snow, he might.

The snow fascinates me. I want to play and enjoy it. I throw off the covers and leap out of bed (much to the amusement of the woman—she sees that I'm only wearing a thin shirt and very short shorts). I run around the snow, laughing and having fun, and I want to see it closer. I lean forward to examine the snowflakes. Rather than me getting closer, the flakes grow larger. They get about two feet across, and they're extremely detailed and beautiful. I pick one up and hold it in my hands. I can barely feel the cold at all. I'm not sure if it's melting in my fingers or not yet...it should...but just in case, I take a huge bite out of it at the top. It's amazing. It's like thin ice, but with the texture of a snow cone. It melts in my mouth and I love it. That's the last I see of the snow, though.

I go inside. Hubby is working (and I believe he got out just fine without getting really stuck) and there are two women inside. One is my sister in law. We're watching the kids and talking, and someone mentions food. I think I described the snowflake and eating it. My sister in law says something about 'Rumplefoodkin.'

I think that's hilarious and adorable. I comment, "Ha! Rumplestiltskin with food, I love it!" and I continue on about how I'd love to meet him, all his magic creates food and it's just him with lots of food. I try to imagine if all that food would have made him fat, but I can't picture him any different than the tall, thin, gorgeous, golden dark one. Then she says, "I don't know who that is." And I'm confused (and kind of laughing though) because she was the one who said his name in the first place.

I woke up (for real this time) dreaming of Rumplefoodkin.

Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Thrown to the Wolves

It began at a fish store.

I know that sounds odd, because it seems that quite a few of my dreams take place inside a fish store. But I can't control it; there we were.

When I say 'we' I'm referring to my best friend and I. We were in this fish store, separately; she was off somewhere else in the store and I was along the northern wall on the left-hand side of the store. I was browsing through the tanks when I came upon a baby beaver. It was caged much like a small turtle might be, in a terrarium with equal measure land and water. The poor little thing was no bigger than my fist, but was fully-formed and was, in fact, a miniature version of a fully-grown beaver.

There was a man beside me, also browsing, also happening upon this beaver, and a conversation started. I can't say what we talked about since I really don't know, but an announcement went over the loudspeaker during the chat, calling me to the back room, where my friend awaited me. This man was very polite, handsome, friendly, kind; I felt bad that I had to leave. I told him I'd be back, and he offered this: "I'll be right here waiting. Right at the beaver. If you come back before the store closes tonight, I'll know it's meant to be." Though he didn't kiss me then, I could tell he wanted to—that he felt the same internal struggle I experienced. In a very awkward manner, we said our goodbyes and I left.

The store, for whatever reason, was split down the center into two halves. The left-most half was a fish store with the rows being very much like any typical retail chain, whereas the right-most half seemed more a club or a popular hangout spot. I can't actually say what a club looks like, I've never been. But by the Hollywood definition, it fit the bill. I met up with my friend and we talked and talked...she was so beautiful and yet she could talk you into an early grave if given half the chance. Quite the chatterbox. Anyway, the conversation reached its peak and, though I have no idea what we decided on, I agreed and went outside to my car, where I proceeded to put on my jacket. Or perhaps take it off; I distinctly recall balling up my jacket and throwing it into the backseat, but it's unclear whether I did this on this particular trip to the car or during the next one, when we left. Oh well. I did something with my jacket.

I re-entered the store, and searched through the aisles, particularly the northern wall on the left-hand side, but my knight-in-shining-smiles was nowhere to be found. I kept a smile on my face, but when I told my friend he was missing, she saw the tears in my eyes.

We went about our business—whatever that means—until nearly closing time. As I was making my way to the door once again, an employee happened to mention that there was a man sleeping in one of the aisles, on one of the lower shelves, in fact. I inquired as to where and they told me...it was the northern wall! On the left-hand side! That must have been him, clearly, but they gave me his name, since apparently they did know who he was, so I assume he actually did this quite often...and I'm rambling. I did seem to know the name, and I had a face that went with that name in my head, so when the man walked up to me, he was not the same man I had fallen for earlier that day. He was someone else, someone I was not attracted to. I nodded politely and dismissed him, and he acted as if I too was not the girl he had fallen for earlier that day. We were two different people, and why? Because it had not been in the fairytale setting by the beaver cage? Or because life had gotten in the way? Or because our vision is jaded by the sweeping romance of a lustful relationship?

Either way, the man was now gone and the beaver remained unpurchased. I gossiped about the incident to my best friend when I went back to her location on the right-hand side of the store, until it was whispered that the man I had grown fond of and the man I had dismissed were not actually the same person; they were, somehow, the same entity, yet two separate beings. I had fallen for one-half of a man, and he was beautiful. I glanced across the store. As it were, we were against the northern wall, and the stars aligned just right for me to have a clear view all the way to the left-hand side of the store, to the beaver tank, and there he stood.

I got excited to see my prince again, and rushed to leave, ready to go home—a mere cover story to give me the chance to pass by the beaver tank one last time. I didn't want to get my hopes up that it really was him, but I didn't want to miss the chance to see him again, either.

There he stood, speaking softly through the glass, whispering to the tiny animal how (most likely) he was going to set it free one day. How he'd save it from captivity and from the eyes of the onlookers. I can only assume that's what he was saying, but he was just that sort of man, you know? Adorable.

My best friend tugged at my jacket—ah, there it is...I still had it on—and she called me away. I longed for the man but I knew it was futile. Even if we met again, what would I say? What would we do? We'd just end up drifting apart and the whirlwind romance would be gone. It was too great a memory to let it disintegrate, so I conceded to my friend and we left. In very much a fairytale fashion, I tossed one last glance his way while walking out the door, and he looked up. Our eyes met, the sadness in mine reflecting back at me in his, and I knew it was over. Would he search for me, like a prince searching for the damsel in distress? Was I a damsel in distress who needed finding? So many questions arose in that glance.

My friend and I went back to my car, which in itself was an oddity in the strangeness of the dream world. It was here that I balled up my jacket and tossed it into the backseat...not just a normal toss, mind you, but I threw it through the space where the front windshield should have been, past the front seats, and into the recess which appeared to be the backseat. Everything was slightly off-white and nothing looked comfortable. I think the car was a convertible, but by that I mostly mean to say there were no windows; there were spaces for windows and a windshield, but the glass wasn't there.

We climbed into the seats and began to drive. To where, I do not know.

***

The weather seemed to be deteriorating quickly; what started as a clear afternoon became a windy morning (yes, time works differently in dreams) and although it didn't physically snow, there was snow on the ground. The car slid a few times on the icy road, and when it hadn't slipped in a while we thought we were safe. We were wrong.

One final patch of ice got us, and the car slid off into the ditch. We were right behind the corner of a building—not a full building that I ever saw, just the soft, yellowed corner—and in what I assume was a result of the accident, I couldn't move. I was lying there across the front seat (and yet somehow also across the hood of the car, though I was lying quite flat and parallel to the ground) and my best friend was lying to my left, which was also behind me, from the way I was spread out, mostly on my stomach but propped on my left side.

Time went by; it felt quick but I knew it to be longer. My best friend didn't have the problem I had with moving, and she was able to stand and stretch her legs. She said she would go get help, and for a minute I thought it was a great idea...until we heard them.

Wolves. In the distance, I could see their shapes moving against the snow. They were hard to make out and even harder to track, but I knew they were getting closer. My friend, she said, "I'll go get help. Stay here." I tried to warn her, tried to plead with her to stay, but she didn't seem to hear me. She left, and they made their move. She had barely rounded the corner out of view when she screamed. I knew they had gotten her.

I lay there a bit longer, and the wolves circled 'round. Slowly, they made their way inward toward the car—toward me. I discovered that I had a blanket of sorts draped across my shoulders, and I noticed my hair in wild disarray, so I tucked my head down into the seat of the car, with one eye on the wolves, and excruciatingly slowly...with the slightest of movements...I pulled the blanket to the top of my neck and buried my face beneath my hair.

I knew that if I stayed perfectly still, they wouldn't see me. Hopefully, the scent of delicious human was covered by the smoke and gasoline of the car. They drew closer, and I squeezed my eyes shut, shuddering when I felt their breath against my forehead. A tugging at my leg terrified me, and every muscle in my body stiffened in fear. One nuzzled my hair, slobbering across my face, and the tugging at my leg got stronger.

I think I knew I would have been dead. Staying perfectly still hadn't confused them or distracted them at all; it just made them take their time.

Without warning, people came around the corner. To my surprise, one of them was my best friend. She had lived!

They scared off the wolves, and an ambulance pulled up in silence. I was flipped over and helped to my feet...until I tried to stand on my own, and realized that the tugging at my foot had actually been a wolf removing my foot altogether. My right leg ended at the ankle in a mangled mess of blood and torn muscle.

I survived the wolves, which is all I can ask for. The stranger in the fish store wouldn't have wanted anything to do with a broken woman anyhow. At the end of the day, I still had my best friend, and that was more than enough for me.

Loving a Techie Genius Con Artist

In this dream, the techie man I had been so in love with looked and sounded exactly like Alec Steele, the blacksmith. It was pretty amazing....