The downside of being a fiction writer? Realistic nightmares. I had one last night. An epic, natural disaster type of dream, like Earthquake or Dante’s Peak. My husband and I were desperately trying to save the kids. Our house was collapsing beneath us. The groans of wrenching beams filled the air, the crack of splitting wood drown out our shouted instructions. We climbed and struggled and pulled ourselves further toward safety. Just before I lifted out of the dream, we clambered up to the front door from the collapsed floor of the house and I saw the exodus of neighbors outside the front window and realized we were going to have to walk our way to safety. I worried about the younger children if the walk was as harrowing as the escape was.
Then, the dream was gone. It was 3:36 a.m. and 51.7 degrees outside (my clock projects this onto my bedroom ceiling – convenient at 6:30 a.m. on a work day, not so nice at that hour) Sweat beaded on my forehead and my skin was damp with perspiration. The comforter was tangled around my legs. Awake, my mind immediately started to gather the logic behind the dream and reason that, truly, this dream could become reality. I tossed and turned for 24 minutes trying to cast off that nightmare but realized I would have to get out of bed and turn on a light to chase away the little dream cockroaches. I whipped off the comforter and swung my legs over the side of the bed and then hesitantly stepped down on the floor, still expecting it to be a pathetic shield between me and the hungry caldera beneath.
Sometimes creativity SUCKS!
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