What can I do? She is terrified, convinced it’s outside, lurking, lying in wait. Neither of us will rest until her fears are mollified. Hiding my annoyance, I grab the electric tea-kettle and prepare to leave the little house, to venture outside into the dewy dark and show her, prove to her there is nothing there.
The door thumps shut in its frame behind us, and she clings to me, fingers digging through my shirt. I’ll wear the mark of her nails — scarlet crescents incised into the flesh of my right arm, right shoulder. Lighting our way, the tea-kettle gleams softly — a pale beacon, full of freshly boiled water. Steam escapes its wedge of spout in diffuse, curling trails.
A dirt path leads away from the house, winds through clots of damp grass. We follow its unravelling toward a stone structure that thrusts up from a small hillock ahead. Drawing nearer, the structure slowly resolves into a crypt. A heavy, teal green door is pressed into its recessed face, and pale moonlight limns worn stonework. A dark twist of tree mimics the bent, low, wrought-iron fence encircling the crypt. The fence’s gate leans open on creaking, rusted hinges.
Suddenly, my companion shrieks, tugs at me to halt our forward advance. Emphatically, frantically, she points. Heart racing, I follow the luminous sweep of her arm and see…nothing. Again, her shriek threatens to deafen, and her arm describes a wild arc, pointing. I swing the electric tea-kettle and release a spume of steam and scalding water at…nothing. Jabbing her finger at darkness, this way and that, she continues shrieking, all the while pulling me backward, back toward the little house.
8 Comments
Okay, Van Gogh. I’m this close to putting my pencils away for good. You are too good at these dream drawings.
Thank you — you are too kind! Don’t put your pencils away, not for anyone!
You haven’t seen my pencil works. You…are just something else. I’d say more, but it would get me in trouble. 🙂
I won’t likely stop drawing until I can no longer see the page and hold a pencil. But, it’s moments like this that make my hand shake. 🙁 🙂
so many effective specific details here. my favorite is that the tea kettle is an electric one. you hooked me, so i really wanted to learn who or what was out there. do i have to wait for the next installment?!
Ahhh…you’ve put your finger on the specific problem with Dream as Narrative — the apparent lack of continuity. This piece was the dream in its entirety — my apologies! I think, though, that its point was that there was truly nothing out there for me to fear…to stop letting myself be swayed by my more fearful “self”. And, apparently, that the best way to face my own fears is with conviviality! 😉
no apologies necessary for writing such an intense scene. it shows how powerful and evocative dreams can be.
If I were to let my smaller shrieking self out for an extended time, it would, I’m sure, prove to be troublesome. As such I keep him hidden in the daylight, where he would only come out to defend and protect. At night he does battle in dreams, righting wrongs while being hyper vigilant.
You write beautifully.
Thank you! And yes, our dream selves are constantly poking and prodding at things our conscious selves might like to turn away from, aren’t they! I like your idea of keeping the dream self “hiding in the daylight”…like hiding in plain sight — acknowledged, accessible, but not running the show. 🙂