Stranger than fiction
Are dreams....
Although I've turned many of my dreams into stories, I don't remember ever dreaming about a character from one of my stories. Until now.
Afterward it was curious and weird, yet in dream time seemed as ordinary as water. As most dreams are.
In my book the evil woman had her life snuffed out by persons unknown.
In my dream, the hero (I didn't see him, but I know it was him) attended the funeral, then whipped out a white cell phone. This is a huge stretch, for the story takes place in the 1880s. Not only that, but the phone rings and -- you guessed it -- it was the dead woman calling from the other place.
I didn't hear what she said, and the dream went poof at that very moment.
I woke up laughing at the absurdity.
A small snip where hero Del checks for himself that evil woman Lonnie is dead:
~
Del went to the one place no one would suspect him of visiting, finding the back lane he was looking for and an unlocked window that slid open without a creak. The shadowy chamber he entered reeked of death, embalming fluid, and something even more unpleasantly familiar.
He struck a match and lit one of the fat white candles the undertaker provided for bereaved family members of his customers. A closed casket sat on a raised platform banked by masses of paper-white lilies. When he pushed up the lid, Del knew at once why the aroma in the room was so familiar–it was her perfume, the scent of wilting jungle flowers that suited her so well.
As he gazed down at cinnamon ringlets arranged on a satin cushion, at claw-tipped fingers folded upon her white-sheathed breast, he was not as surprised that she was dead as he was curious who had done it. Who had rid the world of this amoral vicious creature? Who deserved a medal?
In that moment given to speculation, he didn't hear the padding footsteps behind him until it was too late.
"Come to pay your final respects, Injun Boy?"
Before Del could turn, the stock of a rifle slammed against the side of his head, propelling him toward the casket. The last thing he saw before he slid to the floor was Lonnie's plum-colored mouth, as lush in death as it had been in life.
~
--Cat
Although I've turned many of my dreams into stories, I don't remember ever dreaming about a character from one of my stories. Until now.
Afterward it was curious and weird, yet in dream time seemed as ordinary as water. As most dreams are.
In my book the evil woman had her life snuffed out by persons unknown.
In my dream, the hero (I didn't see him, but I know it was him) attended the funeral, then whipped out a white cell phone. This is a huge stretch, for the story takes place in the 1880s. Not only that, but the phone rings and -- you guessed it -- it was the dead woman calling from the other place.
I didn't hear what she said, and the dream went poof at that very moment.
I woke up laughing at the absurdity.
A small snip where hero Del checks for himself that evil woman Lonnie is dead:
~
Del went to the one place no one would suspect him of visiting, finding the back lane he was looking for and an unlocked window that slid open without a creak. The shadowy chamber he entered reeked of death, embalming fluid, and something even more unpleasantly familiar.
He struck a match and lit one of the fat white candles the undertaker provided for bereaved family members of his customers. A closed casket sat on a raised platform banked by masses of paper-white lilies. When he pushed up the lid, Del knew at once why the aroma in the room was so familiar–it was her perfume, the scent of wilting jungle flowers that suited her so well.
As he gazed down at cinnamon ringlets arranged on a satin cushion, at claw-tipped fingers folded upon her white-sheathed breast, he was not as surprised that she was dead as he was curious who had done it. Who had rid the world of this amoral vicious creature? Who deserved a medal?
In that moment given to speculation, he didn't hear the padding footsteps behind him until it was too late.
"Come to pay your final respects, Injun Boy?"
Before Del could turn, the stock of a rifle slammed against the side of his head, propelling him toward the casket. The last thing he saw before he slid to the floor was Lonnie's plum-colored mouth, as lush in death as it had been in life.
~
--Cat
posted by Cat Dubie @ 12:52 AM
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