Such is the Stuff

I was in the passenger seat of a car. An old car. I don’t remember who was driving or where we were going. Someone, somewhere outside of the car, shot me seven times. I did not feel the bullets punching into my chest at an arcing angle. I did not resist. I simply died. It was a split second. I was in the car and then I wasn’t. I was as unaware as a dining room chair.

 
I drive cars I cannot control. I was in a smart car that told me in a disarming computerized voice, “You are having a collision.” I don’t know why I drive these cars with random events. It is much like a driver’s education lesson, where suddenly, the brakes fail, the accelerator sticks or the steering wheel falls off.

 
My teeth have turned cold and fallen out.

 
I am at the end of a semester and discover I have forgotten to attend a class I signed up and paid for. Even worse, I have gone through college and discovered I need to repeat high school because I never got a diploma.

 
I am enjoying a cigarette when it dawns on me that I quit the addiction years ago.

 
I have a child that I totally forget I’ve given birth to.

 
Once, my husband set us all up for a family photo and slit our throats. Recently, he was dressed as a Scotsman in a Duster cloak. I asked if he had a dagger in his sock and he turned his back, flipped up a ruffle on the coat and showed me his sword.

 
George Lightcap, you know who you are, showed up at my dorm door with a pocket watch and advised me that time was running out.

 
These are all potential stories. They are the stuff that dreams are made of. I am posting them at great risk of being gathered up in a butterfly net by bulky men in white coats.

 
Mostly, I am posting them because Audrey Shaffer who moderates the Writer’s Chat Room, brought it up as a topic for open discussion in the online chat room.

 
She asked if chatters used their dreams in writing. I have to say that the ones that do not evaporate before my first coffee refill are fair game for writing. I do let my characters have dreams and use them for discovery. I used a dream of a body in a wall to begin a novel, but, by the time it got to the computer it had changed into a freeze dried teen-ager stuffed behind a Ten Commandments Monument.

 
Reflecting on this topic, I have to admit, the dreams I do write about, stop coming back. I suppose this post is heavy with potential and morphology.

 
Thanks for returning to watch my mind at work and play. Till next time, dream it big.