So, forgive me if this goes astray…
Last night, I dreamed a man. Athletic, Nordic: tall, blond, squared, chiseled features. Scruffy for his faint stubble. Not overly muscled, but built to last. Also, soused to the gills, blue eyes swimming behind alcohol contacts.
He pushes me.
I push back.
Grabbing the top of his popped beer, the frothy foam spilling between my fingers, I tell him, “You do that again, I will hit you. And it will hurt.”
The soporific cloud blurring his eyes turns clear.
He says nothing, just shifts away.
We meet again later, his gaze and expression fresh, now, no longer the sloppy drunk. I don’t remember what we say, only that he sort-of smiles. One sharp eyetooth stands crooked from the rest. Watching it poke a dent into his lower lip, I smile, too.
Night. Maybe that same day, maybe days later. I’m sorting socks, of all things: knee-highed stripes, brown footies, patterned thigh-highs. I’m thinking, Which ones would he like? when I’m called to hold the camera. Why no one else can figure out how to frame a shot for a stage performance, I don’t know.
I look into the monitor, set the shot, lock the camera. A man sits down, right in my line of view.
Blond. Scruffy. Built.
“Glad you could make it,” I say.
He tilts his head back and laughs, showing off that adorable crooked tooth. As though he knows that’s what will make me melt. He looks at me, blue eyes bright. And magnified a little, behind narrow-framed, horn rimmed glasses.
Be still, beating heart. But don’t let on:
“Now, get out of my shot.”
He laughs again, shifting out the way.
I’m not looking at the camera window any more.
Most of my dreams don’t translate well to story format, but this one did. Those of you who follow my Tumblr or that Friendface thing have seen this bit of free writing already, but, since it’s the only thing I’ve written recently that isn’t deeply mired in novel or fandom continuity, I thought it was worth a little space, here.
“Joseph dreams of wheat”
Owen Jones [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Do you write down your dreams? Do you ever find they make their way into your stories?
Sometimes just a whisp of a dream is enough to spark a story. 🙂
I don’t write them down, but a lot of them stick in my mind really well. I don’t think I want to make a story of those dreams, though. They always involve women chasing me, and you know that I hate that. 🙂
I certainly do, if I can remember them the next morning. But this doesn’t mean that all of them are good, or even worth remembering. Some meet with the shredder very quickly…
But even in sleep, the pen wanders where it wants to, and something tickles the synapses to give us what we see.
Too often I don’t even remember my dreams. And so far I haven’t used any as prompts for a writing exercise or story. I’m somewhat envious of those writers who have scenes for their novels come to them in dreams, though. Those would be immensely helpful characters. 😉
Ain’t that the truth, Kourtney!
Maybe you could use that hatred of the scenario to make a kick-ass zombie story!
Most of mine go to the internal shredder, too, Shade. I think that’s more normal than not. For the ones that don’t, though, I almost wish I could go back to sleep and make them happen all over again. 🙂
Would those characters be helpful, though, JM…or would they be usurping even more of our brains? 😀
Aw man, I actually had a dream where I was being chased by naked anime girl zombies. I ended up breaking my leg and having no ammo in my rifle so they ate me. -_- But I can write that!
I am like JM (surprise, surprise). I can’t remember my dreams for the most part. And the ones that I do are either so non-sensical or unsettling that I have no desire to use them in my writing. This one that you had is a wonderful character sketch. I’m glad you wrote it down.
Thanks, Kate! (Sorry for the so, so late response…I was looking back at old posts and just realized I’d never given you the courtesy of a reply!)
I enjoy the pleasant, romantic dreams. But, sometimes, those disjointed, unsettling dreams are just as valuable. I’ve taught myself to wake up when things get too scary or out of control, but, lately, even those images stick with me long enough to drop into an action scene. Maybe that’s my waking mind trying to use as much energy as I can into creating.