December 27, 2014

I hadn't read the books...

I hadn't read them at all. For some reason, I'd been skating through my classes, pretending I knew what was going on. Pretending I understood. Yes, yes, if you guessed I had one of those high school from hell dreams, then you win the prize. There was a final coming up that I was so unprepared for my heart is still racing.

Color me a cliche. I can't remember having this sort of panic dream before. It makes me wonder why the psyche doesn't choose a positive high school memory to reveal. Why did I need to read 367 pages in a night in order to catch up? Why was fear breathing down my neck?

All I can say is I've never been so happy to be in my 40s. No. More. Finals. Ta da!

I always read the books. English classes were not a problem for me. If my brain really wanted to torment me, I should have been thrust back in Chemistry. Or lost in Latin. Also interesting is that the book I hadn't read doesn't exist. Supposedly, the title was by a famous author—who also is apparently fictitious. I checked. So I wrote a book in my sleep that I hadn't yet read.

It's like the plot of The Terminator—he has to go back in time to save his mother, but he couldn't exist in the future without the plan having worked. Or am I remembering wrong?

In completely non-related news, Waterstones pitched an interesting challenge this week. Write a 250-word ghost story to post on their blog. But last I checked, the link didn't work. So I am posting my 250-word (on a dime!) story here:

I Don't Believe In Ghosts

I don’t believe in ghosts. I know everyone and their paranormal-loving grandma believes in ghosts these days. But not me.  I like people. Good, old-fashioned, flesh-and-bone people. That’s just the way I am.
            Or that’s the way I was.
            I was a skeptic, a cynic. But even I could sense the evil in Win.
            When he came to town, the air crackled. There was a shift in electricity, a hum you could hear. He was six-feet six, even when he stooped or slouched. The type of guy to throw stones through a church window. To burn holes in the awning over the old-folks’ home. To knock down stop signs. To remove hazard cones.            
            And damn if he wasn’t handsome. Head-turning good looking. He could cock his head to the side and any one of the young fillies would rush right up.
            Danger. It’s an aphrodisiac. Deny that and you’re lying.
            Win owned anger. He was quick to move, but slow to wits.
            It was Win—on the pretense of mourning a soldier friend’s death—who slammed into the bank in his pick-up truck at high speed, messing up his leg and demolishing his Ford. It was Win who got into the drunk driving drag racing accident that ripped off his cousin’s ear and broke his own neck.           
            And it was Win who slowed down for me in that beater and asked if I needed a lift on a cold, snowy night.
            I don’t believe in ghosts.
            At least, I didn’t...

Now, I simply have to wait for the coffee to take effect and wipe the last remaining fragments of the nightmare away.


P.S. Photo is by Riendo. I want to dream in her world.

1 comment:

Miz Angell said...

Wow. I LOVE this piece. Complete with shivers.