She awoke from the grips of the nightmare. She’d been standing over him again, a knife dripping red in her hand.
Reaching towards him, towards the soothing warmth of his body, she frowned. The bed was empty.
Right, she thought. It hadn’t been a dream. Funny how she kept forgetting.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog-lover living in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
The house beside the vineyard sleeps.
And I am the child who tries so hard to remember her dreams,
becoming an adult who wakes up with the taste of grapes in her mouth.
There was a river, I murmur to the empty pillow,
missing the boy who flowed within it.
Magdalena is a graduate of the University of Toronto. She is a writer who lives to poet. She also likes to colour and poet. Sometimes she sleeps. Poke around her blog.
Standing on the gallows ground with the rough, tight rope around my neck.
The smell of death was everywhere.
For the last time, I looked up at the gloomy sky.
Suddenly, the executioner pulled the trigger.
I woke up.
Huh!
In his sleep, he’d kicked me out of bed again.
Mohammad S. Babaei is computer programmer who is also in love with English literature. He is so much into poetry and recently developed the same taste for short stories.
Queenie, fifteen, had two teeth, no claws, and had never been outside. Yet daily, on the table by the window, she patiently watched the birds.
One Christmas a startled bird flew in when the door opened, straight at Queenie who was ready and expecting. Christmas dinner and life dream manifested!
Kevin McManus is a wannabe writer and successful daydreamer who doesn’t believe in coincidences but does believe that we create our own reality, just as his old cat Queenie did.
A witch stole our only lemon tree from the backyard. She rode on it, shoving the last ripe lemon into her toothless mouth.
A frightening, nonsensical sense of helplessness woke me up.
Auntie hovered over me and I remembered that real life is scarier than the witches of our dreams.
Azarin Sadegh, a former student of the late Les Plesko, is working on her 125,000 word novel, The Suicide Note.
Every night, she twists and turns, dashing through those mangled brambles she calls “dreams” and those searing nightmares she calls “part of life”.
Yet… She cannot help crying.
About that one piercing gem of knowledge that shines dim in a dark room. Forever paralyzed by the knowing of painless morning.
Miranda Last is a girl who prefers pancakes over waffles. She also loves to write.
Last night I went to bed early, which was a shame, really, because when I woke up (late), I found muddy dinosaur footprints all throughout the kitchen and dining room, and the big pot of soup in the fridge was empty.
I hope they come back again tonight. Chili’s on!
This story was based on the prompt “last night I” at TypeTrigger.
Just as I’m easing myself through a bank of lasers, the last security measure between me and my target, I’m jolted by the ear-splitting blare of a siren, followed by the chiming and gonging of bells and the braying of a chorus of sick donkeys.
I hate my alarm clock.
This story is based on a title suggested by Adam Michaud.
I thought stasis would be like sleeping: I’d close my eyes on Earth, and open them a hundred light-years away. I thought it would be an escape.
But it was more like a dream, a slow swirl of half-reality. I spent ten years inside my own head, reliving that memory.
This story was based on the prompt “that memory” at TypeTrigger.
Sometimes when I fall asleep I see pictures moving across the back of my eyelids, strange pastel cartoons, usually, where a round-headed caricature of me is trying to escape from a cloud labelled “Future” or “Responsibility.”
My wife says that sometimes she can see the projector’s flickers behind my eyes.