Unwanted Visitors

(Another entry I am posting for someone else...this one is for Bebe. If anyone else is having problems posting, please email me. Thanks! -ern)

As a teenager I could control my dreams to some extent and was fascinated by those that could arrange to meet up with others in dreams and then both independently recount adventures they had shared when they met up. As such, I have always listened to my dreams and self-analysed, when you look within, it’s usually easy to see a trigger or answer to a question. Said the person that isn’t an analyst.

I have 3 dreams in my life, one is a reoccurring fever driven dream, one a pregnancy hormone nightmare and the other changed my life. Below is the other.

Unwanted Visitors

Sitting crossed legged in my armchair the TV illuminates the darkness as it plays my favourite show. Sipping steaming tea from a China cup, laughing out loud at the log lady, my entertainment is interrupted by a bare knuckle rat a ta tat on my front door. Strange, no buzzer. Putting down the cup, squeezing my tired toes into moccasins I wrap my cardigan around me as I walk down the cool hallway towards the front door. Stretching out my hand above the barely warm storage heaters as I pass, time to change the setting to winter.

Who was it? It had to be a neighbour as the flats had an expensive security system; an unwritten rule agreed by all 6 residents said that if you didn’t know the person buzzing you didn’t let them in. We had a footballer and his wife living on the top floor and he had been hassled a few times by fans so we had a good system installed to protect us all.

In heels I could barely see through the spy hole, in slippers it wasn’t even worth a try and I didn’t put the safety chain on the door, pulling it towards me, I expected to see a friend.

As the door was half way open the metal handle was wrenched out of my hand. Shocked by the force I let go. I tried to see who was on the other side but the door was quickly thrown back at me, a battering ram. It hit my chin, nose and hard in the chest. Tasting blood I was thrown back against the wall. Winded and for a moment unable to move. I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. The only sound was my heart pounding in my ears as the pendulum of the Grandfather clock swung from side to side it’s usually proud song mute. Something warm and wet ran down my face freely.

There was a crack and blackness surrounded me as this dark shadow grabbed my shoulders and dragged me, slamming my body into each stretch of magnolia wall, a rag doll, towards the open door of the sitting room. With each body blow a sound emitted from this person, a pained low rumble, like an injured animal.

“Who are you?” I screamed. “You are making a mistake, why are you doing this?”

If I knew who it was, I would know why they were here, maybe calm them down.

In the sitting room playing a game of push and pull our clammy fingers locked together. I had to get to the light switch; had to see whom this intruder was. I would understand then. Bending his fingers back until a snap came and a cry of pain, flying towards the light switch, as it flicked on I turned to face this shadow. He swung a wooden chair at the ceiling smashing the light and returning us to his blackness that threatened to engulf me.

He grabbed me again, I grabbed back and started to pull him towards the front door. I don’t know where the strength came from. I was fighting for my life and I wasn’t giving in.

“Who are you?” I screamed, pulling, dragging, towards the door.

His feet slid on the carpet as I continued to scream.

“Who are you?” I shook him as hard as I could.

The light was on in the hallway, glowing through the cracks around the door, slightly ajar. Not far now, understanding would come.

I yanked the door open and pulled him closer, closer to the light, his face was turned away. Grabbing at his face my fingernails cut in to his flesh, twisting his face to the light. I would see.

Deflated, nauseous, my arms fell to my sides.

Then came the fatal blow.

My killer was me.



This is 16 years old and I can still feel the cold metal door handle being pulled from my hand and the taste of blood in my mouth.

I don’t know if this is too much or too personal or if I should invent things that aren’t true then I am not giving too much of myself. It would be interesting to hear how others approach writing they post on the internet.

The stuff that dreams are made of.

(This is being posted by ern on behalf of Laural, another member of the group)

For all the non-film buffs out there, this is the closing line to one of Bogart’s greatest, The Maltese Falcon. After a tense 101 minutes of betrayal, deceit, murder, and passion (not to mention the longing for Peter Lorre to slither out just one “yessss, massssster”), the final conclusion is that the pursuit was all for a dream; the manifestation of something only seen in the mind’s eye.

If I watched The Maltese Falcon right before I laid my weary head on my old feathered pillow, it really is what my dreams would be made of. Turns out, whatever I’ve been watching last becomes the stage for my subconscious. And I watch entirely too much television because that’s all I dream about. To those who know me best, this comes as no great surprise. I’ve skipped many a college class for a good Moonlighting marathon or nerve-wracking Price is Right episode (I mean, who really leaves in the middle of a good Plinko game?? It’s darn near impossible.) I’m not sure if it was the appeal of losing myself in another world or the purposeful avoidance of daily duties, but all it takes is one strain of “thank you for being a friend” and the mere glimpse of Bea Arthur, and I’m booked for the rest of the day.

Sadly, this is nothing new. One of the first dreams I can remember is being kidnapped by Paul Reiser. That’s right, the neurotic half of My Two Dads. I also remember being chased by some crazy monster and my legs traveling like windmills a la Scooby Doo. Now that I’m older, it’s competing in America’s Next Top Model (apparently my subconscious would let me pose topless, who knew?) or accompanying the minstrel in Star’s Hollow (if only I could really be friends with Lauren Graham…).

Maybe I’m just not creative enough to conjure my own dream world, I’ve got to borrow from screenwriters and production sets. Maybe it’s that my conscious dreams are so realistically achievable, my brain’s only left with the Saved By the Bell reruns to pull from. Then again, if a “black bird” can be the stuff that dreams are made of, why can’t the Fonz’s jacket make an appearance in mine?

Heather's Dream

I know this was supposed to be a recent dream, but I’m moving too fast to remember my dreams lately.  Here is a particularly memorable dream I had when I was in high school.

My parents and I make our way into the crowded room.  We are a little late and the meeting has already started.  I look around and see many of my classmates sitting with their parents.  These are the best of the best from my prestigious high school.  One shows great promise in physics, another is already taking college chemistry and math classes.  My boyfriend, a future chemistry major himself, has saved seats for my parents and me.  We whisper apologies as we make our way in front of a row of occupied folding chairs and take our seats.  The room is cold and I shiver as I lower myself into a metal seat.           

“The greatest academic honor our government can bestow…” the speaker is saying.  He is dressed in a dark suit and tie, and is flanked by other similarly attired, sober-faced men.  The speaker praises the students in the room for their impressive achievements.  Parents beam and students’ faces flush with embarrassment.  My mother reaches over and places her hand over mine.  I look into her face and see that it is glowing with pride.  I feel a little exultant myself, to have earned a place among this group.  My talents do not extend to the sciences, like most of my fellow honorees, but I have distinguished myself in other areas, like writing and foreign languages.  I relish the pleasant feeling of having my accomplishments recognized and praised.

My wandering thoughts are interrupted as the speaker changes his theme.  He has finished congratulating the students in the room and is now explaining the honor we have earned.  I have been surveying the room and have missed his mention of the award itself.  It must be something very exciting, judging by the fascinated faces around me.  I am intrigued, but not enlightened by the phrases the speaker uses: “the greatest adventure” and “something the rest of us must wait years to experience.”  It is only when he begins to describe the process by which the honor will be bestowed that I realize, with horror, what is happening.

“It will be quite painless, I assure you,” the speaker intones.  “First, a sedative will be administered, and then, once you are all asleep, our nurses will deliver another injection, and you will be transported into the great unknown.  We have chosen the best and brightest young minds for this great honor.  We trust that your ingenuity and intelligence will guide you in your journey, and if possible, help you find a way to share what you learn on the other side.”

I try to take in what the speaker has just said.  I want to stand and run from the room, but first I look around for solidarity in the faces around me.  To my dismay, everyone looks as proud and excited as they did before the speaker announced we were all about to be killed.  My boyfriend looks especially enthusiastic and grins at me giddily. 

The meeting is apparently over.  Our parents hug us and pat us on back before they make their way out of the room through the door that we came in only a few minutes before.  I throw a panicked look at my own parents, and they smile at me and point in the direction of a door on the other side of the room that is being held open by one of the speaker’s companions.  Assuming I have misunderstood the situation, I say good-bye numbly and allow my boyfriend to lead me by the hand through the new door. 

We enter a room filled with hospital-style cots.  Students are milling around, looking for beds near their friends.  My boyfriend and I choose adjacent cots and sit down. 

“This is insane,” I whisper to him, “we have to get out of here.”

He looks at me incredulously.  “Are you kidding? This is the highest academic honor there is.  No one turns it down.  Your parents would be mortified.”

A nurse approaches him from behind.  He looks up and holds up his arm. 

“See, I’ll go first.  No big deal—trust me, you’re doing the right thing,” he says as he receives his injection.  Reluctantly, I hold my arm up as well.

I rub the sore spot on my arm and lay down on my cot.  Immediately I feel drowsy and see little dark spots dancing in front of my vision.  The panic inside of me starts to subside, and then surges to the surface again.

I sit up in the cot and shout, “Wait! I don’t want to die!” 

The little dark spots in front of my eyes begin to blend together and soon everything is black.

Kim's Dream

I closed my eyes that night, unaware where my dreams would take me. The places my dreams usually take me were always distant reminders of familiarity. I didn't know why, but I felt that I had always been there.
When I opened my eyes I was in an open field, barren of any life. The colors were all somewhat sepia-like. There was one tree in the far distance. It was black and had no leaves and stood motionless. It just stood there as if it was waiting for something or someone to remove it from it's misery. I stood there looking around for anything. The ground was hard and dry. There was a soft breeze in the air. I stood for a moment...I felt a strange heavy feeling in my stomach. I turned around and saw her. She had a black long flowing tattered dress on. She had black torn wings that I could see right through. Her hair was long and black and her face was icy pale. Her lips were a dark blue as if she had been standing outside in an ice storm all night. I wouldn't have been so afraid if I hadn't looked at her eyes. They seemed to look right through me. They were the blackest eyes I have ever seen. She seemed to stare deep into my soul, or right through me. I wasn't sure which. All I knew was that I was scared. She opened her mouth but didn't move her lips. A sound came out that sent shivers up my spine and I felt sick to my stomach. It sounded as if 10 voices were speaking at once, all saying the same thing. "Get out".
I shook my head at her. "I don't know how to!" I whispered.
"Get out and don't come back" the voices said simultaneously.I kept shaking my head. My whole body was trembling. "How do I get out of here!" I shouted."Ruuunnnnn" they said. Then she started laughing. I looked at her for what seemed like an eternity before I started running. Where was I going to go? This place seemed to never end.I started heading what I think was East. I ran until my feet were burning. I stopped and bent down to try and catch my breath. I sat for a few minutes and then I started to feel the heavy feeling again. I looked up and there she was again.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I have no name." She said, the many voices echoing around me.
"I don't know why I am here and I don't know where to go."She suddenly turned from me and flew away. Her tattered wings made a horrible screeching sound. I didn't understand any of this. I looked around again. The one lonely tree I had seen was now gone. There was nothing. I was lost in a place that I knew nothing about. With a freakish angel chasing me who's motives were unknown.

ern's dream

I am slightly embarrassed by this writing entry because of: 1-my poor creative writing skills, 2-my lack of practice that has made my poor writing skills even more so, 3- the subject matter being more difficult that I imagined, thereby leaving this dream to be the best option because it was the only one I could remember with enough detail to actually write about it. Also, I may have just written several run-on sentences and I'm not even going to go back and proofread this caveat so I'll quit my whining and get on with the writing. Enjoy! (Or, at least, don't be too cruel).


I am stepping off an airplane and right into downtown Naples, Italy (although Tamilisa, the returned missionary I'm traveling with, is pronouncing it Napolia) where we apparently have a one-night layover. It is nearly dusk so the colors are somewhat dusty and fading into neutrals, but there are a few food vendors with bright blue or red awnings that stand out brightly against the graying light. The air is warm and we breathe deeply, enjoying even the dust that seems to lightly cover everything. I don't remember taking off my shoes, but am suddenly aware of being barefoot and closing my eyes to appreciate the delicious coolness of cobblestone against my feet. As we begin walking toward the city it appears we are traveling with some sort of church group because we begin looking for a place to have Family Home Evening. I lead everyone to a small step-down lounge, thinly carpeted but cozy because of the dark wood paneling covering the walls. Someone finds a piano in the corner and begins an attempt to lead the group in song, but I find myself trying to get away because more than anything I want a piece of authentic Italian pepperoni pizza. And it has to be pepperoni. Tamilisa tells me she knows just the place and leads me outside and down a small, dingy alleyway, poorly paved, our footsteps echoing in the eerily empty road. Looking behind me I see a large Italian woman, about 6 feet tall in heels, curvy and leggy, her hips accentuated by a wide red belt, her short puffy-sleeves and perfectly set hair giving her the look of a 50's era starlet. She is approaching aggressively & talking to us in Italian and I answer back, surprised that we can understand one another, although I have no idea if I'm speaking English or Italian. I am suddenly aware of Michael behind me and realize that she is probably trying to get past us so she can offer her local “services” to him. I grab him territorially, holding our torsos close and turning to the side so I can keep an eye on this advancing voluptuous vixen. As she continues brashly, I push Michael behind me and respond in kind by advancing on her. The next moments are slightly fuzzy, but I am aware that a wrestling match of some kind has taken place and that I have easily won. She seems surprised, but I grin knowingly, darting her a “try again if you dare” look and she retreats sheepishly while I dust off my hands and turn back to my husband. Tamilisa has witnessed this whole thing and is utterly mortified when I begin kissing Michael, probably, I realize, because she is still there as a missionary and I am supposed to be her companion. But I am really not bothered as she steals away and I am wrapped in kisses with my sweetheart.

one week left!

Just wanted to send out a quick reminder that your "dreams" are due in next week. We want to get everyone posted as close to the 25th as possible so we can spend the last week of the month reading and responding on each other's pieces. I must admit I sat down to write today and ended up with only a not-very-long paragraph. This has been a good reminder to me that I need a lot of writing practice. I've been working on fleshing it out, trying to recall specifics like color, clothes, face shapes, etc. The problem with writing about a dream is that the more you try to focus on specifics the more slippery it becomes and seems to retreat further away into your subconscious. Don't know if anyone else is having that problem, but if you are then I can sympathize. Still looking forward to reading what you have to say next week. Happy writing!

Writing Prompt #1

So our first official month of writing has begun! Writing prompt #1 is to write about a dream you've had recently, with as much specific detail as possible. If you can't remember a recent dream, use something significant, like a recurring dream or one you had as a child that you still remember. I know I've heard about dreams that some of you have had in the past, so I'm looking forward to reading these!

I may try to post some more during the month, like some amazing motivational speeches (written by other people) or just some ideas to get the creative juices going, but don't be offended if I don't. Michael's family will be visiting for a few weeks, so our schedule may be too packed to allow it. If not, I look forward to hearing from everyone by the end of the month.

Oh, yeah, the deadline for this month's writing is May 25. That way we can spend the last week reading submissions and making comments.

Thanks everyone!!!

(As always, if you know anyone who would like to join, send me their email and I'll add them as an author of the blog. Thanks!)