My Dreams


I dream about leading a group of wide eyed, fear filled people through the jungle.  Sometimes I know them well, my dearest companions.  Sometimes they are random strangers sprinkled with an essence of familiarity.

As we trounce through the jungle, I have a golf bag on my back; bow and arrow or machete at the ready.  My arms are muscular, posture strong, and a layer of grime covers my skin.  There are deep gashes on my legs with blood rolling down.

We run through branches, trample through streams, and climb up embankments.  I slash green foliage out of the way, take out a tiger mid air, and assist people up as they stumble.  I press on with urgency, determined to get them to safety and willing to take out anything in my way.  We must make it before it is too late.  


Blood runs down my chin and I spit teeth into the sink.  There are twenty-seven.  The front of my mouth is all gums with a random tooth here and there.  What will they think?


The outside is sound and strong.  There’s character and a sense of history.  The inside warm, welcoming, and comfortable.  There are architectural nuances making it one of a kind.  

As we settle into our new home, I slowly discover rooms and closets.  I keep them secret.  Some are small, dark, and cold. Others are lavish and seem to expand for eternity.  I wonder how many there are and why we weren’t told.  Each space contains belongings of The Others.  There are garden tools, sports equipment, a chest of lace, and boxes of black and white photos.  

The old neighbor man comes storming over yelling at me with his finger in my face for moving his tools.  He states his tools must stay in their designated spot and I have no right to move them to the garage without permission.  We get into it as it is my home after all.  I’m informed he has access at any time and there isn’t anything I can do about it.  This is the agreement he’s had for a lifetime.  I throw my hands up and walk away in defeat.

Mom starts bossing me around for not keeping everything clean.  The purple velvet comforter in the back room is crooked and there’s lint on a black coat hanging in the closet.  Apparently, she expects me to keep things clean, even if I don’t know the room exists.  I mope down the hall with lint roller in hand.


I slayed the spitting dragon.  It was the final thrust and twist with my silver sword that ended him.  I was exhausted from the battle.  I had to maneuver around the car sized turtle with projected claws.  Then, there was the eagle shredding a cow’s side with its talons.  

But, I got it done.  They kept running away and gave up.  How could they possibly think of giving up?  I refused to let this fucking dragon take over.  The virus infected mucus will no longer burn skin off little kids.

The blood splattered on walls will be a chore to remove.  Where are the damn gloves?


Can a molar possibly be that big?  When I picked up my car keys that fell on the ground the molar that fell out was the size of a golf ball.  I ran upstairs to the bathroom to take a look.  Sure enough, there’s a gigantic hole in my upper right jaw and slow trickles of blood making it’s way towards my lips.  Guess stuffing it with toilet paper will have to do for now.

~D. Thompson

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