Make note of you dreams. Even when they are nightmares. Sometimes I beat myself up thinking I’m not creative enough. What the hell does that mean anyway? Maybe not creative in the particular way I want to be at a particular moment. If I want to write, instead the brain comes up with a new coat design or a necklace. If I’m knitting, suddenly I want to write a story about mockingbirds gone bad.
I proved myself creative again in a nightmare last night. Mr. Husband was sure that seeing all that gore in that damned movie The Immortals would cause nightmare. He was right, again. I just hate it when that happens. Turns out I can cook up quite a long and involved tale of horror.
The dream last night churned up fears of angry men and a zombie apocalypse. What if the zombie turns out to be your husband? You thought you buried him weeks ago after he died from a plague. Now here he is at your doorstep, pissed off because you buried him. And he wants pay back. Allen Alda played the part of my zombie husband. Why my brain picked him, who knows? My God, I liked Mash, but Allen doesn’t blow my skirt up at all. Not even a little. It’s probably best that it wasn’t the real Mr. Hubby. That is just be too weird.
This dream involved guns, and me missing a target at point-blank range. I only blew the zombie’s arm off. Every one knows that doesn’t kill a zombie, it just makes a mess and slows them down a little. It also featured a crossbow with a rope attached to it. The crossbow just happened to be conveniently on my front porch. Right in between a potted plant and the porch swing. With this I shoot the target (zombie husband) and then hop on a riding lawnmower. I drive round and round the tree securing him to said tree. The logic – I won’t have to shoot a moving target. All this accomplished in PJs, bathrobe and bunny slippers.
The dream ended before I finished the job. I’m glad of that. Just too, too graphic. If I ever turn this into a story, the final scene will me sitting on the porch swing sipping tea from a beautiful porcelain tea-cup. I’ll contemplate whether or not zombies make good fertilizer, and be vaguely annoyed that I have to bury zombie husband again. Seems that asking them to bury themselves is just one to many items on a honey-do list.