Creative Writing Dreams
How healthy is opening your mind, to focus on creative writing. To empty ones head, a place to transfer a story from mind to paper.
Who knew, the weirdest dreams I am having, after jumping in with both feet and dedicating any scrap of time I have to writing.
My first dream is unrelated to my story, I saw a group of well known footballer’s playing the game, and then giving an interview with certain bits hanging out, that shouldn’t have been. I hope you are as horrified as I am, and please don’t tell me why I was having such a bizarre dream as I am still tormented by that vision, it can’t be undone. Now I have assaulted your vision as well, sorry.
My second dream, which does have a part of my story, went like this
Number 25 Melville Parade
The house looked empty, there is total silence. No sound of a bird, a butterfly, a bike, a bus or a car could be heard. The sun beating down on the bitumen path, the soles of my shoes start to stick to the pavement; I force my knees up hoping my sandal will follow. Perspiration settles on my forehead, upper lip, and down the centre of my back, or was it nervousness as to what I might find.
Turning up the path, entering number 25 Melville Parade, I follow the brick paving that leads to the front door which is wide open, I feel a cool breeze coming from inside, it’s dark, I rest my palms on either side of the open front door frame and wait. I stare at the electric blue door; glance down at the wide, brown -varnished floorboards. I still, don’t hear a peep a sound from, anywhere.
Leaving my sandals at the front door mat I enter assuming I won’t be detected, arrogance. Standing in the entrance, feeling a chill walk it’s way up my spine, the hairs on my arms stand to attention. I wait for my eyes to adjust; I then tentatively walk through the kitchen and towards the long narrow hallway. Doors either side of the hallway are closed, at the end of the passage one door is open. As I walk in, my eyes focus on the steel framed bed in the centre of the room, in here the blinds are partially opened allowing the wind to push the fine net curtains, willing them to sway backwards and forwards. I walk towards the body laying on the bed under a sheet, I recognise that to my left is a chair, propping the door open, a body, so still, sits upright in the chair.
I don’t look back as I’m so focused on the creature in the bed. Appears to be an elderly woman, long wiry grey hair fans out on to the stiff white pillow beneath her head, withered thin sun damaged arms lay atop the sheet either side of her body. The bedding has been pulled taut, sheets tucked in firmly under the mattress. Not that I thought she would mind the firmness, I always find comfort in being tucked in for the night. Her brow is furrowed; her eyelids and lashes are gently fluttering like those who are asleep and dreaming. He breath is halting, she is waiting and whoever is on that chair must be her guardian, waiting with her.
I kneel at her bedside, lift her hand into mine; it’s frail, warm and limp. I watch for a while, knowing I know her, but from where I am unsure. I close my eyes to focus on hearing her breathing, to think, to feel the stillness of the room. I take in the smell of lavender, ignoring the guardian, knowing perhaps that I will have a battle when I leave, wondering why I haven’t been approached. This frail woman’s breath changes, her chest is moving like it is being pummelled from the inside, her eyes I see now are grey, as they open wide, a look of shock on her face, she mutters some foreign words under her breath, a language I haven’t heard before, her eyes focus on the light bulb directly above her head. Her body stiffens; she tries desperately to scream, her face distorts, a clear rancid smelling liquid spills from her mouth, along with the smell of her bowels emptying, the bedding darkening with the stain.
She struggles for one last breath, her chest, I fear, is going to break open, then a long slow breath escapes between her lips, her head tilts to the side, eyes remain open. Her soul has left her body, this woman who I do and do not know. I release my hand from hers, stand, fold her arms across her chest, gently place a kiss on her forehead, I turn to go.
Now I can see who is in the chair by the door, her guardian. A small fair-haired boy around 6 years of age, his eyes closed, a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He’s wearing, crumpled white cotton summer pyjamas, with the smallest white buttons down the front that fasten his shirt together, his shirt has a light brown stain down one side, as if he’s spilt coffee. You can see where it first landed and has fanned out across his little chest. His feet don’t reach the floor, they dangle, toes pointed down, his hands lay in his lap. His shoulders are slumped, his head tilted back and then angled slightly to one side, his head is leaning against the back of the chair, mouth open, small white teeth visible between his pale cupid lips, he is as still as a humid windless summer night.
I can see he’s not breathing, chest isn’t moving; I place my warm hand on his, which is as cold as ice. I realise now that the room to is cold, despite it being a hot day, and an open window that should be letting in the heat from the stifling sun, but isn’t. I retrace my steps, back up the hallway, finding myself back at the entrance; still not a sound to be heard. Slip my feet back into my sandals, back down the path and make my way towards home. As I reach the end of number 25 Melville Parade, the day’s noise comes back to assault my ears.
How I remember all that is just crazy, I have written what I saw and it hasn’t left me. Maybe I wasn’t asleep but daydreaming?
As I have written, I am reminded also of a quote by Anne Rice
‘To write something, you have to risk making a fool of yourself’
Till next time