All posts tagged dreams

A Voice

(Credit: zephy0 on DeviantArt)

I never understood what she said, but I enjoyed listening to her voice.

Like a live thing, her voice fluttered around the room, bouncing off the windows, or sometimes it settled, tenderly enfolding me in its wings.

When we sat on the sofa, drinking hot cocoa, her voice rose and fell, only stopping when she ate a marshmallow. She never drank the cocoa.

I listened, pushing my marshmallows deeper into the drink and licking my fingers. My cup grew empty as she filled my mind with imagined meanings.

One day, she called me, and the next, her house was empty.

Sometimes I hear her in my dreams; I still don’t understand her words, but when I wake up, I’m bursting with butterflies.

3 Comments

by Beatrix MGN on December 15, 2016 • Permalink

Posted in Flash fiction, Stories

Tagged butterfly, dreams, listening, voice, writing

Posted by Beatrix MGN on December 15, 2016

https://abolg.wordpress.com/2016/12/15/a-voice/

Metamorphosis

(Credit: Randy Monteith, www.digitalartistdaily.com/user/SnowDog )

(Credit: Randy Monteith, http://www.digitalartistdaily.com/user/SnowDog )

When I emerge from my cocoon, I won’t be a butterfly, I’ll be something new and exciting and even more beautiful. And how hearts everywhere will sigh at the sight of me, but I will always be just above their heads. I will have favourites who will be allowed to come infinitesimally closer, who will be killed by their jealous peers or if they are not killed their eyes will dry out from staring at me and they will go blind.

And when the plans to catch me are well underway, I’ll fly into the sun and expire in a blaze of glory.

2 Comments

by Beatrix MGN on July 24, 2014 • Permalink

Posted in Flash fiction, Stories

Tagged Beauty, change, dreams, metamorphorsis, plans, writing

Posted by Beatrix MGN on July 24, 2014

https://abolg.wordpress.com/2014/07/24/metamorphosis/

39 Dreams

And then he woke up.

The sun was already halfway up the sky, so he rushed through breakfast, packed his tent into his backpack and set off up the mountain. And he knew that today he would reach the top. Today he would get his prize.

Dusty and tired he reached the summit and there growing right out of the rock was the blood red rose. He stretched out his hand. Grabbed it. The thorns pierced his skin, but he ignored the sting. He pulled until the stem snapped.

‘Ha!’ he said, the blood dripping from his hand, ‘I did it.’

And the whole mountain trembled. The rock beneath his feet cracked.

‘But I got it!’ he screamed, ‘I won!’

But the mountain was already crumbling.

And then he woke up.

Somewhere far away…

Somewhere far away there is an annoying beeping sound, so I sit up in my bed punch at the alarm until it is silent and slump back down on my pillow, pictures already forming in my head, taking me with them away from the cold light outside the window, pictures which seem so much more important than clothes, breakfast and other such nonsense, and as the pictures strengthen, the ache in my limbs weaken to a distant nuisance which is soon swallowed entirely by the dreams.