Tuesday, July 13th, 2010

There are many, many reasons not to tell you about last night’s dream. I’m going to tell you anyway.

First, the duck massacre. In any detail, describing the duck massacre would require that I scare off pretty much anybody who’s still reading this blog. I don’t recall why I was asked to investigate the duck massacre. Perhaps, in the dream, I was the preeminent expert on duck massacres. Perhaps I was the only guy in town, maybe even in the whole world, who would agree to look into it. In either case, there I was, peering thoughtfully at splatter patterns and prodding at duck fragments with the end of my fountain pen.

Then there was the bear. It was big and black and it had two red glowing eyes, and when it allowed itself to be seen it was never more than only in the corner of my eye, just out of sight. It was stalking me. And it had something to do with the ducks. Well, duh, of course it did.

To find out more about the bear and the ducks, I walked very casually up the street to the corner where My Darling B sat on the curb, waiting for a ride. She wasn’t going to get one, though, because the city was a ghost town, completely abandoned. Even though she was in the downtown district, all the shop fronts were boarded up or hollowed out and, just to make the point that there was no hope of any life ever coming back to this town, there was an iron-gray overcast darkening the sky.

I tapped her on the shoulder as I approached, took her hand, and we ran up the street, much faster than we could if we weren’t in a dream, so fast that we were bounding a hundred feet through the air between steps, flying, really. At the edge of a lake we flew over the water, touching down on a railroad bridge to bound into the air again, eventually alighting in the broken-out window of a ruined ten-story building.

In the street below the building, the bear gazed up at us. “We have to get ready,” I said to B.

Duck duck bear | 2:56 pm CDT
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