Gather round folks. It’s story time. Sometimes the greatest creativity can come from the unconscious mind. We can spend waking hours staring at a screen or paper, trying to spin an imaginative tale to entertain our readers, with only a crap title produced as fruits of our effort. But the dreaming mind seems to unleash its creativity freely, often with hilarious and bizarre results.
Consequently, I have decided to do a short, dramatic story-like retelling of two of my weirdest dreams (that I can remember). Warning: They will make very little sense.
The Tale of the Rabid Dog
Panting, I veer round another corner. Buildings blur past me in a streak of grey. I daren’t look behind. I don’t need to. I can hear it, its gruff snarl as it bounds after me, its insane mind granting it superhuman abilities. All I remember is the saliva dripping from its mouth and the wild stare of its eyes.
Rabid dogs are unforgiving.
My energy is almost spent.
I jump of a cliff. Good idea, as it turns out, as I land in the sea without any broken bones. Which is miraculous, especially since I’ve never dived higher than 3 inches in my life before. Rabid dogs don’t like water. I am safe for now, but I know I can’t stay here forever. There’s only so long I can tread water.
But I know where I will be safe. My local gym. Logical choice, of course, when you’re being chased by a rabid dog. Glancing round, I emerge from the sea and run through the sand, across the grass. I spy the gym ahead. Soon I will be safe, protected by a wall of exercise bikes and rowing machines, and with plenty of weapons at my disposal, such as 15kg weights that I can throw one-handed at the dog.
Gratefully I stumble through the automatic doors.
And then I stop dead.
There are about twenty rapid dogs lined up, growling. With a start, I realise that the gym must have been transformed into a rabid dog clinic since last time I visited.
I pass out.
I wake up from my slumber, and go to draw my curtains, when suddenly I remember that I live in a theatre and that my bed is the bottom of Box number 3. I lower myself into one of the plush, velvet chairs and survey the empty stage.
I shouldn’t complain. The rent isn’t that bad on the place. The only downside is my potted plants always get squashed during performances, no matter where I hide them. I tried putting them on seats, under seats, in the lighting booth, even on stage as a prop. But someone always manages to destroy them.
That’s one of the many well-known downsides of living in a theatre though.
After stretching, I go to wake my young son, Bethlehem. He stirs. He has never seemed to mind living here, even though he doesn’t often get to bed until 11 most nights. And the occasional problem of the night cleaner tripping over us while we sleep.
But anyway. Bethlehem needs to toilet, and I wait for him. He emerges five minutes later. His eyes are bright and he says, ‘Mum! I’ve decided. I want a career in the theatre.’
What was the weirdest dream you ever had?