Dream

by Trent Walters

“Wake up, sleepyhead. Do you remember your dream? You squeezed your pillow awful tight. Was the dream of me?”

“I don’t think I dream. I never remember them.”

“Everybody dreams. Maybe they’re nightmares, so you block them.”

“I’d remember a nightmare.”

“Maybe your dreams have nothing to say. We only remember the memorable, holding on to the relevant.”

“Mmmaybe.”

#

“Wake up, Love.”

“What a strange dream. I dreamed I said I don’t remember dreams, but I do–to the minutest detail: my day-old perfume mingled with your scent on my lace pillow, the brush of cotton sheets against my legs and the heat of your face hovering over mine, the sound of your voice cracked and scratchy as if you were getting over a cold and it made me a little tingly down there, and my mouth sour from the alcohol of the night before. I don’t even drink. My dream-me implied dreams mean nothing, but they mean the world. Why would I say something that I don’t believe if it was my dream? Do you think some being hijacked my mind?”
“Being? Do you mean aliens or chimpanzees?”

“I’m serious. God could be trying to tell me something. Or our mitochondria are trying to warn of impending catastrophe. Or you, even: You’re making me dream.”

“Possibly. Could also be that someone who needs your help sends you the dreams–someone in another dimension. Or else you dream of the life you live in a parallel universe.”

“I hope I’d have more sense than that. An inability to see meaning shows a distinct lack of imagination.”

#

“Pay attention, Mabel! You’re always daydreaming in my class.”

#

“Wake up, oh god, wake up! Don’t die on me–god please no. If you leave me this way, I’ll never forgive you. Please. Breathe. Oh baby. Breathe. The CPS will send out their investigator again, and she won’t believe me. Not a third accident.”

#

“Why won’t you wake up?”

“You ruined my dream of flight over the ocean where the sea met sky–no up or… What’s that smell?”

“The house is on fire, you fool. We have to get out of this place.”

#

“Despierta, mi cielito.”

“¡Mamá Mar! ¡Acabo de soñar que hablo inglés pero no hablo inglés pero yo estaba hablando inglés!”

“¿Qué dijiste en tu sueño?”

“No sé. No hablo Inglés.”

“Espero que fuera bueno.”

“¡Claro que sí!”

#

“Wake up!”

“No.”

Egg Salad Surgery

by David

Ever since being struck by lightning the Mad Scientist had been plagued by the scent of egg salad. “Which wouldn’t be so bad,” he muttered to himself, “if I didn’t loathe egg salad.” To top it all off, after risking his life in the storm he hadn’t been able to revive Igor after all. The hunchback made a really terrible zombie. (He had been kind of clumsy and slow of mind in life, and those things were not improved after death. In fact, it was said that only the sense of smell became more acute for zombies.) All of this made the stench of egg salad that much harder to take.

Do it yourself brain surgery on others was one thing, but the Mad Scientist had never tried it on himself before. His aim was to manipulate the nerves in the olfactory center so that egg salad smelled like, say, an avocado sushi roll. Or pepperoni and sausage pizza. It didn’t really matter as long as it was a pleasant aroma. Using a waldo was too crude; he had to culture and then guide the evolution of surgical nanobots that would navigate the fluid surrounding and cushioning the nerves in his brain, snipping some connections and encouraging the growth of others. Fortunately, this was not difficult.

The nano-surgery complete, he unwrapped his nose. All that remained of his tiny army was a drop of milky fluid on a glass dish. He took a hesitant sniff – fried liver. He shuddered and stifled his gag reflex. What were the odds? The food he hated nearly as much as egg salad, and he was stuck with it day and night. Unless he wanted to launch another expedition into his brain.

“Oh man, this stinks!”

“Tell me about it, Master.”

The end