Garfield in Real Life - Infirmary

You are trying to read the morning newspaper when your cat begins pawing at your leg. You brush it away, but it jumps on the table and begins meowing. Finally, the cat speaks. What does she say? Write this scene and what she is trying to tell you.

*  *  * 

“I came as soon as you called. What happened? Did Steve hurt himself again?”

“No, it’s weirder than that. He got us a cat.”

“A cat? Oh, is your building one of the ones with the mouse problem?”

“Exactly. So Steve bought us a cat as a Christmas present. It was nice of him, but he really shouldn’t have. Especially not one like – like – this.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Steve had frequent flyer miles at the infirmary, mostly because he never met a safety precaution he didn’t ignore. He was such a screw-up it didn’t surprise me that he’d somehow managed to find a defective cat.

“Nothing is wrong with me.” The voice came from an orange and black tabby cat sitting on the coffee table in the reception area. It was a female cat – I’m no expert, she just looked female – and was sitting on a newspaper, casually slicing it up with her hindclaws. “I had to let this human girl know that I needed a few tools before getting to work. There is no way I’m letting a mouse have the advantage.”

“That’s what I mean, Tim. As soon as Steve opened the cat carrier it stepped out on its hind legs and started giving orders. Talking! Cat’s don’t talk!”

Annabelle seemed to be barely holding it together. Me, I had no problem. After a full semester of dealing with the magical creatures that hang around my girlfriend Jenny, this wasn’t so bad. I kind of wished Jenny were here to see. Maybe they’d gone to grade school together or something.

“Well, what’s she asking for?”

“I don’t know, I was too busy tending Steve. He fainted as soon as the cat started talking.”

I turned to the cat. “So, kitty…”



“My name is Pussy. Don’t laugh, I didn’t choose it.”

I had to bite my lip, but I didn’t snicker. “Okay, Pussy, what do you need?”

“I need a sword. An epee, to be precise.”

“A sword?”

“I studied up before taking this assignment. The mouse is armed. He has a sword, I need a sword. Otherwise fencing is kind of one-sided. And a hat. A nice cavalier hat with a pink feather. He has a hat, I need a hat.”

I could see where this was going. “Anything else, oh mighty warrior maid?”

“Don’t you patronize me, human. But a nice pair of boots would be appreciated.”

Garfield in Real Life - Kitty Confession

You are trying to read the morning newspaper when your cat begins pawing at your leg. You brush it away, but it jumps on the table and begins meowing. Finally, the cat speaks. What does she say? Write this scene and what she is trying to tell you.

Writer's Digest prompt

 *  *  *

Tiger pawed the top of the paper so he could look over it. “Ted?”

My eyes went wide. “Tiger? You can talk?”

“I listen to you do it enough, why shouldn’t I? I’m just lucky to get a word in edgewise.”

“But cats can’t talk. You’re not physically capable!”

“You tell that to the vet, then I’ll say my piece, and we’ll see who he believes.”

“Point taken. Okay, Tiger, you can talk. Why now? What have you got to say?”

“I’m gay.”

“What? Cats can’t …” I stopped there, considering how the last conversation had gone.

“Yes we can. Scientists say it’s a dominance thing, but I know several toms whose barbs point the other way, if you get my drift. And Anastasia from a couple of floors up definitely prefers the attention of queens.”

I thought for a moment. “Why are you telling me this? Did something happen that I’m going to hear about?”

Tiger stared at me intently. “I needed to know what your reaction would be. You’re actually taking it remarkably well.”

“I guess so. But I’m still taking you to the vet next week to get neutered.”

“About that. I would really have preferred to have been consulted.”

“I didn’t know you could talk.”

“Of course I can talk. All cats can talk.”

“Then why hasn’t anybody said anything about it?”

“We can talk. We choose not to. At least, not to humans. If humans generally knew that cats understood them, we wouldn’t hear half the things we do. And there’d be a lot more plastic bags and exhaust pipes involved.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. So you’re gay. Are there any male cats you’re likely to bring ‘round here?”

“No. In fact, I admit I was lying to you. I’m not really gay.”

“Then why did you say you were?”

“I needed to test your reaction. See if you were open-minded.”

“Open-minded? What’s this about, Tiger?”

“You know Molly, that Bichon Frise down on three? Those aren’t exactly puppies she’s gravid with.”

Garfield In Real Life - Maya

You are trying to read the morning newspaper when your cat begins pawing at your leg. You brush it away, but it jumps on the table and begins meowing. Finally, the cat speaks. What does she say? Write this scene and what she is trying to tell you.

Writer's Digest prompt

 *  *  *


My head whips over to the source of the sound. Maya has her front paws on the table, her 18-year old black kitty face tilted so she can see around my laptop. Did she just talk?


Definitely her. She blinks like she’s trying to focus; she’s been nearly blind since that infection a few months ago.

“Maya, is that you?”

She corrects the direction she’s looking.

“Human, come. Help.”

“Maya, what? When did you learn to talk? What’s going on?”

I try to pick her up, but she pulls away and limps towards the back door as fast as her arthritic legs will carry her. She slips through the cat flap just as I get there. She hasn’t been this spry in years. By the time I get out the door she’s on the edge of the steps looking back.

“Come. Help.”

I grab for her, but she takes off. I can tell every step she takes is agony. Still she avoids me.

“No touch. Come.”

I follow her through the back yard and into the alley. Morning brings sunshine but no warmth. I feel silly going outside in my bathrobe and slippers, but if Maya thinks this is important enough to break the laws of nature I don’t care.

She looks back to make sure I’m following, but I can see where she’s going. Mr. Pilchard’s yard. He’s the local pet hater, always going on about dogs and cats running loose in the neighbourhood and getting into his garbage. Whatever Maya wants is in his back yard.

As we approach the foot of his back step I smell it. It’s sickly sweet, like candy syrup with an undertone of alcohol. Ethylene glycol. He was caught doing this once before and Princess Isidore, Mary’s cat from up the street, paid with her life. He said the fine and the scorn of his neighbours was worth it to have one less cat around.

There’s a kitten here, about four months old, pure black and scrawny. Its paws are coated in blue syrup and it’s licking them. There’s no collar, so it’s most likely a stray, but no animal deserves the fate it’s playing with. I scoop it up quickly and pull its paws away from its – her – face.

“Come on, Maya!”

I run back to the house. The kitten resists, but I manage to clean the gunk off her. Years of experience helps. A little while later she’s in a box with a towel, a bowl of water, and some of Maya’s cat food. I’m going to have to take her to the vet later. I hope there’s no major damage. I hope Maya doesn’t mind another cat around the house.

Finally I go over to Maya, sleeping peacefully in her cat bed. I reach down and pet her, but she’s cold. She must have died last night sometime.

As I put the blanket over her I hear a tiny feline voice.

“Good human.”


A point of clarification for those who don’t know about this particular danger.

Ethylene glycol is an older form of anti-freeze; it is very sweet-smelling and fairly toxic. There have been a number cases of pets and young children drinking it. The poisoning can usually be treated if (a) it’s not too much, and (b) it’s done fairly quickly. Nowadays in North America it has to be sold with a “bittering agent” added, but that doesn’t do much to stop pets from drinking it.

Your Arch Enemy - Masquerade

Everyone has an arch enemy, but until now, you never knew who your enemy was. That all changed one grueling night when, while on vacation, your evening was ruined by your enemy. What’s more peculiar is that your enemy is a famous celebrity! Write about your evening, who your famous arch enemy is and what you did to redeem the night.

Writer's Digest prompt

* * * 

The Masquerade Ball is the highlight of the fairyland year, coming as it does on Samhain (that’s Halloween to us). Jenny had brought me here as a mini-vacation, and even let me have a free hand in designing our costumes. We were a robo-couple, and I have to say I had the most gorgeous robot in fairyland on my arm.

When we got there the party was in full swing; apparently it had started almost a week before. Jenny, my wood-sprite exchange student girlfriend, introduced me to dozens of the people she’d grown up with. I hoped there wouldn’t be a test later. But I did notice one strange thing.

“Jenny, why are there so few guys here? It’s almost all girls.”

“Girls outnumber boys about 40 to one in fairyland. Boys have to be promiscuous, especially since only a few girls like me understand normality enough to get a human boyfriend. The competition’s pretty fierce.”

That explained why all her friends greeted me with hugs and kisses, and why Jenny stayed closer to me than my left arm.

* * *

A while later, Jenny suddenly went quiet and pulled even closer to me than the slow dance we were doing merited. She looked terrified.

Darth Satyr was striding purposefully across the dance floor, bee-lining it for Jenny. He had the black helmet, chestplate and cape, but the goat legs and obvious masculinity told me his intentions. As he passed, the crowd parted and turned to watch. When he arrived he took Jenny by the shoulder and turned her to face him.

“Jennifer! I hoped you could come! You’re forty-nine now, and for a wood sprite that means ‘legal’.”

Jenny was shaking as she held my hand in a death grip. “Lord Pan, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Tim.”

“I’m sure I don’t care. Now come dance with me, my lovely. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

It didn’t take a Ph.D. in biology to see where things were going. I thought of running with her, but that would be stupid. I wracked my brains; Jenny’d had me studying all manner of fantasy creatures, even Greek gods. There was only one thing I could do.

“Let go of her, Pan. She doesn’t want you.”

“Try and stop me, mortal.”

He looked at me and I could sense his eyes narrowing even through the mask.

“I challenge you to a contest, Pan.”

He stopped tugging. “Go on.”

“The first one to kiss Jenny stays with her.”

“Deal.” He immediately snatched her away from me.

That’s when I activated The Surprise. I’d intended to use it later as a cute stunt, but it was needed now. Jenny flew out of his arms and slammed into me, her chest and thighs impacting mine with a jarring metallic clang. My lips found hers while everyone, including Jenny, was staring in astonishment.

Pan growled incoherently at me, but kept his side of the bargain. He left without a recognizable word.

When we came up for air, Jenny looked stern. “That was very dangerous, Tim.”

“You’re worth it.”

“Um, why are we stuck together like this?”

“Powerful electromagnets. It was supposed to be a romantic surprise.”

She blushed. “Mission accomplished, lover-boy.”

Your Arch Enemy - Gojo

Everyone has an arch enemy, but until now, you never knew who your enemy was. That all changed one grueling night when, while on vacation, your evening was ruined by your enemy. What’s more peculiar is that your enemy is a famous celebrity! Write about your evening, who your famous arch enemy is and what you did to redeem the night.

Writer's Digest prompt

* * * 

I was as surprised as anyone when Gojo Morisato invited us all to spend a week on his private island. He said he wanted to thank us for the American hospitality we’d shown him and his family back in sixth grade. He even made a special point of inviting me, which was weird because we’d never really gotten along and I’d made a point of tormenting the little nip whenever I could.

That was 30 years ago and he’d moved back to Japan and become a big movie star of some sort there. He was world famous in Japan, ha ha. So me and about a dozen guys took him up on his offer. I could forgive him for being a geek if he was willing to let bygones be bygones.

From Tokyo Airport we were taken by limo to the private yacht that would get us to the island. The girls on the yacht were really nice for Japs; they look kind of like Hawaiians but smiled more. They gave us all the socky we could drink. Socky’s like Japanese whisky, only not as good as Johnnie Walker. We were all pretty hammered by the time we got to the island; everyone spent most of that day sleeping it off.

I woke up in the late afternoon and took a look around. The island was big and mountainous and covered in forest, though not good mountains like back home. The forest wasn’t very tropical, not like in Florida, but the sun was warm and bright.

The buildings were a bit of an eyesore, but at least they weren’t paper. Everything looked like it had been built by the army back in the 40’s. By Americans. We know how to build things that last. They were neat and clean, not at all run down, but not exactly five star, if you get my drift.

I was the one that found Gojo’s note.

“My American friends. I wanted to repay you properly for my treatment in America. I will arrive at sunset. The bar is stocked and there are many fine foods for you to gorge yourselves on. Please have fun, Morisato Gojo.”

Nobody turns down free food, even that weird Japanese stuff. We had a big-ass fish barbecue, though I woulda killed for a hamburger, and I had a good buzz going by sundown. About that time there was a bunch of small earthquakes, getting bigger. Not like California. Then Gojo showed up.

Gojo had changed. He was like 300 feet tall and covered in green scales. He moved like a guy in an oversized rubber suit, with a huge tail and glowing scale-things running down his back. He had a roar like a cross between a train whistle and an elephant. We only really knew it was him by what he said after he stomped one of the guest houses flat.

“Gojo is short for Gojira.”

I didn’t even get an autograph. Stupid foreign celebrities.


My Problem - I Like People

Finish these sentences: “I have a little bit of a problem. I like to ______. It all started when I was ______, when _______.” Use this as a jumping point into a fictional story.

Writer's Digest prompt

 *  *  *

“My name is Fraspthagior, and I have a problem. Damn, this is harder than I thought. I chose tonight because I hoped most of you would be at Halloween parties. And everyone showed up in costume, too. It’s so beautiful, a touching metaphor for the masks we all hide behind. That’s why I have to do this.

“Like I said, my name is Fraspthagior, and I have a problem. I like people. Humans, I mean. I like the way you run around with all your petty vices, disguising the real ones as ‘just being sociable’. And the cute little way people lie to themselves. And the lengths you go to to prevent others from finding out!

“But we stick up for each other. That what Addictions Anonymous is all about, isn’t it? Like when Frank ran over that boy last week after his little lapse. I was able to clean it up so there was no sign of the accident at all. The only evidence the child is even missing is the milk cartons.

“But I’m not here seeking praise; I have a problem. Like I said, people are my weakness. You’re all just so damnably delicious-looking! It started when I was much younger. I was rampaging through the streets of Megiddo and I used my fangs to tear the arm off a Jew. Instead of spitting it out like I’d been told, I accidentally swallowed it. And that’s when I was hooked. Over 3500 years of eating humans, but now it’s time to …

“Wait! Where are you going? Don’t leave! It’s going to take at least ten more minutes for the barbecue to warm up properly!


The Letter in the Alley - Your Friend


I couldn’t tell if he was a boy or a very small man – the trenchcoat hid him almost completely. He looked both ways, then ducked into the alley, pulling something out of his coat. Something else fell out of his pocket at the same time. I followed him curiously. He was nowhere to be seen, but he’d dropped a piece of paper. I picked it up to see if it might be a clue to his strange behaviour, but instead I turned white. They had found me.

All it said was, “The anvil is your friend.” Then it hit me.

I crumpled up like an accordion, complete with sound effects. That’s the problem with trying to hide from cartoon characters.

The Letter In The Alley

Writer's Digest post

Walking to catch the bus, you see a young boy look both ways before entering an alley. When you follow him into the alley, he has disappeared. Instead, there is a neatly folded note lying on the pavement. What does it say and how do you react? 

 *  *  *

There was something familiar about the kid. He looked a bit like my nephew Jake, about 8 years old, wearing a jean jacket and matching pants and carrying a backpack with a reflective-tape “X” on it. He looked both ways; when he spotted me looking he burst into tears and ran into the alley beside my apartment building.

I ran over and looked for him but he was nowhere to be seen; the only trace of his presence was a neatly-folded sheet of off-white paper. When I unfolded the note it read:

Dear Dad;

I know this is going to sound stupid, but I’m your son. They say I’m an autistic savant or something like that because I don’t talk. But ever since you died I’ve really wanted to see you. So I built a machine from the junk behind the building and it brought me here.

I peeked in my room from the fire escape last night. There’s a girl in my bed. I hope her name’s Christy. I like that name. I always wanted to be called Christy, but I’m a boy. I also saw you and the pretty lady in the living room. I guess you never married Mum here. You look happy.

I bet you’re the best dad ever here. I have to go and find someone who can be my dad now. Have the doctor look at the back of your neck. There’s a blood vessel there that’s all puffy and stretchy and might break. Maybe the doctor can fix it and Christy won’t have to find a new dad.

Love, Billy.

I was about to throw the note away, but put it in my pocket instead. And I booked an appointment with my doctor to talk about my recent headaches. It was probably nothing, but I wouldn’t want to leave my daughter Allison (her middle name is Christine) without a dad.

The Fourth Wall

I’ve been pretty introspective the last couple of days, probably because of what’s behind my last post. Nothing breaks the somber mood like a romp, so please forgive my indulgence. It references every story I've posted to Writer's Digest so far ...


I pick up the book like an ancient treasure. It’s large and thick, bound in oaken covers. Heavy too, over six kilos (thirteen pounds American). The title is “Conquering  Your Dreams”; effing prophetic. I’ve been living this disjointed insanity for over a month now, and it’s time to get conquering.

The book catches Steve in the gut; red and green powder flies out the window and scatters over the busy commons. For the next while Jennifer Nelson will be the most populous girl on campus.

The book desn’t pass right through Brian. He tries to protest but I cut him off. “Your brother is haunting this house. Leave him alone!”

The old guy’s skull cracks under the impact and he slumps. “Poe this! Getting up again? Nevermore!”  I move on quickly before the big black dog comes for me.

Smacking her in the chest knocks the wind out of Delilah. The beagle is chewing my leg but I ignore the pain; I’ve had worse. “You want peace? Put the damn dog in another room and let them kill each other. They’ll both come back anyway. And get a bigger bath towel!”

I knee-cap Rob Edelmeier with the book’s spine and he goes down like a falling redwood. Then I turn to Farrah. “Run, girl! You don’t have to be faster than him, just faster than that gold-digging camera skank.”

The newscaster makes a little ‘meep’ sound as the book’s spine finds his most sensitive spot. “Keep it in your pants!” I turn to the woman riffling through the script. “Didn’t I tell you to get a bigger towel?”

The book-smack to the back of the boy’s head smashes his face into the contract; the impact nosebleed ruins it. “Get a new copy, and read it before you sign! It’s better to look like an idiot than to be one.”

I don’t have to hit Tim as he lies on the pavement dazed; I just crouch next to him. “Don’t let your girlfriend solve your problems.” Then I boot it before Jenny arrives.

I smash the window, reach in and open the car door. “Get up and run, dumbass. Zombies are freakin’ slow!”

I splat the amoeba-thingy before it does something unconsciously stupid.

Angela stares at me and I can’t move. “Get out of this dream before I get really angry. Your problem is over there, behind the fourth wall.” She points in a direction that doesn’t exist.

I leave Tim alone. At least he’s solving his own problems. That’s twice I’ve spared him; maybe I’m getting soft. Nah.

Finally, I’ve got him. Self-insertion: the writer’s biggest blunder. This ends now, Observer Tim.

And then the old man looks at me. The old man who spent over seven decades dealing with every piece of shit the world could fling at him and came up smiling. This isn’t going to work.

But I can see your hands on the keyboard through the fourth wall. I’m coming for you, Observer Tim. Somehow.

(original post

In Memory

At an old bookstore, you find a book that helps you interpret your dreams. But something is strange about it. You fall asleep reading the book, and find yourself in a dream that you cannot wake up from. What is it? And how will you snap back to reality?

*   *   * 

I wrote this the evening my father died. It doesn't exactly match the prompt, but it's really no further adrift than many other stories that get posted.

September 25, 2013 at 11:57 pm

The book drops into my lap as I transition into the dream. I realize I’m no longer in my room, but behind my parents’ house. The mosquito netting around the little gazebo on the deck is still there, and my father is sitting on one of the lawn chairs with his after-supper coffee.


“Would you like to set and talk?”

“Sure. It’s good to see you again.”

We talk of politics and finances, the local and national news, and the other things a father talks about with his adult son. We talk about his years of service in the forces, and he reminds me that nobody has to fear the Sergeant Major if he hasn’t done anything wrong. I still get a chuckle from that. He doesn’t talk to me about sports, because he knows I don’t have a clue there.

It’s not that long a chat – at least it didn’t seem very long, but the sun has set when he stands up to go in. Somehow I know I can’t follow him.

“Dad, how are you here? Why are you here?”

“It’s just another chance to say good-bye, son. You know I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you too, Dad. It’s good to see you like this, not …” Not the way he died, his body withered by ALS, leaving him bedridden and unable to even breathe. They diagnosed it far too late, but I understand that even knowing beforehand wouldn’t have helped. Incurable and untreatable.

“You have to keep on, son. You and the girls take care of your mother. The woman I love.”

“I will, Dad. We always have to keep going.”

“Good bye, son.”

I don’t answer. Maybe if I don’t say good-bye he’ll still be here when I come back tomorrow.

* * *

In memoriam: Jerry Smith. February 15, 1935 – September 25, 2013.

The Never-Ending Dream - Jenny

Writer's Digest post

At an old bookstore, you find a book that helps you interpret your dreams. But something is strange about it. You fall asleep reading the book, and find yourself in a dream that you cannot wake up from. What is it? And how will you snap back to reality?

 *  *  *

I used the key she’d given me to get into Jenny’s room. The campus cops were gone, so now I could investigate. Girls like her don’t just suddenly lapse into a coma.

The room looked normal: tidy with chaos around the edges. The only unusual thing was a book lying on her bed. Jenny hated reading in bed. The title was “The Eidolon”. I flipped through it. At first it was standard printed text, but the font morphed to handwritten script as I scanned further. I’d known Jenny long enough to understand that that meant magic. The last words were “come stay with us”.

I’d been forbidden to see Jenny in the Infirmary. She was in a coma and they wouldn’t let some geek who claimed to be her boyfriend in. But I knew now that it wasn’t a coma, and it would take magic to wake her. I only had one idea, and it required me to get close. Really close.

Science wasn’t up to the task, at least nothing I knew, so I would have to try magic. Jenny had been teaching me The Rules since we started dating, and I hoped I understood enough. I took a tiny pinch of Jenny dust – enough to transform me into her for a couple of hours. Now I needed something to make me look different.

Jenny had told there’s power in names and I hoped she’d been right. She had a plastic bottle of baby powder. Jenny loved the scent, and rubbing it on her back was the closest we’d got to – other things. I mixed a few grains of powder with the Jenny dust, then touched the dust to my tongue.

Everything except my shirt fell off. I uncovered Jenny’s mirror (she kept it covered for magical reasons) and the effect was perfect; I was Jenny, but a 14-year old Jenny. A quick rummage of her closet turned up a short green dress that almost fit. It would have to do.

Getting into the infirmary was child’s play – literally. The gestapo nurse accepted that I was Jenny’s little sister Tammy, and soon I was by her bed. I kissed her; that was how you woke somebody magically. I hoped.

I could tell something was wrong; it took me a moment to realize that I’d missed her mouth. Right. Jenny is normally nine inches tall. Luckily she had told me where her center was – right where her heart was in big form. I leaned over and kissed her chest, acutely aware of how perverted it looked.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Tim?”

“It’s me.”

“Then you…?”

I nodded. “The kiss of someone who truly loves you.”

Tears of joy formed in her eyes. “I hoped… I prayed…Oh, Tim!” She all but fell out of bed kissing me – lips to lips this time.

A playful smile crossed her face. “When you change back, I want you to rub me with baby powder – all over.”

I am the luckiest man alive.

The Never-Ending Dream - Angela

At an old bookstore, you find a book that helps you interpret your dreams. But something is strange about it. You fall asleep reading the book, and find yourself in a dream that you cannot wake up from. What is it? And how will you snap back to reality?

*  *  *

Angela stomped her foot in frustration and stared in the mirror. The white dress festooned with lace was beautiful, but against alabaster skin and white hair all it did was accentuate her pink eyes. Why didn’t they make wedding dresses in black?

This was the third time she’d ended up back in the damned wedding dream. And that creep out there was not her Angus. He was another dreamshaper, like her. It was that book; it said it was about symbology and typology in dreams, but it should have been titled, “It’s a Trap.” She could feel the psychic remains of at least a half-dozen girls who had died in here.

Angela skipped ahead to the vows. She had that much control, at least. She looked at his perfect smiling face – no worry lines, just quiet anticipation. Ugh. She whirled and drove a two-inch spike heel into his groin. The mask of loving bliss shattered and he cast her out of the dream again.

This time she was under water. No problem; she sprouted gills and a sinuous fish tail. Her powers matched his everywhere except in the wedding dream. Predatory fish surrounded her. She turned them into guppies. Angela could feel his frustration as his plan failed.

He switched her to a falling dream. Below was a rapidly approaching fairytale castle, complete with courtyard, chapel, and … jackpot! She let herself hit, impaling her body on a rose hedge with razor thorns. Blood and agony were her world. She stepped out into her natural habitat: a graveyard.

Thorns clawed and tore at her flesh. She let them, and forced them to shape a scarlet and green gown of blood and vine. The rose in her hair was solely for looks. She smiled, showing off her tiny fangs.

The dead began clawing their way out of the graves. She took them as thralls with barely a thought, forming a wedding party of her own. She planted the dead girls’ spirits in her zombie bridesmaids. For later.

Angela looked at the pretty little chapel with its stained glass windows, its perfectly cleaned stonework and large oak doors. There was always a way back to the wedding dream. She regally processed toward it, bringing her entire entourage.

As she neared the chapel, vines rent the oak doors from their hinges. The organ music stopped. The groom turned and stared.

“It’s not a wedding without my family. Let’s do this.”

Angela glided down the aisle with her grisly wedding party. He tried to dispel them, but Goth styling was too deeply ingrained in her soul. Eventually she stood beside him, staring into his eyes.

She waited until the minister said the magic words.

“If there be anyone present who knows just cause …”

She smiled. “Your almost-dead brides have something to say.” The bridesmaids closed on him as he screamed.

She woke up and stretched, knocking the book onto the floor. It had been a good dream. Maybe she could try it again.

(original post