The following was written by Writers in the Grove member, Lorelle VanFossen, inspired by Prompt: Write About a Dream.
He says he doesn’t dream. Never. No memories of dreams. Ever.
I awake to find him jumping on the bed, hitting the wall. “I got it! I got it!” He shouts at shadows.
“Rough night last night?”
“Nope. Slept like a baby.”
Woke to murmuring sounds, cursing. He’s kneeling on the floor picking up invisible things from the floor, carefully placing each on his naked lap. I vaguely recall spilling a box of straight pins onto the carpet a week ago.
“You were up in the night picking things off the floor.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was fast asleep.”
After a long international flight home from a business trip, he discussed engineering specs with me in bed. In France, he tried to straighten the pictures bolted to the wall. On Orcas Island, shadows brought screams of something in the tent. After his grandmother died, he ripped the bed apart, me in it, screaming and looking for her.
“You talked in your sleep again last night.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You do. You do so often.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
He doesn’t believe me.