She wakes with a startle, groggy as if hungover from some overindulging celebration. Though, it isn’t liquor that has her brain so foggy.
Fumbling for her pen and pad—now kept diligently on the bedside table—she begins to scribble, no time to even compose herself.
For a moment, images flash in her head like broken fragments of a flip-book animation. They don’t last long and her pen tries feverishly to capture any remaining visions.
She cannot pause, cannot stop to analyze why they keep happening, it’s vital to journal each detail before it disappears. Amazingly, every single dream has come to fruition with astonishing similarity to how it played out in her head.
The last one had depicted an overturned tractor-trailer that would release four hundred full-grown turkeys into downtown, snarling traffic for hours. She watched with slight amusement as it played out on the evening news two days after the dream. This morning, however, her heart races, panic-stricken; skin glistening with a sheen of cold sweat.
To this point, she’s hesitated to tell anyone about the happenings. They would call her crazy, label her a loon, or worse. Maybe they would commit her, schedule her for a lobotomy, remove that part of her brain that drives imagination...if in fact, that is what controls dreams. But this time she will probably have to tell someone. Even if that means losing her freedom, her mind.
She scribbles the ending with an audible exhale. Returning the pen to the top of the page, she writes one word which she underlines three times for emphasis—Dragons!