Thoisday

When I woke up this morning I got another rejection which makes it 3 for 11 poems in 24 hours. Bite the weenie. Fortunately, our aeropress arrived in the mail yesterday along with our nespresso milk frother and it distracted me from crying about it. I also got my Timbuk2 bag in the mail last night and now have a new writing bag that would survive a tornado and if for some chance it didn’t survive the tornado – they would send me a new one.

Freaky dreams day 3?
In an old familiar house, I could sense something wasn’t right. It terrified me, grazed my neck, sneaked around me. An open door and a dark bed – the sheets began to seize like a convulsing body except no one was there. When it stopped a woman emerged. Dark brown hair, low gums and small brittle teeth, stark against a blackish/purple face. She was a cousin I never knew existed, who died when I was a baby. Her name was Veronica or Victoria – I can’t remember. But she was touching everything and everyone and grabbed my wrist because I didn’t want to say hello. I could feel her long, fake nails twisting and scraping my skin. When she finally left we had to burn everything she touched so her spirit wouldn’t seep into anyone else.
There were only a few of us not infected. Hundreds of people gathered on a bus, making a decision to follow her into some hellish existence – like they had nothing else to live for.
We took shelter in a white colonial house, such close quarters for the people left standing, the bathrooms had no doors.
A storm shook the old house off its foundation, the walls bowed and hunched, brick exposed. It had the power of an earthquake and toppled stairs. I squeezed through a tilted hallway escaping from one caving wing of the house, running to Pat, who was so convinced I had died in the collapse, he was sobbing. I’m OK, I said. It’s OK. I was just going to the bathroom that’s why I was gone so long.