She was having another nightmare.

This time they were attaching things to her head and making those noises. She supposed the openings in their heads had to do with eating and seeing and communicating; but they were hideous. Their bare skin was covered in cloth that came in a variety of colors and their touch was almost always a precursor to pain. Most of her nightmares had the same plot. A creature would appear before her and the next moment she would feel a stabbing pain in her lower body. She knew she was screaming but nothing came out. Like clockwork another pale colorful creature would arrive and remove something wet and horrible smelling from the spot where the pain emanated. Usually, she would wake up during the ‘creature pouring soothing water and putting a bandage on the wound’ part of the dream though. That’s what was so strange to her; sometimes the creatures attacked and sometimes the creatures soothed. She’d have to Google ‘soothing and attacking creatures’ on that dream symbolism website later.

In this current nightmare some of the creatures were placing sticky things on her head and beak. Their noises varied from high pitched sing-songy vocalizations among each other to shorter, more focused vocalizations directed at her. In her last nightmare she had been able to control her experience a bit. Maybe she could do it again….

She stared hard at the creature that was closest to her and focused on the openings which were, she supposed, the eyes (since the creatures didn’t have a beak it was hard to tell which openings were the eyes, but she figured that since this was her dream and she was in control, she could call them eyes if she wanted to). Next, she forced herself to ‘understand’ the creatures’ vocalizations. She told herself ‘Sally’ would be her name and she had a magical universal translator. Whatever that was.

“Sally, we are going to ask you some questions.”

Not bad. Maybe this meant the end of the nightmares completely.

“Sally, is Paris in Germany?” the creature squawked.

That’s stupid, she thought.

“Everybody knows Paris is in France,” she dream-vocalized to the creature. She had no idea what a Paris or a France was. Or at least she didn’t think she did.

The creature about fell over. It squawked something excitedly to the other creatures in the room who were mesmerized by a beeping shiny box. She’d have to Google “dreaming beeping shiny box” later. Definitely not going to pull up any porn with that search term. Ha.

“Sally,” the creature was vocalizing again, “Can a fish fly?”

“That’s stupid,” she said. She knew fish couldn’t fly! Only she could fly.

The creatures were out of control now. showing teeth, squawking, and staring at the beeping shiny box.  One creature had started leaking! She was literally leaning on another creature and water was pouring from her eye holes. Her hair was grey. Wait, what was hair? How did she know that word?

“Sally, do you know where you are?” the creature asked.

That was strange. She didn’t have an answer for that. Why didn’t she have an answer? ‘Come on!’ she thought to herself; ‘Get back in the game Sally. This is YOUR dream.’

Wait, why was she calling herself Sally? This was getting intense….too late, the next question was already here.

“Sally, do you know what happened to you?”

No she did not. Nothing happened to her. She was asleep. Nothing happened when she was sleeping. She was starting to get angry at this dream. She wanted to wake up.

The grey-headed creature suddenly lunged forward and touched her wing, “Sally, can you hear me?” it squawked.

Too weird, she thought. Time to wake up.

Slowly, her eyes opened and she inhaled the damp air of the forest and opened her beautiful wings. She marveled at the iridescent colors of her feathers as she slowly and deliberately stretched them high over her head until the tips touched. In that pose she knew she looked almost like the hearts she used to hand out on Valentine’s Day. Whoa, what was a Valentine’s Day? Tonight’s dream had left her with all kinds of strange ideas.

She closed her eyes and fell backwards from the branch into a graceful arc. Her wings didn’t move until she was inches above the ground and then with one flap she was soaring. Higher and higher she flew, feeling powerful and free and beautiful. There was no pain here. The last glimmer of the nightmare finally faded as she flew past the windows of the castle where Princess Beautiful was dancing with Prince Charming, over villages with people farming and pigs building houses; around ships filled with pirates and sword fighting elves and boys.

She smiled this time as she remembered the nightmare. The creatures showing their teeth, the leaking grey creature collapsing into the arms of the other, bigger creature who was leaking too. Maybe she wouldn’t have to call them nightmares any more.

“Did you see those readings?” Paul said, “She was answering us!”

“What does that mean? Can she talk to me? Can I talk to her?” Mary looked at the still body of her daughter, eyes open, electrodes still attached to her beautiful red hair.

Farming cactus isn’t for everyone.

Stick tried to keep this in mind as he watched his children head out to the fields. There was Jack in the lead, as always, headed for the plants that needed to be moved. Now that boy was something else. Only fifteen years old and he was discarding the gloves and protective gear they’d just gotten him for Christmas. Stick hadn’t tossed his gear away until he was married with two babies. Not Jack though. Jack walked out there, hands bare, face uncovered, with only his shovel to keep the spines from his flesh. Everyone knew the roots were just as dangerous as the leaves, but Jack had figured out how to make it work. Good boy that Jack.

His twin Jen hurried up behind him. Stick chuckled to himself. Jen was always a little bit late and a little bit disorganized, but she was never gonna let Jack out-do her. She knew Stick favored Jack because of his daredevil nature with the plants so he suspected she was attempting to gain some of that glory. On their way to the field Jack didn’t speak to Jen, as was his way, but Jen brought the water they would share throughout the day.  She would pour cup after cup for him, even though he never asked. ‘Good girl,’ Stick thought.

Stick gazed out the window looking for the third one. Gall rose up in him and he thought again about the spoiled child that had emerged just when they had gotten the twins to the point where they could go to the fields alone. He remembered that day so well; the way Gwen looked and the way his brain wanted to make his fists flex and curl and wipe that smile off her face. How he willed them to stay still at his side. He remembered his own smile and how he’d hugged her, then told her he was going to the store to get them some ice cream.

Laying back in the front seat of his car getting the blowjob while the ice cream melted, he thought about his predicament. How many more years would he have to work in that damn field before he could retire and finally enjoy life? He remembered his rage building, his hands grabbing the whore’s hair tightly and holding her there until her muffled screams brought him to. She’d scrambled out of the car onto the pavement screaming obscenities at him. Stick put the car in gear, threw a fiver out the window, and drove home. He usually gave her ten but a fiver’s what you get when you don’t finish the job.

Gwen had named the boy Stack. He supposed she named him that so Stick would feel some sort of closeness to him, but it hadn’t worked. The boy just played with the tools, broke the pots, and cut his hands on the shards. Gwen babied him and never forced him to go to the fields. Jen was just as bad but occasionally he caught her being venomous to the boy. He smiled remembering how he’d overheard her tearing the little waste of space a new one because he’d spilled the cereal she had just poured for him. He hadn’t intervened either. The little shit deserved it.

On the other side of the driveway Stick saw Stack playing in the dirt. Stick watched him, and took a sip from his coffee cup. It had less vodka than usual but only because the bitch was watering it down. She didn’t think he knew but he knew.

‘Damn it!’ Stick thought, ‘Why does everyone have to be so difficult?’

He decided to go over there and beat Stack within an inch of his life. The room swayed and the cup slipped from his fingers and came crashing down on the counter, the shards catching Gwen in the face. He’d forgotten about her down there, his limp dick still in her mouth. Damn bitch couldn’t even get him hard anymore. He grabbed her hair and began forcing her harder and harder against him. He could hear her short whines of protest but he was close so he kept going. Only whores got a choice; bitches didn’t.

The little girl sat at the table and colored. The kitchen was filled with the smell of all kinds of good things cooking. Her mother stirred the pot and glanced over; her eyes lingering on the little girl’s hair and the way she squinted just a bit when her crayon approached the line. The spoon dragged across the bottom of the pot as she stirred in long, lazy loops through the thickening gravy. Her own hair hung in softer curls around her shoulders, brunette rings tinged with grey. The crocheted poncho hung loosely over her shoulders and was never tied in front because she liked to take it on and off depending on the whims of her internal thermometer.

Both looked up at the sound of father’s feet on the outside steps. When the door opened wide the little girl inhaled deeply. As the smell of the outdoors and her father filled her, without realizing, she closed her eyes, just for a second. Her mother caught the movement and smiled. Her daughter did that every time and it never got old.

Father got to the little one first and kissed the top of her head, then gathered his wife into his arms and kissed her mightily. The girl glanced back at them both and snickered, trying to make them uncomfortable, but deep down she loved it when they did that. She loved to watch them dance in the kitchen too. Their favorite song would come on the radio and mother would rest her head against father’s chest and they would sway slowly to the music. She never felt like an outsider when they did that; only safer.

Her father pulled the chair out next to her and sat down. He observed her drawing and said nothing, just watched and nodded. He leaned in and said, “I like how you used red for the trees. That’s how I would have made them if I had it to do over again.”

“Really?” the little girl asked.

“Really,” he said.

The girl’s back became a little straighter as she guided her red crayon to the next subject of her coloring. Her father would stay there and watch for as long as she drew, she knew that. In a little while her mother would put the dishes down at their places and she would put her drawing away. Dishwashing would follow dinner, and bedtime would follow that. Her parents never grew tired of being near her. And her mother never had other things to do that were more important and her father always seemed fascinated by this little one they had made.

The little girl felt safe. The little girl felt loved.