Death dreams
A prompt piece of fiction for Chalkboard’s Write or Die project
I woke, screaming. The nightmare wouldn’t clear. All I could see was the blood, the body, the knife. For more than a few minutes, I couldn’t get hold of reality. The dream, like so many other times, wouldn’t settle back away from my conscious mind.
It had happened so many times, that I knew I wouldn’t be able to forget it unless I opened my eyes and focused on something else. But, forcing that to happen had gotten harder and harder as the dream had repeated.
I was never quite sure anymore whether it was a dream, a memory, or just something my brain was trying to warn me about. When the dream hit the first time, I had thought it was just another nightmare. I had had them all my life. Sometimes, they would repeat once or twice. But they always went away. It had been a month since this dream had first hit. Now the nightmare was coming every other night. It always happened early enough in the morning that there was no way she would be able to go back to sleep.
I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Who would understand? Anyone would think me more than slightly insane. Maybe if I talked to someone early on, that was one thing. But who has a nightmare repeat for a week and doesn’t talk to someone about it? Let alone this long. No, there wasn’t anyone she could tell.
Find a therapist? No, I knew that wasn’t an option. No one would see me at this quick notice without committing me.
So… What to do? I didn’t think it was a memory. Sure, I had seen and lived through some pretty gruesome things. You didn’t watch someone get shot without it affecting you. As a cop, I’ve seen that more than enough times. But this? If I had seen this, I would remember.
But nothing in the dream was familiar. I didn’t recognize the table where the body lay. I couldn’t see anything but a bloody body — everything else was fuzzy and confusing.
I had tried drawing out what I had seen. When waking up , the face in front of me was ingrained on my mind. But once I calmed down and woke up, the face would turn fuzzy. Haunting, handsome, and horrendously bloody.
Who was he? Did I know him? Had I stabbed him? Had I found him?
Finally awake enough to think clearly, I decided to get the coffee started before my shower. Walking into the kitchen, I saw my mother standing at the stove. In her hands was a frypan with something in it. Was that liver? This early in the morning?
The iron filled smell of the liver filled my nose. It was too much for me to handle after the nightmare, I turned around to leave. That’s when I saw him laid out, on the table. Dead. Bloody. Cut open as if someone were doing an autopsy. I realized just what was in the pan. Scared and sickened… I fled. Wondering, “Am I awake or dreaming?”
What is happening? Any ideas? Take this story, extend it to the deepest, dungiest places of your imagination. The end is in your hands.
Meg, Harper Thorpe, and Jenny Justice: You have been entered to the Hell of the Dead by me. To escape to the Living Hall, you will have to recreate this piece in your own words or extend it as part of the Write or Die collaboration. Failure to comply will leave your name and soul in the Hell of the Dead.
Editor’s note: This is the main prompt. Your job is to take this story, extend it to the deepest, dungiest places of your imagination. The end is in your hands. For more details, see
