The Cracked Mirror and the Martyr
Date Friday, March 29, 2024 - 06:12 AM PST
Topic Dreams


She woke up from a sleep she was supposed to die in. She felt terrible and disconnected and hardly made it to the bathroom. She leaned toward the mirror and saw herself for the first time in a week. She saw behind her a crumpled, bloody figure clutching two medicine bottles.
It had her face, but it was dead. She remembered in pieces all that had happened and ran out of the house, terrified. She ran over the snow and found her world almost dead. Wreckage was everywhere, and it seemed there was nothing left. She tried in vain to fix what she could see, but she was sick and blinded by her tears and then she had no time. She went to the ruined city, where people avoided her who hadn't a week ago. She ignored her sickness and blindness and went into the ruins, trying to build them again. But she had no time. She went into a hospital because a voice in her head told her she could fix important things there. the hospital was one big room and had two beds in it. She saw her friends lying almost dead on the beds and began to cry. She wondered how to fix them. She took off her shirt and began to wipe up their blood with it, hoping this was a good start.

In her bathroom, the mirror cracked and fixed itself. When it was smooth again, the figure with her face was no longer there. The bottles rolled behind the door, forgotten.

I know this is in story format, but it is based strongly on a dream I had a couple of years ago. I had that dream about a week before something very like it in principle happened to me for real.

This next one is also in story format, but most of the dreams I write about are. It's also an older dream, but so far it hasn't heralded anything at all. I figure it's past its "premonition" prime. Just thought you'd all be interested, maybe.


The bird hung there, weak. The rifts in its wings no longer bled, but were crusty... the necrotic brown glared from the black plumes that had lost their sheen, and the nails stood at gruesome attention through them. Poor little raven... it twitched weakly on its white birchwood crucifix and hung its head in resignation. The white city around it shunned any colors and everything that wasn't perfectly pallid. The white villagers in their white garb stood in weary sympathy around their jet martyr and wished for an existence darker than theirs.
-In a white world, a raven has died to make way for a goose.

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