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Her long auburn hair swirls around her as she dashes to her husband's side, knocking him sideways.
Reflexively, he grabs her as he falls. She lands on top of him.
The gunshot echoes above the traffic noise on the busy street.
He feels her body shudder from the impact. Her blood splatters him.
Other agents start toward the lone gunman, guns drawn.
Rolling over, he flees for his life.1
The night was far from spent, but she had awakened again, palms clammy, heart thudding. Vague wisps of the familiar nightmare with its ever-evolving details clung to her mind.
Well, my "death" seems to have reached a state of static polish, but I'm sure I've never been to a hotel with that type of convention hall before, either in dreams, or in real life. I thought dreams were supposed to be made up of real events, just redeposited... My hair has never been long, and I'm SURE I'd remember if I'd ever had a husband... especially a hunk like him!
Afterward, she lay sleepless, wriggling around in a futile hunt for a more comfortable position, as if creating the right "nest" among the sheets, blankets, pillows, and comforter would bring the bliss of a dreamless sleep.
Focus your thoughts on something, someone, or some place serene and peaceful. Imagine yourself in that place, with that someone, doing that something, or using that something, whenever you feel anxious.
"The modern mantra to replace counting sheep," she thought cynically, squirming into yet another, equally unrestful, position.
Don't knock it until you give it a fair try.
"Okay. I will. I'll dream up the perfect lover, and take him to bed with me each night I can't fall asleep," she resolved as a way to end her inner dialog. She dropped off before she got him created.
Last updated 7/28/04.
- -- from Despina's Infamous Green Journal, travelsfar (lj) 1/1/02