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horrible dream

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-eight years and a million words

I had a particularly harrowing dream last night. I was at my grandparents' old place on Woodside drive, and my grandmother was rummaging through some of my late grandfather's old things. Among these was nothing short of his skull. I looked down into the drawer, and there was his skull, complete with maggots and flies. I turned and ran screaming down the length of the long kitchen.

At the other end was the table where he always sat. And there was his ghost. The two of us stared at each other for a moment, and I could see his translucency. Then he rose, and silently rushed at me with a warning look on his face and his arms outstretched. I woke up.

I blame the recent spate of vivid dreams on my rediscovery of the home-made taco.