I started out as a singer– My entire family have musical talent and we would sing around the baby grand piano on Sundays and holidays. It sounds idyllic, doesn’t it?
My mother was a self-proclaimed diva. She had won a Metropolitan audition in her young years and instead of pursuing her dream of singing opera, she became a mother. She also ruined music for us.
In retaliation I used my skills in music to become a poet. I am a fairly good one…I have even been published in one of the same publications as Seamus Haney. I still write poetry as a hobby or when my music and rhythms overcome me.
Nowadays I write stories. As a writer, I have no idea if I am good or bad. I hope that I am a decent writer at the very least. My late-hubby enjoyed some of my stories and when I had problems understanding the motives of one of my characters, he was more than willing to brainstorm with me.
He once told me that my stories were more real to me than reality. He knew me so well.
Anyway, here is a novel I finished and published on Amazon last year. It is more in the dark fantasy genre, but not totally horror-driven. There is hope… even in the darkest moments there is always hope.
Perchance to Dream
Genre: Dark Fantasy
Kat Igardson is a visionary, a psychic, and a protector, but doesn’t gain her hereditary powers until the death of her Grandma. Daisy Amulda, a black witch, is stripped of her power by her father. These two unlikely women become allies to fight an evil that corrupts and taints Earth and its innocents.
Will they survive?
My body sank into the mattress cover as my mind floated above my body. The darkness covers my eyes as I drop into sleep. My grandma was in the next room; her slight breathing turning into slight snores. Snores into music. I was safe.
For years I have dreamed. Some of the dreams were those little garbage dreams that clear my brain and make it easier for me to think. Some dreams were of the past. I had a dream where I was being chased by a teddy bear. And then I have the dreams of the future.
Those dreams are the scariest. When my mother still lived with grandma and me, she would yell at us. Many times I would have these fights with her before the main fight. It made for some sleepless nights. I still hate sleeping in the same house as my mother. When we are together, we fight tooth and nail, day and night, in person and in dreams.
I suppose I am not the only one that has mommy problems and I won’t be the last. I have wondered for years why my mother is such a crank when her mother, my grandma, is such a nice person.
When I am dreaming, I am a part of the dream. I can feel the emotions that I would feel if I were actually there. The fear is higher, the anger is fierier, and the tears are brighter. The colors, sounds, touches, and smells are keener. I can look at it with dispassion when awake, but when I am asleep the dreams are more real than when I am awake.
At one time I studied Jung’s superconsicous mind theory. To dip into the same dream pool as every conscious being on the planet almost described my experiences. I was attracted to Jung’s theories, but I didn’t want to use them to counsel other people. So after one class when I realized that the teachers were less informed than I was, I quit college and went back to live with grandma. She needed me.
It was dementia and possibly Alzheimer’s disease. She needed a caretaker. I needed to care for her.
The mattress creaked under my body as a rolled to the left and curled into the covers. The blankets warmed my body and I fell into the dream.
GRANDMA WAS IN THE KITCHEN, making spaghetti, and the water bubbled on the stove for pasta. The smell of tomato and meat sauce filled the room as I walked into the kitchen. I pulled out the plates and utensils and began setting the table for two.
The light streamed into the kitchen as I watched Grandma stir the sauce. It had been a few years since I had seen her cook. It was hard with the dementia because she would sometimes put the water on to boil and then forget about it. The pot would burn, sending smoke through the house. After a couple of times, I made sure that I am in the kitchen whenever she wants to cook.
This time it felt like she was all there. She joked and we laughed like the times she had been well. She spread butter over the break, sprinkled garlic over it, and baked it in the oven. I wanted to bite into that crunchy bread and feel the taste expand in my mouth.
Bread baking in the oven was my favorite smell. For a moment I was completely at peace.
Grandma turned from the stove, a wooden spoon dripping with red sauce, and fell slowly onto the floor. I ran to her. It felt like time had slowed to a stop. I tried to run and I couldn’t get to her as her head bounced on the linoleum floor.
Her bright blue eyes filled my vision.
I JERKED AWAKE, BREATHING HARD. The room was dark and I could hear my grandma’s breathing in the next room. I pulled the covers off me, stood up, and walked to her bedroom. I stood in the doorway, watching her sleep. The covers were piled high over her body.
I softly walked to the kitchen, turned on the coffee pot, and looked out the window. I could see the streaks of the morning rays as they settled on the hills around our home. This was the third night I had had this dream. Third times a charm. I got a white coffee cup and filled it with coffee. I was still in my sleeping clothes – a T-shirt and shorts. The clothes had been washed so much that they were soft against my body.
After opening the front door, I sat on the porch and listened to the birds as the sun rose in the east. Today would be a busy day. Grandma would make spaghetti for the first time in years and I would need emergency services on speed dial.
My name is Kathleen Igardson, and I am a dreamer. Call me Kat.