At the Edge, short story from dream
In the past couple days, I wrote a short story based on a dream I had a few days ago. Here is the dream:
I stop at Wegman's on my way to visit my mother at the nursing home. I want to buy her a little treat. Some dark chocolate. I like to bring her a little something when I visit, because she lives so much in the moment.I am disappointed to see a crowd gathered around the Menu table. They are exactly blocking the table of candy I wanted to examine. The chef demonstrates one of the meals from the new Menu and handing out samples. Some yuppie ham schnitzel concoction made with pork, not too spicy. I don't push up for a sample because I have only a little window of time to visit my Mom before I have to be at the lawyer's office. I’ve been asking Blake for a divorce for 20 years and have gotten nowhere. This will be the day I finally set the wheels in motion.I can't see Mom afterwards so I need to hurry. I push along the perimeter of the crowd and between stacks of crates displaying some of the ingredients for the ham schnitzel. On impulse, I toss a container of the ham and pork patties into my basket, and then all the other ingredient. It's a warmish early spring day, but if I wrap my car blanket around them, they should keep okay.I tear off one of the recipes printed on bright goldenrod paper and cram it down between the ingredients. I hope I like Ham Schnitzel.It's hot in here. I strip off my new grey North Face jacket and my grey textured American Eagle sweater. Blake gave it to me 20 years ago, on my birthday, right before he left me for Catlyn. I found it yesterday, digging some of Blake’s old stuff out of the closet where it’s hung for 20 years.I toss them in the basket. The sweater just surfaced this morning when I was tossing out some of Blake's old chamois shirts that were still hanging in the back of the closet. They wouldn't fit either of us, we've both gained weight. I turn away to look at the chocolate and someone takes my cart. It's a young woman, maybe twenty-two or three, with a child about five. "Brendyl," she shouts, as the child pockets a handful of grapes. She releases her hold on my cart to run over and snatch up the girl.Assuming she had grabbed my cart by accident, thinking it was hers; I push it about three steps toward the candy aisle. The woman dashes back, grabs it, and screams at me, "Don't take my cart."I stare at her, look into the cart. It's my sweater my coat, my schnitzel ingredients. I am not the one who's confused.She yanks the cart. Hard. Meanwhile, Brendyl, in her arms, leans over and drops her doll, a Barbie-like doll, and a whole pile of doll clothes into the cart.The woman pulls the cart. "Let go of my cart," she hisses.I yank hard and scream, "Help, Police, help!" No one looks or comes. My voice is strangled. I try again. "Help, police, help. Someone please help." It's a little louder, but not very. No one appears to notice.I give a sudden hard yank and the cart comes free from the woman's hand. I run through the crowd to the service desk. As I run, I pick the doll and doll clothes out of the cart. There are so many, scattered around the cart. I try to hand them to the young man behind the counter. He signals me to a different counter, comes down. I lay the dolls and the pile of clothes on the counter. Fish around for the few remaining ones. It occurs to me that I should have just taken my coat and sweater and let her have the cart."This woman . . ." I start to say."She stole my cart," the other woman says," running up."No," I say, "She stole mine.""That's a lie!" the other woman shouts.Now the crowd of people around the menu table is turning to look at us."If I stole your cart, why would I be turning in these things?" I ask, trying to stay calm. I can feel my ire rising. I pick up the doll and the doll clothes and try to hand them to Brendyl. The girl reaches for them but the woman slaps my hand and the doll and clothes fall to the floor.She grabs me by the arm and slaps me on the cheek, hard. My teeth rattle. I put my hand to my face and stare at her, astonished.
To see the story that I wrote from this dream, click here (please keep in mind that at this point, at least, this is a very early draft--brand new!): http://halfformed.blogspot.com/2005/04/at-edge.html
If you are interested in seeing the process I used writing this story, click here: http://halfformed.blogspot.com/2005/04/at-edge-look-at-raw-story-process.html
I stop at Wegman's on my way to visit my mother at the nursing home. I want to buy her a little treat. Some dark chocolate. I like to bring her a little something when I visit, because she lives so much in the moment.I am disappointed to see a crowd gathered around the Menu table. They are exactly blocking the table of candy I wanted to examine. The chef demonstrates one of the meals from the new Menu and handing out samples. Some yuppie ham schnitzel concoction made with pork, not too spicy. I don't push up for a sample because I have only a little window of time to visit my Mom before I have to be at the lawyer's office. I’ve been asking Blake for a divorce for 20 years and have gotten nowhere. This will be the day I finally set the wheels in motion.I can't see Mom afterwards so I need to hurry. I push along the perimeter of the crowd and between stacks of crates displaying some of the ingredients for the ham schnitzel. On impulse, I toss a container of the ham and pork patties into my basket, and then all the other ingredient. It's a warmish early spring day, but if I wrap my car blanket around them, they should keep okay.I tear off one of the recipes printed on bright goldenrod paper and cram it down between the ingredients. I hope I like Ham Schnitzel.It's hot in here. I strip off my new grey North Face jacket and my grey textured American Eagle sweater. Blake gave it to me 20 years ago, on my birthday, right before he left me for Catlyn. I found it yesterday, digging some of Blake’s old stuff out of the closet where it’s hung for 20 years.I toss them in the basket. The sweater just surfaced this morning when I was tossing out some of Blake's old chamois shirts that were still hanging in the back of the closet. They wouldn't fit either of us, we've both gained weight. I turn away to look at the chocolate and someone takes my cart. It's a young woman, maybe twenty-two or three, with a child about five. "Brendyl," she shouts, as the child pockets a handful of grapes. She releases her hold on my cart to run over and snatch up the girl.Assuming she had grabbed my cart by accident, thinking it was hers; I push it about three steps toward the candy aisle. The woman dashes back, grabs it, and screams at me, "Don't take my cart."I stare at her, look into the cart. It's my sweater my coat, my schnitzel ingredients. I am not the one who's confused.She yanks the cart. Hard. Meanwhile, Brendyl, in her arms, leans over and drops her doll, a Barbie-like doll, and a whole pile of doll clothes into the cart.The woman pulls the cart. "Let go of my cart," she hisses.I yank hard and scream, "Help, Police, help!" No one looks or comes. My voice is strangled. I try again. "Help, police, help. Someone please help." It's a little louder, but not very. No one appears to notice.I give a sudden hard yank and the cart comes free from the woman's hand. I run through the crowd to the service desk. As I run, I pick the doll and doll clothes out of the cart. There are so many, scattered around the cart. I try to hand them to the young man behind the counter. He signals me to a different counter, comes down. I lay the dolls and the pile of clothes on the counter. Fish around for the few remaining ones. It occurs to me that I should have just taken my coat and sweater and let her have the cart."This woman . . ." I start to say."She stole my cart," the other woman says," running up."No," I say, "She stole mine.""That's a lie!" the other woman shouts.Now the crowd of people around the menu table is turning to look at us."If I stole your cart, why would I be turning in these things?" I ask, trying to stay calm. I can feel my ire rising. I pick up the doll and the doll clothes and try to hand them to Brendyl. The girl reaches for them but the woman slaps my hand and the doll and clothes fall to the floor.She grabs me by the arm and slaps me on the cheek, hard. My teeth rattle. I put my hand to my face and stare at her, astonished.
To see the story that I wrote from this dream, click here (please keep in mind that at this point, at least, this is a very early draft--brand new!): http://halfformed.blogspot.com/2005/04/at-edge.html
If you are interested in seeing the process I used writing this story, click here: http://halfformed.blogspot.com/2005/04/at-edge-look-at-raw-story-process.html
posted by Mary Stebbins Taitt | 4/10/2005 12:28:00 PM
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