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Authors: Melanie Jackson
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want to release a hundred white doves to poop on my guests. I don’t want to wear a dress that is bigger than the entire church and weighs more than I do. And I really, really don’t want people picking my bridesmaids!”
The last part was shouted and Blue was looking alarmed.
“I’m sorry. I—”
“The wedding is off.”
“What?” he sounded as stunned as I was at this blurted announcement. I clutched at Blue and rolled the words around my head. They were horrible, but they were right.
“Here are the options. One, we continue to live in sin. Two, it’s you, me and the courthouse— with maybe our parents. Three, we elope to Las Vegas and let Elvis marry us.” I paused, feeling faint but forcing out the next words. “Or you can leave, of course.”
“No! God, no! I’ve been driven crazy by wedding stuff, but not that crazy.”
“Okay then.” I inhaled and exhaled slowly. “So what’s it to be?”
And that was how we ended up in the car, in the dead of night, during a rainstorm, heading for border with a duffle bag, my dog, a sack of kibble and reservations at a one-star, pet friendly motel.
The only person I had called was my boss, Randy Wallace, and he had only asked me if this was vacation or sick leave.
“Do they have mental health days?” I asked.
“No. Not without a visit to a shrink.”
“Then mark me down as sick and tired. I’ll be back by the weekend.”
I should have known that it is never that easy when you are having a wedding.
Excerpt from The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis
‘Frae ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties and things that gae bump in the night, O Lord, deliver us.’
— 14 th century Scottish Prayer
I dream.
And so do you, of course. Animals too. But dreaming is my job. Or rather, the policing of dangerous sleep, being the guardian of dreamers gone awry, that is the task that has devolved upon me.
You may have met me in the Narcoscape, a silent shadow at the edge of your imaginings as I went about my business. Perhaps you saw me as an angel, if you believe in such things. You probably did not fear me when we passed, for you knew that I was not one of the creatures that go bump in the night. Chances are good we may meet again some night because I get around.
Sleep can be many things. It is the calling of the sweet daydreams of the parted lovers, or the longing of the child stuck in a classroom on a fine May day. It can be the refuge where we see to the knitting up of the raveled sleeve of care left tattered by daily life. It is the place visited by mystics and swamis, and the destination for deep meditation and prayer. It is a tapestry embroidered with our unconscious thoughts. Without it, we would die.
It is other things, too, many of them dangerous and predatory. It is the place where infants are so beguiled by visions that they do not wake in the morning. It is the shadowy realm where the coma patients live—sometimes by choice but sometimes because they have become weak in mind and soul, and other darker things have begun to prey on them. It is often the last stop for the drunks and drug-users who come one too many times to the arms of Morpheus and Hypnos seeking oblivion. This is also the kingdom of schizophrenics, paranoids and other members of the insane fraternity whose grasp on waking reality has slipped. For them monsters abideth here .
Most people come and go from the Narcoscape without incident, but once in a while something goes wrong on the dreamside. If it goes a little wrong and the victim’s kin are ignorant, the family will have to wait for the Dream Police—aka the NarcoNazis—to sort it out. When it goes very wrong, if loved ones are in the know, they call me. I’m the retrieval expert, the ghost hunter, the slayer of night terrors who won’t negotiate with the Dream Police.
I own and run Hypnos Inc . and have a scary Greek title conferred at birth (my parents said) by gods of sleep and dreams, but you can call me
The last part was shouted and Blue was looking alarmed.
“I’m sorry. I—”
“The wedding is off.”
“What?” he sounded as stunned as I was at this blurted announcement. I clutched at Blue and rolled the words around my head. They were horrible, but they were right.
“Here are the options. One, we continue to live in sin. Two, it’s you, me and the courthouse— with maybe our parents. Three, we elope to Las Vegas and let Elvis marry us.” I paused, feeling faint but forcing out the next words. “Or you can leave, of course.”
“No! God, no! I’ve been driven crazy by wedding stuff, but not that crazy.”
“Okay then.” I inhaled and exhaled slowly. “So what’s it to be?”
And that was how we ended up in the car, in the dead of night, during a rainstorm, heading for border with a duffle bag, my dog, a sack of kibble and reservations at a one-star, pet friendly motel.
The only person I had called was my boss, Randy Wallace, and he had only asked me if this was vacation or sick leave.
“Do they have mental health days?” I asked.
“No. Not without a visit to a shrink.”
“Then mark me down as sick and tired. I’ll be back by the weekend.”
I should have known that it is never that easy when you are having a wedding.
Excerpt from The First Book of Dreams: Metropolis
‘Frae ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties and things that gae bump in the night, O Lord, deliver us.’
— 14 th century Scottish Prayer
I dream.
And so do you, of course. Animals too. But dreaming is my job. Or rather, the policing of dangerous sleep, being the guardian of dreamers gone awry, that is the task that has devolved upon me.
You may have met me in the Narcoscape, a silent shadow at the edge of your imaginings as I went about my business. Perhaps you saw me as an angel, if you believe in such things. You probably did not fear me when we passed, for you knew that I was not one of the creatures that go bump in the night. Chances are good we may meet again some night because I get around.
Sleep can be many things. It is the calling of the sweet daydreams of the parted lovers, or the longing of the child stuck in a classroom on a fine May day. It can be the refuge where we see to the knitting up of the raveled sleeve of care left tattered by daily life. It is the place visited by mystics and swamis, and the destination for deep meditation and prayer. It is a tapestry embroidered with our unconscious thoughts. Without it, we would die.
It is other things, too, many of them dangerous and predatory. It is the place where infants are so beguiled by visions that they do not wake in the morning. It is the shadowy realm where the coma patients live—sometimes by choice but sometimes because they have become weak in mind and soul, and other darker things have begun to prey on them. It is often the last stop for the drunks and drug-users who come one too many times to the arms of Morpheus and Hypnos seeking oblivion. This is also the kingdom of schizophrenics, paranoids and other members of the insane fraternity whose grasp on waking reality has slipped. For them monsters abideth here .
Most people come and go from the Narcoscape without incident, but once in a while something goes wrong on the dreamside. If it goes a little wrong and the victim’s kin are ignorant, the family will have to wait for the Dream Police—aka the NarcoNazis—to sort it out. When it goes very wrong, if loved ones are in the know, they call me. I’m the retrieval expert, the ghost hunter, the slayer of night terrors who won’t negotiate with the Dream Police.
I own and run Hypnos Inc . and have a scary Greek title conferred at birth (my parents said) by gods of sleep and dreams, but you can call me
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