Something is surely in my oatmeal. I tend to have memorable, epic dreams, but not every night in a row for a week. Just listen to the stuff my head is doing:
Monday. I am in a laboratory in which a formidable witch has covered me in small bird tattoos. She decrees that I have to get rid of them before she sees me again, or something terrible will happen. I then find myself at my parents' house, where they cheerfully hang around as I try to scrape my tattoos off with a series of butter knives--all too dull for the job. Eventually, because this is a great idea, I cut a fist-sized hole in my stomach. My appendix promptly pops out and proceeds to dangle. "Oh!" says my dad. "Just pop it back in, you'll be fine." I pop it back in, and am fine. We visit my grandmother, who is (in my dream only) a cat veterinarian, and we make a few house calls to her feline clients. While I am waiting for her in the woods and trying to keep additional guts from falling out of the gigantic hole in my abdomen, the tattoos fade and come flying out of said hole as actual birds. The hole then heals into a sort of gross, fleshy horn on my stomach. Pretty disgusting stuff, but if that's not as cool as any Kelly Link short I've ever read, then I will eat my own sawed-off tattoo.
Tuesday. Here we go again: another zombie apocalypse dream. Apparently, I'm doomed to have at least one of these every month for the rest of my life. For the first time, however, I am confident in a zombie-infected world. In this dream, I'm not running or hiding or having my feet tugged at by rotting corpses. I've got this down, and I am not afraid. I and my real-life but all too dreamy beau are like this badass Pony Express, hopping from abandoned car to abandoned car as each one runs out of gas, and making deliveries to people along the way. Delivering what? I don't know. Awesomeness, I imagine.
Wednesday. Okay seriously? Where did this one come from? I am along on some Tokein-esque quest with a psychic woman, a Legolas-lookalike, and SANTA CLAUS. I don't remember what we were after, or anything else....just....Santa? And he was so mean. He lost his temper at every turn, and at one point he broke a table in a drunken rage. I repeat: Santa.
People of Earth: is it the radiation? Is it my thyroid? Are you having wacky dreams this week, too? It's bedtime, and I'm honestly ready for more action, but what now? Zombie Santa: Veterinarian. Lord. I can't wait.
Oh! And just a reminder: Vessel the e-book is FREE FOR ONE MORE WEEK at Smashwords! No Zombie Santa, but plenty of living-dead horror (and humor).