There is a reason I haven't written in just about forever. I had a truly horrific nightmare about a month ago, and every time I sit down to write, all I can do is flashback. I have tried unsuccessfully to shove this evil dream into a padlocked box, but it keeps leaking out the keyhole in a blackened, acidic cloud. In a desperate attempt to feed my muse, I'm finally going to write about it.

The Chaos family was at a cabin in the Wisconsin northwoods with Grandma and Grampa Chaos. It was early evening. The fireflies were just starting to flicker in the darkening sky. I could hear the waves gently lapping the shore over the quiet crackle of the campfire. Pines towered over us, blotting out all but a few stars beginning to flicker in the sky. The night air was heavy with the scent of dew. Life couldn't have been more idyllic as the kids ran around the campfire. I remember I breathed a deep sigh of contentment.

Then LMD tripped. I watched as time stretched, twisted and melted. My fair haired beauty had fallen headfirst into the campfire. It roared with a ferocious hunger, lapping at her hair, devouring her pale, tender flesh. She twitched a few times, screamed briefly, and fell still. My darling peanut, a source of neverending frustration and joy, was now nothing more than a shrinking, blackened hull. Not only did my mind and body go numb, but I felt part of my very soul wither and die as I watched.

I don't think that part has come back upon waking. I'm horrified that part of my maternal mind has become defective.....to think I had dreamt such a vivid demise for one of my own! Surely someone must need to revoke my mom license. Isn't the uterus supposed to kick out hormones that make mothers fiercely protective? Are mine going haywire?

After much soul searching, google searches on dream analysis, and talks with friends both online and off, I am relieved to discover dreaming of the death of a child is symbolic of death of a childhood dream. This nightmare took place the night of my storm post. It fits. Scarily, eerily so.

Now if I could get the image out of my mind and the smell of putrid smoke out of my nose, I may be free to write. Muses? If you please.