National Novel Writer's Month

The dream always began this way. The sun, the breeze, the gentle slope of green grass slipping from under her feet and running down to the edge of the lake. She doesn’t turn around. She knows what is waiting for her, she’s never been much of an artist but she’s pretty sure she could reproduce the image in perfect detail. He’ll be there, stretched out on the old ratty blanket that he refuses to throw away no matter how much she teases him about it. There will be books in sloppy stacks around him but he will have given up on studying. He’ll be laying back, his arms tucked behind his head, staring up at the June sky his thoughts a million miles away or more. Yes. She knows this day well. Every moment of it is crystallized in her memory, like a fly trapped in amber, beautifully intact and long since dead.