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truepennyThe nightmare from which I awoke at 5:00 a.m. this morning was clearly sponsored by the entrance to Hell known as Felbrough.
Started out in a kind of Starship Troopers type training scene (movie, not book). Interrupted by small balding guy being pursued by something that looked like a bear but was actually a plague-carrier. Chaos ensues, and we lose the military element. Small balding guy goes one way; his beautiful blonde daughter finds a convenient horse and goes another. Long Blair-Witch-esque chase sequence, in which the plague-carrier catches the small balding guy, and then turns around and takes off after the beautiful blonde daughter. Meanwhile, the forces of order have morphed from military guys to, um, well, witches, and are putting up a quarantine. The Beautiful Blonde Daughter (who is becoming less Beautiful and more like me as the dream progresses) is racing for the roadblock when the plague-carrier comes out of nowhere and drags her off the horse. She gets away from it, makes it to the roadblock, but they won't let her through. They're looking for a woman on horseback, and just as she's trying to convince them she's not infected, the horse comes galloping up. They know she's the woman they're looking for, and they know she's infected with the plague and it's already beginning to affect her. (Nasty sniggering laugh from the plague-carrier here.) Plague in this nightmare is rather like rabies, so there's no cure, no hope of recovery, and one goes slowly and nastily mad before one dies. Things just kept getting worse and worse and more and more grindingly horrible, until I finally woke up.
Have done SOMETHING to my lower back. Harbor a dark suspicion that it was something to do with the nightmare. The person who invented the heating pad should be canonized.
Another rejection letter yesterday, this one for not being "different" enough. Wtf? There are times when editorial comments on rejection letters are really helpful, and then there are the times I wish they'd stick to the old reliable, "we regret that your submission does not suit our current needs." 'Cause, sure, it's as helpful as a screen-door on a submarine, but it gets the job done, and it doesn't send me into a hopeless hermeneutic spiral of trying to deconstruct the fundamentally undeconstructable. Grump.
Started out in a kind of Starship Troopers type training scene (movie, not book). Interrupted by small balding guy being pursued by something that looked like a bear but was actually a plague-carrier. Chaos ensues, and we lose the military element. Small balding guy goes one way; his beautiful blonde daughter finds a convenient horse and goes another. Long Blair-Witch-esque chase sequence, in which the plague-carrier catches the small balding guy, and then turns around and takes off after the beautiful blonde daughter. Meanwhile, the forces of order have morphed from military guys to, um, well, witches, and are putting up a quarantine. The Beautiful Blonde Daughter (who is becoming less Beautiful and more like me as the dream progresses) is racing for the roadblock when the plague-carrier comes out of nowhere and drags her off the horse. She gets away from it, makes it to the roadblock, but they won't let her through. They're looking for a woman on horseback, and just as she's trying to convince them she's not infected, the horse comes galloping up. They know she's the woman they're looking for, and they know she's infected with the plague and it's already beginning to affect her. (Nasty sniggering laugh from the plague-carrier here.) Plague in this nightmare is rather like rabies, so there's no cure, no hope of recovery, and one goes slowly and nastily mad before one dies. Things just kept getting worse and worse and more and more grindingly horrible, until I finally woke up.
Have done SOMETHING to my lower back. Harbor a dark suspicion that it was something to do with the nightmare. The person who invented the heating pad should be canonized.
Another rejection letter yesterday, this one for not being "different" enough. Wtf? There are times when editorial comments on rejection letters are really helpful, and then there are the times I wish they'd stick to the old reliable, "we regret that your submission does not suit our current needs." 'Cause, sure, it's as helpful as a screen-door on a submarine, but it gets the job done, and it doesn't send me into a hopeless hermeneutic spiral of trying to deconstruct the fundamentally undeconstructable. Grump.
