The Dream Garden 

Blood-red lilies burst through a sea of deep-purple lavender in the bruised garden of my mind. It’s a dream. I know it’s a dream, but it seems real. It seems real. Mourning doves peck the tiny, pink rosebuds til they wither and drop into the dry leaves below. I shoo-shoo them, but they don’t fly away. They don’t see me. They don’t see me because I’m not there. I’m not there. The gray, stone angel prays under the gnarled, old crabapple tree that sprinkles her with its dying, yellow leaves. No one hears her. And yet, she prays. She still prays. She never stops. An innocent, yellow goldfinch preens and shakes in the cracked-birdbath fountain as a slippery, black snake slithers over the shiny, wet rocks and moss below. She doesn’t know what she doesn’t know.

The waning sun goes down on my dream. Delicate, brown does tiptoe through the lightly rustling garden in the purpled twilight to nibble the white-flowering hostas. A pair of black squirrels chase each other up and down an ash tree, and a frenzied chipmunk scurries for cover as a sharp-eyed hawk sweeps overhead. The twilight deepens, and the does retreat under a sprinkling of twinkling, silver stars. The pale-rose plumes of the ornamental grass bow gracefully to the light breeze, and the stone angel under the tree prays for peace. Prays for peace. Later, a bunny squeals, soaring through the dark sky in the sharp talons of a night owl. No one hears or sees it but me. And the silent silver moon. In my dream.

The maple tree scrapes me awake, scratching its long, spindly, fingernail-like branches against the bedroom windowpane. The heady perfume of lilac wafts in. I slip from under the covers and pad through the shadows to peer out at the pale, glistening night and the slumbering garden below. So peaceful. So graceful. More like a dream than a dream. I shake my head to clear it, and then, unexpectedly, I remember. He left me. I feel it, not in my body, but deep in my soul. It punches me suddenly in the gut. I drop to my knees and bang my forehead on the cold floor. I can’t breathe. I gasp for air. Is this what it feels like when your heart breaks? I squeeze my temple between my damp palms to stop the sudden pounding that builds and builds and rises to a deafening crescendo. I press harder. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. I suck in a breath and scream. It isn’t real. It can’t be real. It will not be real. But it seems real. It is real. He’s gone.

The Ocean

I sit in sand to paint the blue ocean, but a crab keeps pinching my toes. I stroke cerulean swells and indigo waves, but a seagull pecks at my nose. I jump from my spot and run down the beach to leave my tormentors to play. I’ll return when it’s safe from those watery pests, but for now, I will stay far away. The ocean is vast, filled with dolphins and whales. I see their dark shadows and slippery, tall tails. But wait, there’s a lake, I’ve heard people say, that harbors a monster, but that’s faraway. Perhaps it’s the ocean they speak of instead. It could be a monster. I could see its head. I run back for my painting, but the seagull is there. He’s painting the crab who’s parting his hair. I don’t think I’m going to finish today. I think I’ll come back when they all go away.

About the Author 

Terri Greening is a novelist and creative writer. She writes thrillers, mysteries and suspense novels in genres that include historical fiction, paranormal suspense and romantic suspense.