The object here is to write down what you dream for a few mornings in a row, then pick one to expand on. The key is, tell the story as though it were plausible, don’t let the reader know it’s a dream – no matter how fantastical it is.

I left the formatting in here how it came to me, partly to add to the dreamlike quality of stream of consciousness. I’m not convinced I’d do that in a story, but it was an interesting exercise. I found it difficult, because I don’t like discussing my dreams with others. Plus, the next night, I had a nightmare. Sigh.

(Warning, profanity.)

“Untitled”

The room was painted white, but had yellowed with time to a dull sort of ecru that didn’t do justice to such a posh-sounding name. More like cigarette-white, or age-white, or long-tooth white. The paint didn’t have many cracks in it, but looked like it should. It wasn’t the sort of place that you’d think of having nice paint, that’s for sure. The carpet was dog shit brown, probably piled once but now flattened and walked on. There were probably wax stains if you looked hard enough, but nothing was immediately visible. The two beds stood next to each other, forming an “L” shape in the room. Twin-sized, they had yellow sheets and individualized blankets. It looked a lot like a dorm room. Holly’s was the lower one, parallel to the bottom wall, to the left of the door. The other one was above it, along the opposite wall with the room’s only window. The view didn’t look out on anything interesting. The second door was opposite the first, but looked flimsy – one of those hollow-core doors available cheaply from places like Home Depot. It had a dead-bold like you’d find in a front door of a house, which was strange. Why an interior door, and such a flimsy one, needed a deadbolt, wasn’t immediately apparent. It was open, at any rate, and looked out on a dingy hall. A bathroom as just visible up three short stairs, and if you peeked out the door, another room opened to the left. A fat kid lived there, a weird guy, heroin addict and loser. He was greasy skinned and unattractive, going out of his way to dress cool – which really meant he looked frumpy and unemployed. He actually worked for a large drug-store chain, though one would have thought they had rules against hiring addicts.

The lower door opened onto a normal hallway, but the door was closed. The upper door was closed as soon as it became apparent that the neighbor was in fact present. He started to say something to the person whose hand was on the door, but the door was slammed and locked so quickly the words were unintelligible. He hollered for a while on the other side of it but gave up, a spurt of rage streaming through the flimsy wood.

“We need to get a stronger door,” Holly said musingly.

“Yeah, or move,” her roommate said. “Why not just move?”

“We can’t afford to,” Holly pointed out.

“Fuck that. I still think we should try.”

The pounding on the door grew louder. “Fuck off!” she screamed, slamming her hand against the door hard enough to make it rattle. “Fucking addict!!”

A hurt silence descended but she stared furiously at Holly. “I don’t like it here, so close to him,” she growled. “We have to find a way out of this.”

“Yeah,” Holly agreed. “But how?”

“I don’t know. I’ll look up places tonight okay? See what you can find at work tomorrow. Let’s have a plan in place by the end of this weekend.”

They could hear the footsteps receding and then the other door slammed.

“Good,” she grumbled. “Maybe he’ll stay asleep for the rest of the night.”

Holly grimaced. “Like last night? Three o’clock in the morning?”

“I hate it here,” she repeated. “I fucking hate it here.”

Holly looked resolute suddenly. “All right. I’m with you. Have a plan in place by the end of the weekend, okay?”

They looked at each other and a shared resolve grew. By the end of the weekend.

Or else.