Open-Mike Dream

I had a strange dream. I dreamed that I went to an open-mike event where people could come and read out loud from their journals or from poems and other pieces they’d written. But this event was in a magical venue. In this “club” while you were at this supernatural microphone, your true inner-self would be revealed. An old woman might appear as a young girl as she read her diary or a little boy might appear as a knight as he read his adventure story.


One teenage boy read a contemplative poem he’d written. The words themselves seemed harmless, but those of us seated on the side on the stage could see that the boy’s soul was darkening. He began to grown a boney spine and the stubs of horns and the beginnings of wings out of his upper back. The people sitting near me and I whispered to each other, trying to decide if what we were seeing meant the boy was turning into something bad, like a gargoyle or a demon, or something not so bad, like the kinds of magical beasts Hagrid might make pets out of at Hogwarts. And we wondered, does the boy know what his inner-self looks like? Does he know what he’s turning into? Or will it be a surprise to him? Can he change the outcome? If his soul was turning gargoyle-ish, could he turn the situation around somehow?

 knight and dragon

I woke up before my questions were answered, but it was such an interesting dream, I thought about it for days.


Sometimes I use my dreams in my novels. I now put the question to you, blog readers of mine. Do you remember your dreams? And if you do, do you ever write them into poems or stories?


2 Responses to “Open-Mike Dream”

  1. Wendy Says:

    When I was around 13 or 14 years old, I had a very powerful dream in which I was a Robin Hood like character who was captured by my evil nemesis – I actually had a large cage dropped down on me and I was unable to escape. It was a very sad dream, and in it, while in captivity, I wrote a poem which was so heart-wrenchingly sweetly sad and spiritually beautiful that I wept while writing it, and was still weeping when I awoke. I grabbed a pen and wrote it down before I could forget it, feeling it was the mose beautiful thing I had ever heard. Unfortunately, when I re-read it later , even my 14-year-old self could see it was the worst type of hokey, schlocky, UNbeautiful piece of writing you can imagine. Since then, I’ve had a number of vivid, realistic, meaningful dreams I call “Power Dreams,” which have stayed with me for years, even decades.

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