The Wandering Dreams of the Dead

Nolan Greene

 

In a lonely cemetery on the outskirts of town: the spirits play. They are still linked to the earth by the lights passing cars bounce off of their polished headstones, the sounds of the crickets at night, and the imagination of passers by.

Tonight the grave of Johanna Wilkins, a dearly beloved mother, sister and wife, is stirred. What force is to blame is not clear, maybe it was a thought drifting on the wind or the energy from a star twinkling above. Whatever was responsible is largely inconsequential, but the dreams of Johanna are the subject that concerns us now.

Light. That's all there is. No, wait. There's a shape in the light... A lotus flower surrounded by golden pollen specks. Radiating out from this central point comes colour and sound.

Warmth. I float in the salty sea of my youth. Sun beating down upon me, browning my skin. I smile, and it all fades back to the thoughtless black of death.

The thought on the wind blows away as fast as it came. It moves on to the next soul and the next dream.