My mother told me once that my first word was “light”. Not mama, not sissy, certainly not dada. Light. I wonder what I meant. I suppose I was asking for the light to be turned on in my bedroom. That’s something a little child would say. But I don’t remember ever being afraid of the dark. Maybe I was asking for the light to be turned off. The dark was safe, after all. Nothing bad ever happened to me in the dark.

The ropes are wet with my sweat but they cut and abrade, they don't give a bit around my wrists. The old kitchen chair creaks beneath me, but repeated testing shifts of weight have proved it solid. The filthy handkerchief knotted at the back of my head cuts into the meat of my cheeks, keeps my teeth from meeting and dries up every bit of spit . My mouth feels like the Sahara and tastes like the bottom of a litterbox. My eyes burn with salt as he counts the bills in the bag. He turns to me.

"It's light."

I keep on walking, not sure of where I am, surprised to be anywhere. I always assumed that after the end there was nothing, no place to be, no me to be anywhere. I think about my life, my choices. Some of them I'm proud of. Some were mistakes, but honest ones. But some, I did wrong thing - knowingly. I wince at those. Judgment? Or just a natural train of thought? I keep on walking, walking into the light, hoping that when I get where I'm going, it won't turn out to be cast by any type of flame.

Also, dream last night included a superhero who was a giant desert tortoise taking on supervillain that was a giant intelligent lettuce. Not sure it would make a good story, but the image was striking. Guess it could be used as satire of how superheroes sometimes end up with villains specifically tailored to be taken down by their superpower.

a superhero who was a giant desert tortoise taking on supervillain that was a giant intelligent lettuce.

BWAHAHAHA! That is SO much better than my dream!

Yeah, that is an excellent dream.

sigh ... I never remember my dreams, although I doubt they've ever been as awesome as Typo's.

150 pages on the book today.Which I think is about halfway, unless some subplot really jumps off.(Which it might...I mean, I know who the killer is and such, but am not entirely sure how to get there.)

I never remember my dreams, although I doubt they've ever been as awesome as Typo's.

Easy to achieve. JUst get a chronic medical condition which means you never sleep more than 2 hours in a row without having to get up. With all that time spent falling asleep and waking up, you too can have vivid dreams and no problem remembering them.

Streetwalker

Every day she walks the sidewalks, her steps heavy, leaden, slapping the cement with dull thuds that assault her ears as they assault her joints. She counts the steps, getting lost in the numbers when they remind her that the mortgage is due in two days; she's short. There's power in numbers, but only if they add up in her favor. Her steps keep adding up until she arrives at work where commitment and ability earn only more duties and responsibility without the just rewards that a good worker expects. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.