For some people, dreams are nebulous nothings that disappear upon awakening, never to be remembered or discussed again. I have always had very vivid dreams. As I got older, my dreams began to encompass a full cast of characters and were so detailed I started writing them down so I could turn them into stories, or simply to remember the bizarre.

Sometimes I felt as if I truly lived only while I slept.

I often cry when I wake up.

Increasingly, dreams are the one place I feel safe and happy. Apparently, I am not alone in this sentiment given the overwhelming worldwide popularity of Lifesadream. Its first iteration years ago was as a virtual reality therapy program used to treat a variety of mental illnesses. Known as DreamTherapy, it incorporated positron emission tomography along with deep transcranial magnetic stimulation and a neuroelectro converter that transformed electric signals to images for review, aiding in more effective, targeted therapy. The success rate was nearly 100%, but even now the cost remains beyond the reach of most.

Subsequently, the makers of DreamTherapy modified it for use in the rehabilitation of criminals and enemies of the state (terrorists) with a program called NeuroRehab. Except in government usage, I doubt NeuroRehab will live beyond the experimental stages given the cost (executions cost pennies and the rise of penal labor camps has diminished interest in costly rehabilitation). Even so, to date, five serial killers, 13,012 rapists and 1,469 school shooters have been reintegrated into society as fully functional members thanks to NeuroRehab.

For some reason, none of those included from the enemy of the state group have survived the transcranial magnetic stimulation. I don't know why. They're still experimenting. Of course, there are plenty of subjects for testing, so I suspect it's only a matter of time before, one way or another, domestic discord is eliminated completely.

When DreamTherapy's proprietary technology patent expired, Lifesadream, a division of Neuralink, combined the existing technologies with an implantable neuronano chip that allows everyone to live in their dreams, or, for a more reasonable price, to relive their most precious memories over and over again.

Last year they introduced the neurocable and I've been trying to participate in the program ever since. Until the neurocable, you could only live in your own mind; but with the neurocable, two can exist in the mind of one.

After months of waiting, hoping and refreshing the waitlist page ad nauseum, three weeks ago I won the Lifesadream lottery. The waitlist has had millions of names since they first went live. So far, some one million people across the globe have entered Lifesadream facilities. In order to accommodate as many people as possible domestically, the U.S. government provided, at low cost to Neuralink, thousands of expropriated libraries and university campuses that had fallen into disuse.

As soon as I got the call, I quit my job and sold our house. Yesterday morning, I signed over power of attorney and our savings to the Lifesadream Foundation. They will use the money to maintain and care for my husband and I as we live out the remainder of our lives in my mind. My dreams. As I look at my husband sitting in his favorite chair, eyes vacant, I cannot wait.

**********

"Are you comfortable, Mrs. Pickering?"

It was evening. I was laying in a soft bed in a room that was probably a professor's office back in the day. The body suit in which they'd dressed me gently massaged my limbs. My husband was in the other bed, sleeping under a white comforter. There was an IV line in his arm, the bag hanging to the left of his bed. Mine was to my right. There were armchairs as well. We were surrounded by nurses and the surgeon we'd met that morning. A machine with various monitors stood between our beds, embedded in the wall and there was a desk with a chair and a monitor near the door. The windows were high up and I could see the sky was a pretty purple that would soon fade to black.

"Yes, thank you."

"Dr. Woburn..."

"Call me Maynard..."

"Dr. Woburn will be inserting the neuronano chip through the nasal cavity. It is painless and relatively quick. We'll start with Mr. Pickering and then we'll insert yours.

"Next, we'll attach the electromagnetic coils to both of you. We will wait until you fall asleep naturally since sedatives might affect your dreams, and then we will connect the neuro cable into the ports we placed above your ears this morning.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Do we ever wake up?"

She glanced at her tablet and said, "You have the lifetime package so we will keep you under until you die of natural causes. We will use the transcranial magnetic stimulator to maintain a state of infinite REM for both you and Mr. Pickering."

"What happens to people who don't have the lifetime package?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"The package. Some choose the End of Life package in which case we put them under and then after 24 hours, we inject them with Pentobarbital. Some, like you, choose the Lifetime package and we keep them until they pass. Some with a partner choose the Until Death Do Us Part package in which case we keep them under until one dies and then awaken the other who can then decide whether to go back under with an end of life package or go home. Depends on the desire and the available funds, of course.

"Some choose the Memory Lane package and run a series of isolated memories for a set period determined by price. At the end of that period they are awakened and go back to their lives. It's a kind of vacation for some people. It's a great stress reliever. I do it once a month."

"If he dies first, will I still dream with him?"

"That is unclear at this time, but it is possible."

"What have others said?"

"At this time, all our clients making use of the neurocable are still in a joint state of REM."

"There haven't been any deaths?"

The nurses exchanged a glance. "At this time, all our clients remain in a state of REM, either alone or with a partner."

"What happens if I die first?"

"As stated in the contract, if the dominant party predeceases the partner, the partner will be removed to our hospice facilities and kept comfortable until their passing."

"What if he dies first?"

"He will be cremated and buried with you upon your expiration."

"So, this is it. I won't see you or this room again?"

"All things being equal, no."

"Okay." I took a deep breath. "Thank you for all you are doing and will do for us. The world had gotten almost unbearable for us. For me. It was so bad I looked forward to sleeping every night as a short escape. I can't believe we can actually, truly live happily ever after now. It's a dream come true. Literally." I laughed. The nurses smiled.

"Are you ready, Mrs. Pickering?"

I looked over at my husband of 42 years.

"Yes."

**********

"Baby?"

As I slowly awakened, I felt my husband's arms around me, his body strong and warm. I opened my eyes, "Eddie?"

"Morning, baby," he said, kissing me softly. "You wouldn't believe the dream I had. I swear I was dreaming our whole life all night."

"Really?" I said, running a hand through hair that was thick, curly and brown.

"Yeah, it was wild. We had a kid, I started my own business, you taught physics for 30 years and then retired to take care of me because I got early onset Alzheimer's. It was a nightmare! I was so glad when I woke up this morning and it was all just a dream."

Looking into his eyes, I smile. "Me too, my love," I leaned up to kiss him. "Me, too."

I have a rather funny laugh

some say it’s quite the cackle

occasionally there is a snort

(which raises hubby’s hackles)

my laugh is loud

my smile is too

I could frown

and sometimes do

I could cry

I do that, too

but I’d much rather

not be blue

I prefer to laugh

till tears do fall

life’s much more fun

when I recall

the laughter, the fun

the days in the sun

the rain or the snow

it’s all great, you know

so I cackle and chuckle

and chortle and titter

and giggle too much

and avoid being bitter

I hope to spread a little joy

to those I meet each day

helping them (and me as well)

keep thunder clouds at bay.

Some years ago, I had the opportunity to spend a summer studying Spanish at La Universidad Católica in Quito, Ecuador as part of my undergraduate program. Although I had studied French all through high school and my first year of college, I switched to Spanish after passing a foreign language proficiency graduation requirement in French. I studied Spanish for two semesters and then I was off to Quito to squeeze a year of Intermediate Spanish into two months. I had the good fortune to live with a warm and welcoming Ecuadorian family in a comfortable home a short bus ride away from the university. They made my roommate and I feel very welcome.

My twentieth birthday happened to fall during the first week I was there. My host mother was kind enough to have a special treat at lunch that day, and her three adult children along with their spouses, her husband, the maid and my roommate all sang to me. When they finished, I said, "Mil gracias. Estoy embarazada." The smiles were wiped from all the heretofore friendly faces and you could have heard a pin drop.

Fortunately, one of her children spoke enough English to know that I had a near-perfect accent but seriously imperfect vocabulary: "embarazada" did not mean "embarrassed" as I thought, but rather "pregnant." She clarified what I said (to me) versus what I meant to say (to them), and all was well...although after that my host mother insisted I go to church with her every Sunday and seemed to watch my waistline rather closely for the rest of my stay.

I thought it went away,

they said it would,

the heart that squeezes

bleeding tears

as memories

of joys and sorrows

little hurts

and big dreams

flood the mind

shared moments

when you were

still

and I could call

or visit

or write

and know

you would be there

with smiles

and hugs

and laughter

and love;

I thought it went away,

and I could face each day

with you tucked safely

deeply

in a corner of my mind

ache softened

dulled

by the passing years

growing older

than you ever were

and away

from when

our lives

entwined;

I thought it went away.

But then yesterday,

--was it an old song?

the huge full moon

as I drove home from work?

nature dressed in fall colors

under the clear, blue sky?

a joke that would have made you laugh?--

I picked up the phone

~I picked up the phone~

to share a silly nothing,

but there's no number to dial

that you will answer

and I can no longer hear

the echo of your voice

and your only smiles

are in fading pictures

and our only hugs

are the ones I give myself

wearing your sweater

full of holes

falling to pieces

like me

after all this time

I thought it went away,

grief;

I was mistaken.

As the future folds in upon itself, I find myself drinking in the sky in all its glory - be it brilliant, clear blue; dotted with puffy, cotton clouds; steel gray or midnight black with pinpoints of light twinkling from a distant past.

I can't help but feel insignificant: a speck of meaningless, purposeless life in a vast universe that remains incomprehensible to my small mind, has no end in space or time, indeed, is infinite, sitting above me in shades of blues, grays and blacks that may only exist in my mind.

I have pages of notes delineating dreams I've had. Vivid, feels-real-how-is-this-a-dream-thank-God-this-is-a-dream-type dreams. Some of these dreams have led to feelings of déjà vu in daily life and cold fear as my subconscious reacts to a memory of something that did not happen.

As I write this, the water is spilling into the tunnel around me. People are running, screaming.

Stay, or run?

The first body just floated by.

I hear the sounds of steel bending, cement blocks exploding.

Now, it is dark. It won't be long.

If you read this, find my notes.

This is not the first time I've---

It is an ongoing joke between my husband and son that I am probably in the CIA, living undercover in the suburbs of New Jersey with my Russian immigrant husband and son as cover. I’ve never understood what they imagine my assignment to be; nor what about me encourages their thinking. I am an African-American educator with a PhD in Hispanic literature. I am a devoted wife. An adoring mother. Indeed, it is so unlikely as to be far-fetched albeit quite amusing.

Until it wasn’t. I mean, if I tell you, I have to kill you is not merely a line of fiction.

It’s my life.

And so, the day they made the joke in front of my husband’s worthless half brother, Aleksandr, (“former” KGB, ha, unbeknownst to his family), and his gaze sharpened on me, and I knew he knew that I knew that he knew. And he had to die.

And it had to be quick, fatal and undetectable.

My specialty.

“I’ll be right back, guys,” I said, getting up from the dining room table. The cookies should be done.”

“Chocolate chip?” my son asked. I nodded. “I hope you made at least three dozen. I could eat them all. Although Anna’s cookies are great, too,” he added about his girlfriend of the moment.

“I can always bake more, sweetheart,” I replied over my shoulder as I went to the kitchen.

After removing the cookie sheets from the oven, I placed several cookies on three dessert plates: one for my husband, one for my son, and one for Aleksandr. Grabbing a small brown jar from the back of the spice cabinet, I added a drop of the contents to the top cookie on Aleksandr’s plate. I replaced the jar before I picked up the plates and re-entered the dining room.

“Here you go guys! Let me know if you want more” I said, placing an identical plate in front of each of them. “Milk?”

Mouths full, I got a nod of yes from my son, no from Aleksandr and my husband. I could feel Aleksandr’s eyes following me as I left the room.

Back in the kitchen, I took a glass from the cabinet and milk from the refrigerator. As I poured, I heard a chair scrape the wood floor and fall in the dining room.

“What are you three doing now?”

“It’s Aleksandr!” my husband said. “Something’s wrong!”

I ran in the room. Aleksandr was on the floor, clutching his chest. He looked at me in pain and bewilderment. “Oh my God,” I screamed, kneeling next to my husband. “Call 911!” I said to my son.

The EMTs arrived within five minutes.

He was dead within three.

The medical examiner’s report ruled it a heart attack.

My secret is safe.

"And then he kissed the ground.," Billy said, grinning like an 8 year old instead of the 28-year-old husband and father that he was.

I rolled my eyes. "I can't believe you are smiling about having a fight on the basketball court. You could have been hurt!"

"Nah, they didn't know what hit'em. I was like a windmill, fists flying. It was so cool!"

I shook my head, exasperated. "How's your brother?"

"He's fine. Everyone's fine. The other guys ran off when they heard sirens."

"Sirens?!"

"Yeah. No biggie. They just warned us that we might want to play in another neighborhood. Not safe for foreigners on the courts around here."

"See! Jeez, Billy."

"It's stupid. This is my neighborhood, too. The courts are public. Some of the guys are cool. They call me Vlade for that Serbian guy on the Lakers."

"Isn't he like seven feet tall?"

"Not because I'm tall, because I sink three pointers like nobody's business."

I sighed. "I guess the guy who kissed the ground wasn't hurt too bad if they all ran away."

Looking anywhere but at me, Billy said, "well, funny thing, I was so crazy punching left and right, it was actually Alex that kissed the ground."

"Your friend, Alex?"

"It was an accident."

"An accident."

"And then he got up and punched me back, so we're even."

“There appears to have been a struggle.”

The captain and I were standing just inside the door to the apartment.

“I don't know, Cap. Don't you think it's a little over the top? I mean, look at that,” I said pointing to a shattered mirror.

“What about it?”

“Looks more like someone took a hammer to it than that it got knocked off a wall during a struggle.”

Cap walked over to the mirror and squatted down for a closer look. “You may be right, Les. But why make it look like a struggle?”

“To divert suspicion, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, a struggle lends itself to thinking the victim fought off a stranger.”

“But you don't think so.”

“No.”

“You think the victim knew her killer.”

“You know she did, Cap.”

He slowly stood and faced me, his face a mask.

“The building security cameras were non-functional, but the neighbor across the hall has a door camera activated by movement.”

Cap paled.

“We have a clear video of the killer entering and leaving.”

Uniformed officers filed in.

“You don't understand. It was an accident…”

“Captain Maynard Brunson, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…”