7th-Storytelling Dream Sequence | Lecture Note

University:
Cheyney University of Pennsylvania
Course:
ENGL 4421 | Creative Writing
Academic year:

2022
Views:

51

Pages:

1
Author:

Kayson Turner

Sasha jolted awake, gasping for breath, her pulse racing as fragments of the nightmare clung to her mind like wet, heavy cobwebs. It had started in a familiar place, her childhood home, but everything was wrong. The once cozy living room was drenched in shadows that twisted and danced along the walls, shapes warping like melting wax. The family photos on the mantle were cracked, each smiling face smeared with an inky darkness, leaving only hollow eyes that seemed to stare straight into her soul. She walked through the house, feeling the floorboards creak beneath her feet as if something hidden within them was shifting, breathing. A cold breeze brushed past her, carrying a faint smell of ashes, and she turned to see the outline of a door at the end of a hallway that didn’t belong. It was a door she’d never seen before, blackened and scarred, with deep gashes etched into the wood like claw marks. The faint sound of whispers seeped through its frame, pulling her forward against her will. Her hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob. On the other side was a field, barren and gray, stretching endlessly under a sky bruised with angry clouds. The grass, brittle and dead, crunched underfoot as she moved toward a solitary tree in the center of the field. Something compelled her to look up, and as she did, her breath caught in her throat. Dangling from the branches were mirrors. She approached one cautiously and looked into it, only to see her own reflection staring back, her face warped and distorted. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, her eyes dark and hollow. Suddenly, the ground began to shake, and the mirrors shattered in unison, their fragments raining down like shards of frozen rain. When she dared to look again, the tree was burning, flames licking up the branches and consuming the twisted wood with a hungry, feverish glow. Black smoke rose into the sky, thick and suffocating, and through it, she could make out faint images—the faces of her family, flickering in the flames, each twisted in silent agony. The last thing she saw before waking was the charred ground beneath her, where the tree once stood. In its place, etched into the earth, was a single word in ashes: Beware. Now, in her bed, drenched in sweat, Sasha gripped the sheets tightly. She could still feel the bite of cold metal on her fingers, the taste of smoke in her throat. It was only a dream, she told herself, trying to quiet her pounding heart. But as she glanced around her bedroom, her eyes caught a small, ominous detail—the faint scent of ashes lingering in the air.

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