When you remember your dreams, they are not dreams. They are messages. Sometimes answers come to you in ways that only you can understand. It is most important to have a clear mind to receive and understand the message.
The CT-11 helicopter lay on its side, the fuselage a shattered, smoldering wreck. During the crash, the helicopter’s rotor blades had hacked through the surrounding brush like gigantic machetes before gouging into the dirt and breaking apart. Smoke and steam lifted from the circle of blackened, soggy grass that defined the perimeter of the crash site within the narrow clearing.
Two rough-terrain fire trucks prowled the southern side of the site, the water cannons on top of the cabs swiveling from side to side like hungry snouts. Firefighters stomped through the grass, using shovels to tamp down any lingering flames. A group of techs in HazMat coveralls stepped gingerly around the scattered pieces of the helicopter, documenting the scene with cameras and cataloging the debris. Overhead, two small surveillance drones hovered.
Hikers and other curious folk wandered from the north down a trail that emptied into the clearing. They clustered along a yellow plastic tape labeled Crash Site Investigation - Keep Back that stretched across the trail. Chatting among themselves, they pointed and snapped photographs and videos on their smartphones.
Diana made her way down the trail, dressed in a pair of casual pants, a short jacket over a loose blouse, hiking boots.
When she reached the crowd at the tape, she tried to step through, but the people wouldn’t budge. She kept repeating, “Excuse me, excuse me,” but no one moved. It was as if they couldn’t hear her.
A badge with her press credentials hung from a neck lanyard. Even when she held up the badge, the others wouldn’t even so much as acknowledge her. She sidestepped to the left, hoping to get past the end of the tape where it had been tied to a tree. But another group of hikers blocked her way, held in position by a deputy sheriff.
“I need to get through,” Diana raised her voice to the deputy.
Ignoring her, the deputy made a call on a radio.
Diana tapped the shoulder of a woman in front of her. But the woman, like everyone else, didn’t respond. Diana tapped again, harder. The woman’s body was solid and very real, and Diana saw how her fingers wrinkled the woman’s jacket. So, Diana was physically here. But no matter, the woman didn’t respond.
Diana walked back along the line of spectators, feeling oddly disconnected from the scene. To determine if she was dreaming, she rubbed her eyes and tugged at her hair. It all felt real. She bit the inside of her lower lip until it hurt. All real.
She regarded the people along the yellow tape and wondered why everyone acted as if she was not here. Then she felt someone’s gaze. Diana scanned from left to right, and at the far right side of the tape, a plump, older woman was staring right at her. The woman appeared at loose ends, what with her baggy clothes and vintage down vest, and strands of hair dangling from under a knit cap.
Their eyes met, and Diana knew she had made a connection. At last, she thought, someone who might give me answers about what’s going on.
She passed behind a knot of people who blocked her view of the woman. Then, on reaching the other side, Diana discovered that the woman had vanished.
“Where did she go?” Diana asked aloud, frustrated, angry. What the hell am I hallucinating?
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish
Comment on this Bubble
Your comment and a link to this bubble will also appear in your Facebook feed.