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Category:
Humor
Type: Fiction
Margret is a work in progress. She has been her whole life. Those around her, and the walls, watch and sigh.
Margret's life is a series of phases, or episodes, if you will. As she glides from one to the next, loved ones and the walls take notice...and sigh, as there is nothing to be done about any of it but let the show run on. She's bipolar, has an anxiety disorder, OCD, ADD, and suffers from insomnia. And she been working at it for over a decade. But progress as Margret makes, she seems not so much as to move forward, but rather from one place to another.
Excerpt
Margret in Progress:
Chapter 1:
Margret
It was a windy night. The kind that blew right through you. But damn if it didn't keep blowing my dress up. This just never comes up as a concern when I wear one but I'll be sworn and sure pay attention to local weather conditions from now on.
Margret (that's me), doesn't that just sound like an appropriate name right now? Well, it (the wind) kept blowing the branches of the tree against the windows. But, then the shadows they cast on the wall started to take on a little too much resemblance to shadows of other things. And they were. They were the nightmares vying for time in Margret's sleep when she got there. Pleasant dreams are never violent or strange enough to make it to the front lines of recollection. That tier of of exclusiveness is reserved for the absurd, and bad.
Not remembering how you've come to be in a dream of such sorts will produce one of two responses. If you actually happen to come by that question in a dream, you will know, or possibly someday learn, neither of them are pleasant.
But at this time in particular, she was not having a bad dream, but an absurd one, so the trauma factor was minimal. However the "wtf" factor was considerable. As she sailed across the placid waters of the crystal sea guided by the magical, and gilded nail file, to lands unknown, she thought, "This would be a stupid book."
Why couldn't she of had one of those dreams instead with the fascinating architecture and interior design. The environments of story. She fancied those, and luckily they were a common feature in slumbering wonderings. Days, at the least, weeks to be honest, she had been spending all her time sleeping. She was experiencing a rash of particularly vivid dreams again, and each time, their realness hooked her like a drug. And right now she was an addict searching for another dream.
Sure, there were some duds you'd stumble upon like the last one. And, some that would out right be shit, like the one where you were an "expendable" in desperate search of escape from a regime set on exterminating you. Or the one where you were paralyzed on a white, wrought iron, lounge chair in the garden, along with other women in the same eventuality. And as you lay there, a pretty blonde nurse with the classic updo and white, smock dress attended to each of you and administered IVs. You could feel the drugs burning through your veins and you couldn't even scream. But every now and then you'd catch something special. You'd watch the dream like the story in an old movie feature with credits and flaws in the film and everything. You'd live a lifetime and learn things you'd never thought of. You'd go places you'd never forget. Why, you might even return to such a place in another dream only to experience the wonder again.
As Margaret got up to refill her glass of wine and pop a couple more sleeping pills, the walls sat back and wondered when this phase would pass, and when the new one would come...and what it would entail. As the walls saw it, Margret's life resembled more a series of episodes. Episodes that continued to run long after the show should have been cancelled.
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