The Exam Paper I Sat in My Sleep
The week before finals I dreamed the entire chemistry exam — six questions, in order. I told my study group. We revised the dreamed topics. Five of the six came up.
Readers believed 77% of the time (across 1015 True/Fake verdicts on this author's stories)
The week before finals I dreamed the entire chemistry exam — six questions, in order. I told my study group. We revised the dreamed topics. Five of the six came up.
Three nights I dreamed the number 88 and a specific fire. I bought raffle ticket 88 for a hospice — then gave it away, because in the dream, winning was the disaster.
My aunt left me a music box she warned me never to let finish its song. I laughed. It began playing on its own at night, from a locked drawer, always stopping one note before the end, as if waiting for me to let it.
Marmalade was the laziest cat alive until the night he clawed my face and howled at a spot on the wall. I nearly threw him outside. Instead I called the gas company.
I counted eleven magpies on the ridge tiles before breakfast. My grandmother went white and told me to unplug everything. That afternoon our kitchen caught.
For a whole week I kept picking up my phone a second before it lit up, and it was always my mother. Then came the night I answered a call that had not started yet.
I went under at the reservoir and stopped fighting. There was a dark tunnel and a light, and my grandmother, gone twelve years, told me it was not my turn. Then hands pulled me up.
In a meeting I suddenly knew every word before it was spoken — the joke, the interruption, the spilled coffee, the exact sentence my manager would end on. I mouthed the last line as she said it.