The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery

PROLOGUE

Corrine Larson bit her lip, stifling a scream as she turned slightly, struggling to open her eyes. She couldn’t remember if he’d beaten her for one hour or six, but she knew she was dying. Her body begging to shut down. She’d never heard the death rattle, but she recognized it now, deep inside her chest, with each shallow, painful breath.

Managing only a narrow slit with her left eye, she stared at him, conveying her hatred. He’d used her, and because of her, others would die. A small whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it. It wasn’t for her. She didn’t mind dying. Except for. . .

Corrine fought the thoughts threatening to overwhelm her, concentrating on the new pain caused by the salty tears coursing down her face. Her tortured mind honed in on her one satisfaction. That one ray of light in the darkness: She hadn’t told him everything.

Drawing in one last ragged breath, she closed her eye, allowing the feel of the cool damp concrete to soothe her burning body. It was almost over.

He whistled softly, a haunting rendition of I Saw the Light, as he loaded the gun.

Corrine turned her thoughts to Sarah and her child. He would kill them. Or worse. Another whimper escaped her lips. Why? Why hadn’t she just left it alone? Sarah had been safe. Her child had been safe. And now, because her reporter’s nose had sniffed a story they were all going to die.

Emotional pain washed over her in waves, drowning out the physical pain. Hurting even worse. There had to be something she could do. Some way to undo the damage she’d done.

She sifted through her memory, searching, rejecting and searching again. She’d written an article once about a psychic who believed your dying thoughts could travel across time and space, influencing the outcome of events to come. Maybe the psychic was right. Maybe if she tried hard enough she could reach across time and space. Warn Sarah.

Rough hands jerked at her hair, raising her from the bloody warehouse floor. She felt the cold steel pressed against the back of her head, heard the sound of the gun cocking. She’d always thought her dying thoughts would be of Rob or Gavin; instead, she honed on in the image of Sarah and her child. As the bullet shattered her brain, she held the image in her mind and silently screamed, He’s coming Sarah. He wants to destroy you.

# # #

Murder is a sin. You’ll go to hell.

“It wasn’t murder—it was self defense.”

He hated the voice in his head. She was always bitching at him. Always butting in. Preaching. A cruel smile twisted the handsome features. Today it didn’t matter. Today was a day of celebration. Soon he’d have what was rightfully his. All the years of waiting would be over. Whistling softly, he pulled away from the dumpster and parked the car. Just a few little things to finish. Pulling the police cap down low he entered the apartment building.

“Evening officer, can I help you?”

“Just delivering some luggage to Ms. Larson.”

The security guard checked the register. “Looks like Ms. Larson is out this evening.”

“Yeah, I know. She gave me a key and told me to set it inside the door. Working on some big story and needed to meet the mayor or somebody. Don’t know why the city wants to waste the taxpayers’ money and use me as her damn courier, but here I am.”
The guard grinned. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Shrugging in sympathy, he turned his attention to the crossword puzzle. “Go on up.”

He walked slowly, taking his time. The bitch had been tougher than he’d thought. She’d cost him a whole fucking day. He wouldn’t rush things now, though. Everything had to play out just right. All he had to do was make it look like she’d never left town.

What if she told someone?

The thought enraged him. He cursed softly as he slipped the key into the lock. That was the trouble with women—they talked too damn much.

And she wouldn’t scream, would she?

He clenched his fists. The bitch just wouldn’t scream. A deep ache started inside his groin. No screaming and no satisfaction. Too old. He liked them young, breasts just starting to bud. Like the one he’d glimpsed in the alley on his way in. Maybe she was still there. Maybe. . .

Unclenching his fists, he ignored the voice. It didn’t matter. He had what he wanted. Setting the luggage inside the door, he relocked it and pulled out the faded snapshot from his shirt pocket. He felt it then. Joy. Pure unadulterated joy. She would scream. Scream for every one of the six long years he’d wasted searching for her.
Laughing he placed the photo back inside his pocket. Time could be cruel, but not this time. He’d been given a bonus. Oh, yes, a definite bonus. Maybe he’d let Sarah live and just take the child. He liked that idea.

The throbbing in his groin increased, reminding him he had a mission to complete. Checking his gun, he screwed the silencer into place. The cameras had seen only what he wanted them to see, but the guard would have to be dealt with. He chuckled. Everyone knew about the corruption in the police ranks. The bitch had actually written an article on it. By the time they stopped chasing that lead, he’d be long gone.

The security guard glanced up as the elevator doors opened. “Everything okay, buddy?”
“Everything is just fine now,” he said, raising the gun. He chuckled again at the look of surprise that crossed the guard’s face, right before the bullet pierced his heart.

Murder is a sin.

“I told you, it’s not my fault. She’s the reason I have to kill.”

You like killing.

He whistled as he exited the building and glanced at the dumpster. He didn’t like killing. He was just cleaning up the trash.

Clouds hung low in the sky, threatening to open up any minute. He listened to the whimpers coming from the alley. She was still there. An omen. It really was his lucky day. He approached her slowly, his voice low and gentle. “Aren’t you a little young to be out this late at night?” The girl stopped her whimpering and looked at him. He saw the fear reflected in her deep blue eyes slowly dissipate as she looked at the uniform. She nodded. Smiling, he held out his hand. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
Excitement coursed through his body as she placed her small hand in his. This one would be a screamer. Whistling softly, he buckled her in and brushed the blonde curls away from her face. “Did you know tomorrow is Mother’s Day?”





OTHER BOOKS BY LINDA S. PRATHER

#samplesunday Lessons From The Sparrow - A short story

Pulling the faded green sweater closer around my thin shoulders I shivered slightly. The office was cold. Perhaps Dr. Burgess had turned down the thermostat, hoping the cold would somehow distract me from the words he was saying. He was still talking, but my mind wandered away from him. Away from the cold office to another time. Another place.

"Did I ever tell you the story about the Sparrow, Dr. Burgess?"

"Ms. Caroll. . .no. No, you didn't."

I smiled at him across the desk top as my thoughts continued to wander back seventy two years.

# # #

"Mary Elizabeth!"

Mother's voice was shrill and the use of both names told me I was in deep trouble.

"What'd you do, Mary?" Jimmy Lee whispered, his eyes growing huge as only a six year old's can. Like me, he knew both names meant mom was really mad. Not just stand you in the corner mad, but really mad.

Standing outside my bedroom door I listened to mom mumbling to herself. "This child is going to be the death of me."

"Oh, no." I whispered glancing sideways at Jimmy Lee. "Bobber."

Opening the door I stepped inside, my gaze going to the shoe box in the middle of my bed. Mom stood on the opposite side of the room, hands on her hips, eyes glaring as her nostrils flared. Her flaming red hair, much like my own, seemed to stand on edge. Another indication her Irish temper was flaring out of control. Picking up the box I glanced at the tiny brown bird inside. His head was still bobbing up and down. He was still alive.

"He flew into the window." I stated, my own temper starting to flare. "We named him Bobber, because his head keeps bobbing up and down. See?"

I held the box out so she could look inside, believing that the sight of Bobber's little head going up and down would melt her heart, like it had melted mine.

"You know birds have lice and they carry disease. Now you take that bird outside right this minute and you bury it."

"Mom, he isn't dead yet!"

She sighed, jerking the bedspread from my rumpled bed. "Well, he's almost dead. Or at the very least he's dying. It'd be a kind thing for you to do, Mary Carroll."

"Would you bury me if I wasn't dead, mommy?" Jimmy Lee stared at her, eyes huge, face pale.

"Of course not, honey, but you're not a bird."

"God made the birds too, mom." I whispered, horrified that my own mother would contemplate such a thing. I watched as emotions flittered across her face. Anger, frustration, and finally acceptance. I knew I had her. She couldn't argue with God.

"Okay, but get it out of your room."

Grabbing Jimmy by the hand I took the box outside and placed drops of water along Bobber's tiny beak. He managed to swallow a few drops.

"Can we take him to the vet, Mary?"

"I don't think so, Jimmy. I don't have enough money."

"How much does it cost?"

"More than two dollars, and that's all I've got."

Jimmy glanced into the box, a huge tear clinging to the edge of his eyelashes. "Gosh, that's a lot."

The tiny head continued to bob up and down as if he had pounding headache. I could tell he was suffering.

"Mom's right, you know. I should probably go ahead and kill him." My voice quivered as hot tears ran down my face.

"If I were a man I'd do it for you."

Jimmy wiped at his own tears and I hugged him. "I know you would."

Forgetting about the lice and diseases I picked Bobber up in my hand and his head stopped bobbing. My closeness seemed to comfort him.

"You know the sparrow was the bird that stayed around Jesus when he was on the cross." I smiled at Jimmy as I sat down crossed legged on the grass.

"Really?" Jimmy asked, joining me in the grass.

"Yep. This is a very special bird."

Jimmy scooted closer and placed an arm around my shoulder. "He likes it when you hold him."

"Yeah, it seems to make him feel better. He knows he's not alone. " Sighing I stroked the small head. "Well, little bird it's up to you and God now. You have to choose. No one has the right to make that choice for you."

I held him until he stopped breathing. Jimmy and I buried him under the old oak tree in the front yard. We both felt good. Bobber didn't die alone, and he made the decision, not us. That moment set the pace for the next 72 years of my life. I'd learned a lot from that little sparrow.

# # #

"Ms. Carroll?"

Coming back to the present I reached across the desk and squeezed Dr. Burgess' hand gently. He was such a nice young man. Seemed like as I got older the doctors kept getting younger. And he seemed to be taking this so personally. Almost as if somehow my illness was his fault.

"Ms. Carroll, did you hear what I said?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

Dr. Burgess sighed, standing up and coming around the desk. "Is there someone with you?"

"Why, yes. My granddaughter is in the waiting room."

"Would you mind waiting here just a minute? I'd like to talk with her."

I listened as they whispered outside the door. He was afraid I hadn't understood. I understood just fine. I was old, not senile. My cancer was growing at a rapid rate. Maybe six months, no longer.

"Grandma, are you ready to go home now?" Mary Carol, my namesake, looked at me through teary eyes.

"Yes, I'd like that." Grabbing my walker I stood up and started the slow process of making it from the office out the front door to the car.

Mary Carol was quiet all the way to the car and the short ride home. I knew she was hurting. Thinking about my death. My funeral. Well, I wasn't dead yet.

"How's art school?" I asked to break the silence.

"Oh, I don't know, Grandma. I was thinking of dropping out and coming home. Maybe it was all just a dream. I mean, there are too many great artists out there already."

"Did I ever tell you the story about the sparrow?"

Mary Carol grinned. "Yes, Grandma, you did. About a hundred times."

"Well, Mary Carol, you remember it. Don't you go burying things before they're dead. Not dreams and not people. Life is everlasting. People die and babies are born every day. Dreams never die. Unless you let them."

She looked at me thoughtfully. I knew for the first time the true meaning of the story had come out for her. Pulling into the driveway she parked the car and hugged me. "I won't forget, Grandma."

The old house looked comfortable. In my eighty years I'd lived many dreams there. The sparrow had taught me never to bury anything before it died. Not dreams, not people, not things. I snorted remembering the doctor's words. Six months, no longer. Made up my mind right then and there I'd live at least eight just to show him I could.

My gaze drifted to the ancient oak in the front yard. "Look, Mary Carol, the sparrows are nesting. We'll have babies soon."

The Ones Who Stayed Behind--A short story WIP

I started this last night, and it's actually a spin off from Tell Me Your Dreams, which I hope to enhance in the near future. I'd love your opinions on what you think of this. It's not my normal genre, although there will be a mystery aspect. It's also slipstream, which is something I've never tried before. All crits and comments are definitely welcome.

THE ONES WHO STAYED BEHIND

"Goodnight, Ms. Barnes."

"Goodnight, Jamie. Have a great weekend, and don't bother locking up I'm shutting down early tonight myself."

Closing the file on Sylvia Scott, Jenna Barnes breathed a sigh of relief and satisfaction. Contrary to what most people believed, nightmares weren't always just dreams. Some became real, terrifying and deadly. The human psyche had an amazing ability to create things. Things that could actually manifest. Things that could not only scare you, but trap you forever in the nightmare of your dreams.

Leaning back she closed her eyes, allowing the quiet to relax the stiff muscles around her neck and shoulders. She felt it then. The slight chill in the room. Another amazing aspect of the human psyche. The subtle ability to sense what we can't see. The physical reaction to an unknown mental stimulation. The room grew colder. She could feel the hair rising on the back of her neck. The slight increase in heartbeat accompanied by shorter breaths. A surge of adrenaline creating a strange sensation in her bowels that slowly spread upward, down her arms, causing a slight tremor in her hands as they gripped the arms of the chair. Someone was watching her.

Opening her eyes she watched as her breath formed a small stream of mist. He was standing in the doorway, watching her with huge pale eyes the color of a cold morning grey mist. He was young. Five, maybe six. Sandy blonde curls were tousled as if he'd just woken. His clothing was period, but it was his feet that bothered her most. Barefoot and covered in mud that left small impressions on her Rose colored carpet. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in. I'm Dr. Jenna Barnes. And you are?"

"Matthew. My friends call me Mattie." He took a step into the room. "Are you the dream lady?"

"Some people call me that. Are you having bad dreams, Mattie?"

He nodded, shuffling one foot in front of him. "She wants to stay with them, but I don't want to."

Moving slowly Jenna reached for a note pad and jotted down several notes. A million questions were racing through her mind, but she knew she had to go slow. He needed to be able to trust her, and she would have to earn that trust. "Would you like to talk about it?"

He nodded, taking one step closer to the sofa. "It's my birthday."

"Really? Well, happy birthday. And that makes you how old?"

Reaching the sofa he rubbed one hand up and down the arm. "Six."

"You can sit down if you'd like, Mattie."

He walked slowly around the sofa, letting one hand slide gently over the fabric. "You can't help me can you?"

Jenna felt her heartbeat quicken as she sensed his retreat. She was going to lose him unless she acted quickly. And she knew she had to be honest with him if she was going to gain his trust. "I think I can, Mattie. Maybe not exactly in the way you really want, but I can help."

"I have to go now." He let his hand slide slowly along the back of the sofa, head bowed as he moved slowly toward the door.

"Would you like to make an appointment to come back? I'd really like to talk to you about your dreams."

He nodded, stopping just inside the doorway. Grabbing her appointment book Jenna turned the page. "How about the same time tomorrow?"

He nodded again, shuffling his feet slowly toward the front door. He turned, hand on the doorknob, pale eyes misty. "You know they're not really dreams, don't you?"

Jenna swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that threatened to choke her. "Yes, Mattie, I know they're not really dreams."

# # #


Love the mystery and suspense of the The Killing? Check out The Jacody Ives Mysteries.

Tell Me Your Dreams - A short story WIP

This is actually the first draft of something I hope to make much better, and I hope you'll let me know what you think of it. Not my normal genre, or normal style, but something that kept rolling around in my head until I put it down on paper. I hope you enjoy it.

Tell Me Your Dreams

"Dr. Centers?"

"Yes, Maralee."

"Miss Bishop is here to see you."

Mark Centers frowned, checking the calendar on his desk. Crystal wasn't scheduled today. In fact, if he had his way Crystal would never be scheduled to see him again. One of those patients every psychiatrist hated. Nothing wrong with her that a good old fashioned spanking wouldn't have cured years ago. Too pretty, too rich and definitely too spoiled.

"Send her in Maralee."

Crystal smiled as she pushed her way past the receptionist, closing the door in her face. "Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Centers. Daddy will be so pleased with you, and I'll make sure there's a little something extra on your next check."

Mark watched as she took her seat on the sofa, hiking her skirt to show off a brief outline of pink lace. At least she was wearing underwear this time.

"We've talked about this before, Crystal. You can't just come in any time you want. You need to make an appointment."

Crystal Bishop put on her best poor little rich girl pout. The one that always got her what she wanted. "I want to tell you my dreams."

"We've also talked about that before, Crystal. I don't believe that telling me your dreams would be in your best interest. There are other areas you need to work on. Areas you keep avoiding."

Crystal wound a strand of long blonde hair around her finger. "You listened to Jennifer Dick's dreams and I know her father isn't paying you what my father is paying."

Mark sighed, closed the file and stood up. "It's not about the money, Crystal. Jennifer's dreams were different than yours, something that was beneficial to her therapy."

Crossing to the sofa he handed her a business card. "I've arranged for you to see a very good friend of mine. I think you'll be much happier there. She'll listen to your dreams if that's what you want."

Crystal took the card, stared at it for a moment and tossed it on the floor. "You're dumping me? Nobody dumps me, Dr. Centers. Nobody."

Mark watched the gentle flush spreading up her face. "I'm sorry, Crystal. I just don't think I'm the right therapist for you. Dr. Barnes is a lovely person, and she specializes in helping children understand their nightmares. You'll like her."

Crystal stood, face totally red now, eyes glittering in a way that bordered on insanity. Mark took a step backwards as she ripped open her blouse and placed both hands under perfectly formed breasts, pushing them towards him. "Children's nightmares, Dr. Centers. Do these look like they belong to a child? Do they?"

Mark couldn't help the smile that played around his lips, further infuriating her. "Looks can be deceiving, Crystal. You may look like a woman, but it's apparent from your actions you're very much a child." Turning his back on her he walked back to his desk. "Put your clothes on and get out. You can see Dr. Barnes, or you can find someone else, but we're finished."

"I'll destroy you, you bastard. I'll tell Daddy you raped me and we'll find others that will say the same thing. You'll spend the rest of your life in jail."

Mark turned to face her, his own eyes darkening, jaw setting as his fingers clenched into fists. "You'd do that just because I won't listen to your dreams?"

Crystal smiled at him, slowing buttoning her blouse. "I told you. I want you to listen to my dreams."

Reaching into his desk Mark pulled out a business card. He'd tried. God knew he'd tried. Handing the card to Crystal he barked out at her. "Read it. And if you still want me to listen to your dreams, then I will."

Crystal glanced at the card before sticking it inside her purse. "Now, why don't you get comfortable. I have several dreams that are truly just a little disturbing to me."

Mark took his seat behind the desk reaching for a notepad. "One dream, Crystal. Just one. And be as detailed as you can."

Crystal eyed him across the room before stretching out on the sofa in a provocative pose. "Should I lie down for this?"

Mark shrugged. "It's your dream. Tell it the way you want it."

Crystal pouted for a moment. He was angry with her. And he really wasn't as cute as she'd first thought. Maybe she would tell Daddy he touched her. Not raped, because she really didn't want to go through all those stupid tests, but he could lose his license for touching her.

"Crystal?"

Stretching she turned to face him. "Tomorrow's my birthday, so I'll tell you about that one. It's a horrible, horrible dream."

Mark nodded to her, jotting down a few preliminary notes.

"I always go home for my birthday. Especially this year, as I just know Daddy has bought me that little red Porsche I've been wanting so much. It's a long drive, and I'm tired and thirsty when I get there. And suddenly I see it. Parked in the driveway with this huge yellow ribbon tied around it. I'm horrified. Simply horrified."

Mark glanced at her, raising and eyebrow. "You don't like the ribbon?"

Crystal gave him a withering look. "The ribbon was fine, but Annette Jenkins got the same car for her birthday last month. I mean, she's had it for a month. Daddy couldn't possibly expect me to drive a car that Annette had been driving for a month. It's like showing up at a party with the same dress. I would simply die of embarrassment."

Mark sighed heavily. He could feel the fires closing in. He knew that in reality that was the end of the dream. To Crystal that would be the nightmare of all nightmares. But she wasn't going to leave it there.

"So I went in the house and Daddy was there, and mommy was there, and I told him, I said Daddy I told you I wanted the red Porsche. You'll just have to take that thing back.

Well, Daddy got all red in the face and starting spouting off something about my being ungrateful. Fortunately mommy totally understood and she told Daddy that I couldn't possibly drive the same car as Annette Jenkins. They would be the laughing stock of the country club if he allowed that to happen."

Mark wrote a couple of notes waiting for her to continue. The fires burned hotter.

"And then it got really ugly. Daddy and mommy were screaming at each other. But I wasn't worried because mommy always won. I knew I was getting the red Porsche before the day was out."

Mark looked at her, jaw set in rigged lines of displeasure as he closed the notepad. The fires had completely consumed him now. He no longer felt any compassion for her. His face twisted in an ugly smile. "So, I suppose you got your Porsche and everyone lived happily ever after."

Crystal felt the heat flooding her face. She'd wipe that smile off his face, and then she'd report the bastard.

"No, that's where the nightmare really began."

Mark relaxed his face muscles, opened the notebook and gave her a genuine smile. "So tell me your dream."

Crystal sat up, hands folded in her lap. "Daddy disappeared into the kitchen and mommy followed him. I was so upset that I called Annette and told her what Daddy had done. She was appalled, just as I knew she would be."

Her eyes widened, lower lip trembled slightly. "Daddy came out of the kitchen and he was wearing the cook's apron and it was covered in blood. He was carrying this thing and blood was dripping from it."

Mark leaned forward, watching her face. She was totally caught up in the lies now. She'd even managed a single tear. "What kind of thing?"

"You know, one of those meat hacker things. Huge and sharp."

"A meat cleaver?"

Crystal nodded. "And I was so shocked because I'd never seen Daddy like that before. And he said, aren't you going to join me for supper, poopsie?

That's what Daddy always called me when he was upset with me. I pointed at the apron and said, you're disgusting. And mommy is going to be really mad at you for messing up the floor."

Crystal stopped for a moment, savoring the rapt attention she saw in his eyes. "I had my hand out like this, just pointing at the bloody apron and he cut it off. I screamed and screamed and blood was spurting from my wrist. He raised the cleaver again and I ran for the kitchen. I knew if I could find mommy she'd save me."

Mark's voice was low, encouraging. "And was your mother in the kitchen?"
Crystal swallowed hard, eyes misting over. "She was everywhere. Daddy had hacked her up and, and..."

"Details, Crystal. Remember, I need details."

Crystal sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. "We have this big shiny thing in the center and mommy's body was lying there only it had no head, no feet and no hands. There was this pot on the stove and when I got close I saw mommy's head there. He was boiling it. I screamed and tried to run, but Daddy was in the doorway with a shotgun. He looks at me and says, happy birthday, poopsie. And then he shoots me."

Mark finished recording his notes, watching as she shed a few more fake tears. "That really was a horrible dream, Crystal. And right before you birthday."

Crystal stood up, smiled and smoothed her skirt. "See, and I feel much better now. I'll stop by tomorrow and show you my new Porsche. If you're nice to me I'll even take you for a ride."

Mark watched her leave, his eyes dark pinpoints as the fires totally consumed him. He laughed softly, closing the notebook and locking his office.

# # #
The couple stood in the shadows as the gruesome scene played out before them. Blood splattered the marble floor as screams of pain and terror filled the room. They followed her to the kitchen, a scene of total carnage. More screams rang out until finally a single blast and blessed silence.

"You did everything you could, Mark. You even gave her the card. The choice was hers." Jenna Barnes picked up the discarded purse retrieving the business card and handing it to him.

A second blast filled the night.

Jenna placed her arm around him. "I think our work is done here. Buy me a drink?"

Mark smiled at her as the flames subsided. He'd never wanted this, but he had given her the card. The sound of sirens filled the night. "One drink. I'm working tomorrow. I have this little girl who has a dream about being adopted by a wonderful family."

Poetry - A Grandmother's Poem

I used this as the dedication in Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery. For 7 months I watched him grow, looked into his eyes on ultra-sounds, listened to the tiny beat of his heart. Just a moment in time.


To Caleb Gavin Fuson. Born December 7, 2008. Died December 7, 2008. A precious moment in time.

A GRANDMOTHER’S POEM

In just a short moment,
you became the softness
beneath my smile,

In just a short moment,
you became the twinkle
in my eyes,

In just a short moment,
you were my dreams
of the future,

The things we would do,
The things I would teach you,
The things you would teach me
In just a short moment we shared,
A lifetime of love,

And then you were gone,
To sleep with the angels.

Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Artist's Tool -- Dreaming Your Way to Success

Looking for new inspiration? Suffering from writer’s block? Have a problem that you just can’t solve? We’ve all experienced times when the harder we tried the more frustrated we became. We knew the answer was there. Just outside the recesses of our conscious thought. We just couldn’t quite pull it out.

Dreams are images, thoughts and emotions experienced during sleep. Some are extremely vivid, while others are extremely vague. Philosophers have studied the dream process for thousands of years, and although there are many theories as to why we dream, no one really knows.

Freud believed dreams were a representation of our unconscious desires. Hobson and McClarley believed that circuits in the brain are activated during REM sleep, and dreams are our attempt to interpret those signals. Other theories include that dreams have no purpose, while others believe that dreaming is essential to mental, emotional and physical health.

For artists, dreams have always been and still are a source of inspiration. Dreams are the creations of our mind, tapping into our imagination.

Robert Louis Stevenson, author of Treasure Island and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, wrote that he got many of his best stories from his dreams.

Edgar Allen Poe also shared that he relied on his dreams to inspire the moods and themes of many of his tales.

Stephen King in an interview with UK report Stan Nicholls stated when asked about the inspiration for Misery: “Like the ideas for some of my other novels, that came to me in a dream.”

Search the web and you’ll find hundreds of other stories of artists who have used their dreams to create works of poetry, novels, paintings and songs.

We dream every single night, but often we forget our dreams. The key to remembering dreams is to set the intention before you sleep. An agreement, if you will, between your conscious and subconscious mind that you will dream creatively and will recall your dreams.

Prior to sleep focus on the solution or inspiration you seek from your dreams. Write it down, being specific about exactly what you’re looking for. Keep a notepad and pen or pencil next to your bed. As soon as you awaken write down everything you remember about your dream. If you don’t remember, write down what you believe you remember. Write down the first thing that pops into your mind. Focus on your feelings in the dream, list any places, symbols, colors and the people involved.

Now, play with your dream. Turn it into a poem, a melody, short story or fable. Draw or paint pictures related to your dream. Set up a dialogue with the characters in your dream. See if there’s a correlation between your dream and your current creative project? If not, perhaps this is the inspiration for a new creative project.

Dreams can be an artist’s best tool for continued or renewed inspiration. I have dreamed many of the scenes of my current books, as well as plots for new novels.

Another simple process is prior to going to sleep, clear your mind. Think about exactly what you want to dream about, and hold that thought. Daydream about it until you drift off to sleep. Combine the power of your conscious and subconscious mind to open the doors to your creativity.

Linda S. Prather, Author
The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery
Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery
www.prather-author.com