This happened today. I saw a dream. I read my pages to a major publisher. They offered me a contract. I woke up. I forgot what the pages were about. It was something new, something I haven't written before. A new novel. "Fuck!" I thought. "I can't remember what it was about! I remember the dream, but not the pages!" It slipped me. I told my boyfriend. He said, "Write it down." I said, "But I can't remember!" He said, "No, the dream. Write it into a short story." So I did. Took me a couple hours. It's only 1,600 words. Well, 1,595. To be exact. Here it is.

WRITER'S DREAM

A short story by Ksenia Anske

I read. I want to read, but they’re first, so I just stand there. And the woman says, she says, “You’re next”. And the boy starts reading. Boy. He’s a boy to me. In his twenties, lanky. “Read the last two chapters”, she says. He stammers a little, nervous. Then opens up, chest out. Proud. I can’t listen. I want to, can’t. Something...it’s scary. What if they tell me it’s horrid, what if...or not. Who knows. What can I do? Wait. It slips out of my hands. Sweaty. I press it to my breast, my left breast, where the heart. He’s not done yet. He got into it. What rage. Primitive. His sentences are primitive. Not the good kind. The stupid kind. Is that okay to think? Stupid. I’m stupid. What am I doing here? How did I get here? I can’t remember.