Shooting People at a Mad Dream Wedding

She saw herself through a foggy camera lens. She was young and naked, sitting on a wooden pew, surrounded by people wearing formal attire.

“You think the marriage will last?” an old woman said to her.

“I doubt it, ma’am,” answered the phantom voice of a young-sounding guy.

“This is a robbery!” yelled a priest, who stood on a white altar, holding a white gun to a limp woman’s temple. “Move an inch and, by god, I’ll shoot the bride’s head off.”

She jumped to her feet and covered her mouth with her hands.


She sat down too fast, and landed on a rocking chair in a small kitchen, staring at the old woman who was now crawling into a woodstove.

“I hope the reception is better. The ceremony sucked. I hate weddings,” the old woman whispered. “Close the door, dear, it’s not getting hot in here.”


“Hold on to me, babe,” the blond guy said, flashing a grin full of silver teeth. “I have drinks and an edible cake topper.”

“I don’t think the priests can shoot, sir,” said a guy, stripping out of a camouflaged uniform and picking up a yellow toy gun.


“Is he letting you out?” the blond guy said to the old woman.

“Yes.” The old woman changed positions in the woodstove. “I need to go to the post office. He knows it’s important. Fairy tale ovens are heavy, but woodstoves are really bolted to the floor.”

“Here,” said the blond guy, handing the old lady three dollar bills.

She grabbed them through the woodstove’s glass.


“Can you believe that priest? To think I wanted him to marry me.” The blond guy tsked.

She looked away from him and closed her eyes. She opened them back at the church, leaning against an orange glass door.

“Drop the gun, Father! Everybody can see the bride is already dead, and I know you’re drunk. Don’t make me shoot you,” a police officer shouted from inside the confessional booth. He aimed a crossbow at the priest; the tip of his arrow was on fire.

The blond guy nudged her. “I wrote a coded message on the three dollar bills. Robin Hood should confess his good deeds and light up the party.”

“Look at me! Look at me!” someone yelled.

She turned towards the shrilly voice. It was the young-sounding guy doing cartwheels in nothing but dingy tighty-whities. He came to a halt in front of her, spread his arms and bowed. He wore a thick layer of bright teal eye shadow around his left eye. His yellow toy gun was affixed to his chest with duct tape.


She was naked in bed, shaking away remnants of hot sleep. Someone knocked on the door, saying something about trying on sexy wedding dresses and how Hansel and Gretel really sucked.

the wee notes…
– Linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights – In dreams we enter a world that’s entirely our own. “Dreams. We all have them. We strive for something which at first we deem impossible. But as they say, the key to realizing a dream is to focus on its significance, cause then even our smallest steps and victories will take on a greater meaning.” I read Sanaa’s words and the tale above—which is a dream I had in 2014—and I wonder, what does it mean? The “dingy tighty-whities” disturb me a bit… and disgust me a lot, lol! But seriously, my Wicked Luvs, dreams are such marvelous things. And writing them as they are (or as we remember them) is just as wondrous to me.
– After rereading this story, and remembering my colored and poetized Tim Burton’s Cheshire Cat, I’m starting to wonder if I have something for silvery grins. I wonder, wonder, wonder…

In Dreams, by okmarzo“In Dreams”, by okmarzo

Elemental, She

Yesterday, I woke up with the classic elements on my mind. They followed me home from a dream. It wasn’t a very rational dream… Then again, any dream worth having possesses a bit of surreality and a whole lot of magical realism. In my dream, I sat on a cloud delighting in ginger tea and Dominican cake, my feet dangling from the edge.

I stayed there from dawn to dusk and again… watching a wild-haired woman go about her day. When the sun was out, she mostly gardened. When the sun slept for the night, she was all woman, sometimes rather loudly *cough*… other times, quietly dancing under the rain of my home cloud. The following poem was born from the thoughts that lingered… after I woke up:

“Elemental, She”

Her night is made of fire and teeth,
of wild thrusting of the hips,
of warm nibbles on her lover’s bits.

For finger-kissing the dirt,
she saves the whole of her day—
planting seeds, cuttings, and roots…
reaping fruits for thought
and guts.

On rainy days
(and dark moon nights),
she dresses in cooling cloud kisses
and the warmest of the wind’s

linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform)

Das Leben Ist Kurz (Life is Brief), by Patricia Ariel“Das Leben Ist Kurz (Life is Brief)”, by Patricia Ariel