Catalyst

They say he never sleeps. Just dreams and dreams and dreams. The lights are always on at the rundown place he lives and children tell terrific tales about those who wander too far in.

I caught a glimpse of him this morning, on the way to visit someone. Long, pale limbs adorned a matchstick torso crowned by an oval face which was an artwork in itself. Sunken, mournful eyes, aristocratic nose and such pale pink, thin lips. It was the barest glimpse which I caught through the window but it was enough to start everything.

I dreamt about him that night. The dream me ran her fingers down the dream mans face, tracing imaginary lines across his cheeks and brushing the pale lips with her own.

We shuddered into being

Catalyst

Imogene Munday

Sydney, Australia

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