I dreamed of my dead dog, wondering how she would like these new treats we were cooking up. She gobbled one out of my hand before I knew and devoured the plate greedily. It is sweet to remember her. In my dreams, I was searching a bookstore for something, I do not know what exactly, a secret, something hidden behind many clever puzzles, and I was being given the runaround by a girl with a sinister stare. I was helping a girl, too. We were going to meet others, or had. I was a flying monkey, and it was okay; I was on a quest, and my heart ached to set things right.
I walked upon the sea under the stars, the constellation of a dragon or a horse both above and in the water like a monster—or were those ridges islands in the night? What was my reward but the black wings that freed me to flight and the shrunken, bent simian shape that everyone mocked. I was at peace with the change, though. If my legs must be bowed and small, I could still make it work. And I remember: as a child, yes, in the church at night, I played that part long ago, for I was six years old; at seven, I didn’t want to change.
Tale Told 