My
dad may have had something to do with this. He used to concoct wild
stories about monsters and ghosts, ogres and trolls. I remember
sitting cross-legged next to my brother, on the floor by my father’s
chair, held spellbound by his tales of heroes tasked with magical
trials and elementals battling one another for control of the planet.
Maybe
I inherited his imagination.
When
I was in elementary school, I had a garnet birthstone ring that I
believed could grant wishes. Mostly I remember asking for simple,
silly things—like a blizzard, so we’d get the day off from
school. Then my mom came down with pneumonia. She was so ill that at
eight years old, I had to take over cooking for the family. I was
terrified by the sudden helplessness of the woman who was at the
center of my world, who could, and did, do everything. The ring got a
workout during that period. My mother recovered fully, solidifying my
faith in the unseen and the effectiveness of asking for one’s
heart’s desire.
I’ve
written many times here about the mystical quality of my first BDSM
relationship. At dinner on the night before my initiation, my
soon-to-be Master told me he was descended from a family of
sorcerers—that his Germanic ancestors had practiced the dark arts
back in the old country. I’m still convinced I experienced true
magick that night, though he often teased me about being suggestible.
Most
of my life has been ordinary and mundane, of course, like everyone
else’s. I’ve never been convinced I had any special powers.
There’s one area, though, where I have experienced the uncanny,
more than once. Every now and then, I have prescient dreams.
The
first one I remember involved my Master. We didn’t see one another
very often, since we lived on opposite coasts. After not having
talked to him for several weeks, I had a deeply disturbing dream
about him. In the dream, he was hospitalized, bandaged, unconscious
and immobile on the bed. I recall everything being pale white,
drained of color and life. I sat beside him, holding his hand,
willing him to wake. He roused, at least enough to squeeze my
fingers, but on his face was a look of absolute despair. I didn’t
know what to do, so I just sat there, being with him, holding him,
loving him the best I could.
I
called him the next day, worried. He told me his father had hanged
himself in the basement the night before. I didn’t tell him about
my dream, not then. As I had in the dream, I held him in my thoughts,
soothed him with my words, and hoped that he’d heal.
Another,
later case involved a dear female friend, a woman I met on a ride
board, with whom I drove halfway cross country in the dead of winter.
Jeanie was the epitome of a free spirit—an author, artist, actress
and musician, a fascinating creature who seemed to exist outside the
boring realm of jobs and responsibilities. She married a guy as crazy
as she was. They had wild parties, a rock and roll band, and a pet
pig.
One
night I dreamed that she told me she was going to have a baby. I was
astounded. I tried to talk her out of it. “You’re not the
motherly type,” I told her. “Think of all the responsibility! The
constraints!” In the dream she just shook her head and smiled.
Two
days later, I learned she actually was pregnant. (She turned out to
be a fabulous, if unorthodox mom, by the way.)
These
are two examples that stick with me, but I know they’re not the
only ones. Indeed, I’ve had multiple less traumatic dreams about my
Master that turned out to have elements of truth. “How did you know
her name?” he asked me when I confided I’d dreamed of him with
another woman. To be honest, I’m not sure he believes in magick, at
least not the way I do.
Over
the years I’ve published quite a bit of paranormal erotica,
including my recent release Damned If You Do, my
MM novel about the burden of seeing the future NecessaryMadness, my urban shifter
romance The Eyes of Bast,
and my collection of dark paranormal tales Fourth World.
My paranormal worlds are mostly
ordinary—mostly
indistinguishable from our
own. Every so often, however, bright power streaks through them, like
lighting illuminating a thundercloud from within. That power—it’s
easy for me to write. It feels natural, true. I hardly have to think
about it.
In
the realm of fiction, my dreams also shape reality.
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