Last night I had a dream about you. It wasn't about you, but you were in it andI'm always cautious about how these dreams work, especially in how I retell them.
Since I woke up this morning I've been retelling the dream to myself over and over again, partly remembering but also making into more of a story, wanting to memorise it but also make sense of it. I don't care. The reason the dream was remarkable was because it was a story. And this is how it began.
The second hand book shop on Crellin Street smelled of terrible things: damp paper, mould, yellowing cardboard and old women’s woolen wear left out in the rain. It was one of those shops that had a stairway glimpsed through a beaded curtain. The magical shopkeeper was a woman with spectacles so large it was like they were broadcasting her eyes at you and a cardigan with a Biro and an iron wool hairdo made for scouring chip pans.
John Bleasdale is a writer. His work has appeared in The Guardian, The Independent, Il Manifesto, as well as CineVue.Com and theStudioExec.com. He has also written a number of plays, screenplays and novels.