I open my eyes – awakening in a Dali surrealist landscape. No wait, I am in bed with a René Magritte duvet pulled up to my chin. I blink, but the clock still melts past 6 am on the wall.

I slide my feet into a pair of Andre Breton slippers, and slish over to a multi-faceted mirror. A thousand images of a blond young woman with flaxen hair in a long plait with starling blue eyes stares back at me.

I went to bed, on an ancient Ikea mattress plopped on an aging wooden futon frame, mismatched sheets, and a donation present fleece puffin throw as a blanket. My room has three solid walls, in faded jaded eggshell white, one window and definitely no melting clocks upon the said walls. I am neither young nor blond. What is left of my hair frames a face with plainish brown eyes.

I just finished rereading, via my cellphone – internet was out – my prompt for Tale Weavers concerning the topic, again, of metamorphosis, and thinking of a strange Ivan Bilibin folkloric illustration. Humm.

I am in a newly minted character, Kaska’s, surrealistic bedroom, seeing the world through her eyes. Ack. That means endless gremlin attacks, making coffee with a dada coffee maker, the mug sprouting wings and I will need to chase it up the downward sloping floor of my Hans Arp kitchen.

I jump back into the chicken-legged bed, close my eyes, click my heels together, swearing, “There is no place like home, there is no place like home.” Thud. Did I wake up in my room, or Toto* are we in Kanas this time?

PS: I do not have a furry friend named Toto.

© Lorraine

This piece of writing in the raw silliness inspired by my interpretation of Jane Dougherty’s Strange Sunday Ivan Bilibin illustration, and this tale weaver prompt. Born of an internet outage, my mind has been doing unconnectiveness thinking – which can be a dangerous thing. For mlmm Tale Weaver #109: metamorphosis

image: Salvador Dali: The Persistence of Memory

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