Patrick’s intriguing author portrait has been created by photographer Tanya Linnegar.
Lost Dreams I“Auntie” Rita and her Tree
Tonight, Rita dreams of her tree. She can’t help it. In this place, she has no power, not even over her own dreams.
Maybe it’s the sound of the neon sign below her bedroom, flaring in the window of her shop. Some drunk rolling up Main from downtown, howling like a coyote at the moon had thrown a half-full beer can at it in the wee hours, the witching hours, and left it fizzling, flaring off and on and off again, making the whole blue and red PSYCHIC sign struggle to come to life with every flash of electricity.
Really need to get that fixed. Rita thinks to herself as she falls into the dream – a dream that is more memory than appetite and ambiance and emotion, a dream that pulls her back into her younger, slimmer, smarter body. The dream pulls her back to an island in a place they tell her never existed. But the ache for it is real, and for this short time in the dark hours, the remembering hours, she is there once again. A cool morning in early autumn, a crisp morning on the turn of the year…
It was a cool sunrise, dew clinging to the bottom of her robes, working its way into her shoes, just a shade colder and it would be frost, frost covering the grass like a breath across the green covering it in radiant crystals that would sparkle in the sun. Erede (and how easy, how deliciously, tragically easy it was to fall into that name. Her first name, her real name and true.) had come to this small meditation before Aposia and Merai came stumbling each from their small initiates cottages, blinking against sleep, shivering a little against the chill, drawing their robes close against the cool breeze. Read More