PHOTO PROMPT © Bradley Harris
“It’s the same each time. I’m standing at the top of a green hill, scanning sky and water. I sense the endless emptiness in it, but I have to run towards it or I will be dead from whatever is crashing through the underbrush behind me. I plunge down the green and begin to tumble… then I wake up. What does it mean, doctor?”
“Next time, instead of running, turn around.”
“I could die!”
“It’s a dream.”
Next time, I turn around. Approaching me is a woman with a drum.
She smiles and says, “Follow me…”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the dedicated host of Friday Fictioneers.