how you know you’ve had too much midnight to drink

I’ve told some of you about how I’ve always had these dreams about someone(s) trying to kill me. Last night it took on a new spin, although going to sleep thinking about my writing is probably 98% or more to blame.

A bunch of us were in Corbin – and I have to assume that’s where we lived – and word got out that someone / a group of someones was after the Anethdraeg Family book of law. For some ungodly reason, everyone decided that I had to get to Harlan and give it to Michael who could take it to his bank and put it in his safety deposit box. It would be safe there, barring nuclear explosion or supernova.

This was a weird Corbin. It was more like Lexington downtown. But it was Corbin. And on Depot Street where the old L&N passenger depot was, there was a shiny Amtrak station. An honest to gods Amtrak station.

The idea was for me to Amtrak to Cincinnati, cab back down to Hebron, and fly to New York City or Boston. From there, I would fly to Chicago. Then Amtrak to New Orleans and on to Atlanta. From there, I would fly into Knoxville, then rent a car and drive the rest of the way in, on back roads, to Michael’s.

I hate to be cliché and say “it was dark and many people died”, but it’s the truth.

From three streets over, it took me and the woman who volunteered to go with me two hours to get from Poplar Street to Depot Street in Corbin. Much running, ducking, dodging bullets, and hiding. Then, just when we thought we were standing in the train station Scott-free, the whole place got shot up. We managed to dodge more bullets, someone threw us his keys, and we raced off in his car. I found the backest back roads I could find to get us to Cincinnati.

I have no idea if we ever made it. We stopped at one point at this farm somewhere on the other side of Georgetown, and there was a little dog there that someone had abandoned, and the woman I was with insisted we take it with us. All I wanted was a hot meal and some alcohol. I didn’t care about a dog. Wherever this was, the people were supposed to be friendly and give us whatever we needed and take care of us without question. The only problem was, when we got there, they weren’t home. I can’t remember if we dug around and found a key or ended up breaking in, but we did end up well fed, cleaned up, patched up, and back on the road.

The dream ended when we were somewhere just south of Hebron.

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Author: Mari Adkins

Appalachian gothic fiction writer - my works reflect a love of literature flavored by the darkness and magic residing in these ancient mountains. In my spare time, I'm a Simmer, I tumbl, I journal, but I always have a very strange sense of humor. I have lived away from the mountains and lived deep in the mountains. I currently live in Central Kentucky with my lifepartner and his cat. The mountains, their culture, their superstitions, their particular magics, will always be in my blood.