Oyster Man

Ok, here's another fiction piece. It's one I've been holding back for a while, because I can't quite get it right, but I think that maybe this is as good as it's going to get. It's not bad, but it's not as beautiful or as salty as it is in my head. Anyway, it's called Oyster Man, for no reason whatsoever:

In my dreams, I see the future. I don’t know how, or why, but I know that if I want to keep doing it, I have to stay pure. I know this the way one knows things in a dream, without needing to be told, without doubting the veracity. So I have my little rituals. I stay clean, I don’t touch other people, I only buy certain brands of clothing, that sort of thing. I always know what to do. A few of the prohibitions rankle me, but the reward is so very worth the price.
In my dreams, I am alive. Vibrantly, shiningly, gloriously alive in the way one can’t be alive in life. My life is Plato’s cave, but in my dreams, I see Truth. Everything I dream is true, comes true. Every single thing.

She came to me one night in my dreams. I stood on my balcony and She walked down the telephone wire to get to me. Her hair was black, Her lips were red, and Her eyes were the sea itself, liquid and profound. She wanted me for Herself. “Come with me,” She said, “Dream for me. I can give you freedom. Freedom to dream, freedom from purity,” But I don’t let Her finish. I turn and open the sliding glass door. I do not trust Her. I dream only for myself.
In my dream, the storm whips around me. She calls out my name, 3 times. “Amos! Amos! Amos!” I turn my back and begin to go inside. My vision blurs.
My dreams are never indistinct.
 Cold wind blows the rain into my apartment. Papers fly. Huge gusts knock over my bookshelf and send me sprawling. I turn my head to look back, shielding my eyes with one hand, and my vision clears. She drops her arms and the wind dies and she is gone. I wake in a sweat. I spend the rest of the night tossing in bed.

The Innkeep's Perspective

So, here's a bit of fiction.  It's from a writing prompt where you're supposed to talk about a historical event from the perspective of someone in the time - I went with a random innkeeper in the town of Gevaudan, between the royal hunters' supposed killing of the beast and Jean Chastel's supposed killing of the beast.  It was mostly a practice in dialogue (or monologue, I guess).  But here it be, hope you enjoy it.

"I don’t think much of it, either. It’s been a year since those fancy sods left, taking their prize with them. 'Msgr. Jean Charles Marc Antoine Vaumesle d'Enneval' gets to take his fancy new titles and his great big sack of money and settle down. It wasn’t even 3 months later there was another attack, but nope!  The beast’s dead!  Musta been something else hurt those little girls.