An Experiment In Dreams

The night of August 4th, 2018

Stretch, fold back, push. Stretch, fold back, push. Stretch, fold back, push.

The steady rhythm of kneading is a soothing exertion that fills early morning hours. A woman, no longer young though not yet old stands at a simple wooden table. Dressed in heavy white cotton robes, she is the one ceaselessly kneading the dough. In spite of her long hours at task, she remains curiously undusted with flour. There is an ordained air to her. A woman of the cloth, she is called by those who love her. They linger in the back of her mind, propelling her forward in her task.

A fervent prayer forms on her murmuring lips�" silent, as she needs all the breath she can spare for her work. Her movements are fluid, controlled, yet they betray a sense of urgency. The kitchen, though brightly sunlit, is a place of unspoken fear.

Her hands move quickly now, cutting and shaping taupe dough into smaller balls. The cadence of the prayer increases. Her eyes are squeezed shut now. Shut tight. It becomes a plea. A plea of well being, a plea of plenty, a plea of nourishment. A plea that she can give all that she has.

Her head tucks down to her breast, and she seems to shrink inwards. She pales. The shrinking continues and her features begin to melt and mold together. A flash of alarm, for her part. The sensation is odd, that of mud sucking against a boot as it pulls free from the mire. Yet her whole body softens as she falls with a gentle thwack, onto the board.

Another heft of dough now lies on the board, shaped and smooth, ready to be baked into bread for the masses to feast. Before she fades, there is a last sigh of contentment. The scene faded into a hazy warmth and comfort.

Author's Note

Did I achieve a sense of surrealism? If not, recommendations for improvement?