This novel is limited to 100 free copies due to its part in Inkitt’s Novel Contest.
People forget their dreams. They don’t care about them. Besides, they are slithery things with threads to other worlds and times. And they smell. You may not think so, but they do. Dreams can stink. Even in Ernestown, that poky little suburb where nobody remembers their dreams and everybody remembers the rising price of coal, peas and grave plots.
Finella dreamed a horrible dream that smelled of oil and guns, every night for a week coming up to Halloween. Granma knew. And Daphne, Finella’s mother knew. She was a strange girl, just like her own Grandmother. Finella knew her mother knew about her secret dream but she kept her lips pursed.
Finella remembered the day she was born. The midwives wiped her and handed her to her mother, who looked away when she saw the purple birth mark on Finella’s left shoulder. Finella was one of them. Her mother swaddled her up in a cot, and stuffed a dodie in her mouth.
“There, there.” she’d say, “Now just stay quiet.”
She stuffed her back in her cot, and went back to playing bridge with her friends. Her mother could not bear to hold her. When Finella’s wailing became unbearable, Granma came.
“Who’s that?” said Margery, hearing the latch on the back door.
“It’s just Judith. I’m not getting up, she can let herself in.” said Finella’s mother, placing her cards on the glass table.
Granma wheezed down the corridor, smoking a cigarette. She went straight to the nursery and looked into the eyes of her first granddaughter. She sang a little nursery rhyme about an old witch making butter in the rain.
Swanzee Swechee Deschay pada Baga Yaga masswo klethchy
When she sang, Finella saw the words, and she saw the old witch making butter in the rain. She saw the duck mobile over her cot spin around in the breeze through the open window, their tails gently tapping off each other. She gurgled happily and wished this lovely buttery old lady would steal her away. Her mother burst through the door like an angry gust of wind and grabbed Finella out of Granma’s arms, flinging her back into the cot.
“Out!” hollered her mother. “Never sing that song in my house again!”
When the front door slammed, Finella knew the buttery old lady was gone and she wailed all afternoon, while her mother played bridge and drank cocktails that Indian summer.
“Let her cry out.” she said to Margery.
“Oh that’s it. You let them cry. Then they know who’s boss.” said Finella’s mother.
“Babies are awful creatures.” said Margery. “So demanding!”
Finella was six years old when she found Granma again, in the cottage with the blue door behind the bakery. She came up to her window, and sang the little nursery rhyme through the open crack.
“Finishka!” she cried. She could call Finella anything she liked. She came out and held her in her arms and swung her around the garden by her dahlias. She filled Finella with chocolate biscuits and dumpling soup, and wrapped her up in a patchwork quilt.
At home, she was warned. Don’t. Don’t go and see that woman. Ever.
“She’s fishy.” said my father
“Why? What’s fishy about her?” I said.
He didn’t answer. Nobody ever answered that question.
Finella’s dreams smelled. They didn’t all smell bad. They just emitted smell. She had read about narcolepsy which causes you to fall asleep anywhere, any time- on the street, in the post office, over your dinner plate. She wondered if that what was wrong with her. Smells lured her: musty, spicy smells and the smell of moss. The smell of fresh sheets, basmati rice and lavender. She’d get dizzy and lie down. Anywhere. Once, they found her in the janitor’s cupboard at school, and called her mother, who said she was too like Granma. When they found her in the shed at Matty’s scrapyard, lying in the barn, asleep, they said there was no hope for her.
Finella kept her room locked. But her half brother Edmund had a very good sense of smell. It wasn’t because he was seven years older, it was because he had a funny knack that nobody else had: he would twitch his nose and sniff in all the information he needed. He’d say:
“You stink of Granma’s place!” he sniffed around her. “Sardines… spicy biscuits… and ham! Why do you hang out with the old hag, freak face?”
That Halloween, he was building the bonfire from hell: he’d already stacked wood from Matty’s scrap yard on the Maddle River, and stolen a can of petrol with his friends. It would be a filthy, strictly-forbidden, tyre-burning bonfire at Pocock Grange. Finella, dizzy with her dreams, could not collect firewood, despite Edmund’s orders. That horrible dream that would not leave her alone, the one that smelled of saltpetre, oil and dust and made tears scald her eyes. The one that came, every time she closed her eyes:
The army is invading. Tanks growl through the cobbled streets, towards a large Square. Bomber planes drone though the grey sky. Smoke plumes spiral out of buildings. The army marches in, their boots hit the cobblestones with steel toes: tac-tac-tac-tac-tac! In front of them, an old man stands with a white beard and a black hat, a black cape flapping in the winds, with his arms outstretched. His name is Adam Weiss, and he wears a ring with a shining stone set in silver. A ray of sun catches it as two tall soldiers take him, and throw him head first into a tank, his boots dangling in the air before they close the flap and drive away down a narrow street. The army march away. The sun hits the empty place where he stood with his arms open: his ring lies there. A little girl runs up to it, picks it up and hands it to me, where I am watching from an archway in the shade.
Finella knew that name. She locked her bedroom door and dove under her bed, pulling out Granma’s old trunk. The name Judith Weiss was written in white beneath the brass clasps and that pinned the handle. That was Granma. Finella turned the trunk onto its upside. The name Adam Weiss was scratched across the black band. It was him, the funny man in the dream with the ring who was stuffed into a tank and taken away forever.
She scribbled the dream in to her notebook, and tore out the door with a half eaten sandwich in her fist. Edmund tore after her as she ran past the gates.
“Going to Granma’s?!”
“I’ll tell Matty about the petrol you stole for the bonfire! Get back!” she pushed him, but knew she couldn’t make him fall. All she had was her legs. She ran. She heard him come after her as she fled to the field behind Matty’s yard and down by the river where he’d lose her scent. From there, she followed the old wall to Granma’s. When she got to the blue door, Granma was behind her. She had her hands on her hips, with the car door open.
“Are you ready?” Granma said.
Finella pulled out her notebook, and read the dream.
“An army is invading an old city. Tanks growl through the old, cobbled streets…”
Edmund was skating furiously up the avenue. Finella looked at Granma. Trouble.
“Get in the car. Quick! ” said Granma. They jumped into Granma’s rusty red car and pulled out of the drive just as Edmund, red faced, skidded into the drive on his skateboard, lunging at the passenger door. Granma swerved around the corner, and they took off in cloud of dust.
Alice Liu: Whoa! I've been wondering how would the Maurauders react to Harry's life and here we go! YOU ARE THE BEST! All the characters are consistent with their personalities shown in the book! I love how you compare Lily with Molly and it's definitely true for her being a mother! I wish Peter comes have ...
Schaelz: I was intrigued from the second I started reading, and it kept my interest the whole way through. Chelsea has a way with words that will enchant you until the very end. She is very poetic with the way she mixes genres and keeps you on the edge of your seat. The main character is also very relat...
Yellow: If you are looking for something original try Evening Goddess. Karina takes you on an adventure filled with tragedy and dangerous situations. The mixture of a serious plot and sexual situations keep you reading to discover what challenges she will face next. The novel will make you laugh, cry...
Nymeria: Really can't get enough of this story. It flows well, it captivates the reader from page 1, and throws you into such a well-written, well conceptualized world that you'll believe it's real. Everything in the book is meshed together really well. From character backgrounds to plot twists, you can t...
Hudson: Your story was fantastic Erin! The Rising Sun was one of the first stories I read on Inkitt, and I have to say I don't regret the three to four days I spent pouring through the story.Probably the biggest strength I see in your writing is your characterisation of Eliana, Oriens, and the rest of th...
ernbelle: When I first started this story I was a little unsettled by all of the information that appears in the prologue, and wasn't sure if I would continue. However, I am very glad I did. The plot was very well thought out and really interesting. There were not any page breaks or markers to acknowledge ...
RodRaglin: This is an interesting approach to a very topical subject. I hope you go on to explore the reasons behind the increase in teen suicides as well as tell an entertaining story.I like that you start with the inciting incident - the announcement of the suicide. In revision you might want to consider...
Lauren Suzmeyan-Raine: I'm so glad you found a place to post your stories. I was horrified when I saw yours had been taken down, they are definitely the best 'reading' stories I've ever read. And I've made it my business to read every one I can. Well done.Lauren
Elizabeth Robbins: 4.5 starsAs far as apocalypse stories go, this one took a new direction. I'm glad someone finally addressed the need for a vampire apocalypse! This is sort of a multi-genre festival of delights. With hints of forced societies, vamps, hunters, romance, apocalypse, government conspiracy, and thrill...
FreakyPoet: "you made me laugh, made me cry, both are hard to do. I spent most of the night reading your story, captivated. This is why you get full stars from me. Thanks for the great story!"
Sara Joy Bailey: "Full of depth and life. The plot was thrilling. The author's style flows naturally and the reader can easily slip into the pages of the story. Very well done."