I Dream of Bovines in a Large Red Barn

The cow in question
“You like ‘Alice in Wonderland’?”

I looked up from my book to my guy friend. I sighed and exchanged it for my Algebra II book.

“Yes I do.” I replied. He wrinkled his nose.

“But it’s so weird.”

“It’s clever!”

“He wasn’t clever. He was on drugs!”

This revelation crushed my world, but didn’t change my opinion of Lewis Carroll. I still think he’s a genius and I still love Alice. I think the reason it was so devastating is because I’ve always had super Alice-in-Wonderlandesque dreams. Now I wonder if people think I’m on drugs too…

I once dreamed that I was chugging along in my Uncle’s black pick up truck. I have never in reality driven this truck. It’s massive. It has one of those oversized truck beds with wheel wells that stick out like sidecars. I’m a tiny little Honda Civic kind of girl. The more compact the better.

Regardless, I was trucking down a narrow side street on the way to my grandmothers. I took a sharp bend in the road and…


I didn’t see her until it was too late. She was a middle-aged brunette in jeans and a black vest. I slammed on the breaks and jumped out of the truck. My heart was pounding. My slumber infused consciousness had not yet registered these events as a dream, and, as far as I knew, I had just hit a person.

Oddly enough she was fine. I mean…she was a bit miffed. It’s legitimate. I would be too if you hit me. Especially since she was already lame, as evidenced by her black and sliver cane laying on the side of the road.

“I’m so so sorry,” I moaned, at a loss for anything else to say. “Here, I’ll take you to the hospital.”

These were the pre-cellphone days of our lives. This seemed like the best option. She acquiesced to my offer and I carried her into the truck. I laid her on the floor behind my seat and quickly made my way towards the medical center. I didn’t make small talk. What do you say to a woman you just hit? She was the one who first broke the silence.

“Why are you going this way?” she said nervously. “Are you insane?”

“What are you talking about?” I responded. My palms began to sweat against the wheel.

“Just whatever you do, don’t look that cow in the eye! He’ll kill us.”

“What cow?”

“The one in that barn you idiot!”

A massive three story barn stood in the field in front of us. The field was wide and empty save that big fire engine red building with the white trim. The grass was yellow, dying with the change in seasons. I tried to recall this building being there before. I’d driven to my grandparents house a million times, I was practically raised there.

“Don’t even think about looking!” she snarled. I locked my eyes on the road and kept driving.

Curiosity is a dangerous thing and my veins flow with an abnormally high amount. Figuring it was safe to check my rearview mirror, I waited until we passed the building and glanced up.

The three-story barn was built like a hugermongerous doghouse. One large curved opening framed the biggest cow I will ever see. It looked inflated, like those ridiculous blow up decorations that are so popular around the holidays. There was no fan blowing merrily under this beast though. It had big white horns and a massive golden ring embracing his nostrils.

I shuddered as fear rippled through me. The huge round eyes locked with mine in the mirror. My heart stopped beating. The warm brown eyes of the cow melted into a menacing red. Steam poured from his nostrils. One hoof struck the ground, tearing up the dying grass. He snorted.

“You fooooool!” the woman behind me moaned. She dissolved into hysterical sobs.

The cow charged. I woke up screaming. I sat in my bed, safe, sound, and completely devoid of cows. I laid my head back on my pillow.

“Wow,” I murmured. “That was weird…”

I recently left my job and a coworker bemoaned my loss. “Who will tell me their weird dreams now?” she asked. Who indeed Sandra? For I have not yet met anyone in person who has dreams like me. I know there are others out there. I can’t possibly be the only living being with vivid bizarre dreams. I just wish they would affirm me. So if you’re reading this and you’ve had similar bizarre things occurring in your slumber…let me know…please?


Johnny Johnny Jack

Johnny Johnny Jack was a hypochondriac
Each ache and pain would put him in a stew.
He drove his folks insane ‘bout the tumor in his brain,
And how his liver function was askew.

Johnny Johnny Jack was a hypochondriac.
His cabinet a banquet hall of pills.
A full colorful display that could chase his pains away.
He took day trips to pick up his refills.

Johnny Johnny Jack was a hypochondriac.
His catalogue of specialists ran thus:
From a gastroenterologist to dozens of psychologists,
They weekly met his illness to discuss.

Johnny Johnny Jack was a hypochondriac.
He weakly wheezed and whimpered while he wailed.
And his list of maladies that could cause fatalities,
Was longer than the Appalachian trail.

Johnny Johnny Jack was a hypochondriac.
He rose each day assured that he would die.
An inhaler in each hand and his nurse at his command,
He somehow did this daily doom defy.

Johnny Johnny Jack was a hypochondriac.
Though sick perhaps he lived to Ninety-two.
His body was donated when at last it was vacated.
His incurable disease to thus review.

© Rachel Svendsen 2014

The Great Escape

On a dark and stormy night,
Two cows were on a mission,
Wandering through the soggy fields,
In search of ammunition.

For farmer Jim was plotting thus,
To slaughter them for meat.
They knew this was their only chance,
They’d have to be discreet.

The ducks were watching from the wall,
To warn if he should wake.
The sheep were packing up supplies,
To aid in their escape.

The pigs did not assist at all.
They slept right through the chatter.
They had their warm and sloshy mud,
To them it didn’t matter.

The cows returned with ample load,
Of varied kinds of missiles.
They dug and scrounged all they could find,
From basketballs to thistles.

Assemble swift the catapult,
And drag it to position!
A piece was hidden in each stall,
So not to rouse suspicion.

The signal left the gander’s throat.
The mares threw wide the door.
They loaded up the weapon full,
And made the rubbish soar.

The bedroom window crashed right through,
And woke Jim with a start.
He slipped into his boots in haste,
With hand over his heart.

The second load crushed in his roof,
Just as he stepped outside.
His eyes fell on the animals,
And he was mortified.

The charge was roared in unison.
They rushed at him en masse.
Jim screamed in horror as they came,
And hid in the tall grass.

With copied truck keys safe in hoof,
The cows jumped in the seat.
They turned the key to start her up,
And floored it down the street.

A quick high-five, a hearty laugh,
They made it! They survived!
They sent a postcard to their friends,
Home in the countryside.

© Rachel Svendsen 2014

Sir Lochen

Sir Lochen was free from evil and greed.
A knight noble in heart, he mounted his steed,
An earnest voice whispered, “Kind Sir, you will need,
To urge your horse to move on!”

The voice from the dark was the youngest Monroe.
“Oh please, Good Sir Knight, I must beg you go!
Gregarious lurks and is plotting your woe.
Please urge your horse to move on!”

A silent glance back at the home just vacated,
His gut from the meal was still slightly inflated.
His host? No, not he! A man to be hated?
Why urge his horse to move on?

Then his mind snapped alive and awoke as if flinted,
Replaying remarks and the warnings that hinted…
Both rider and steed simultaneously squinted.
He urged his horse to move on.

The fire-lit room heard the cry of his mount.
Gregarious snarled and quickly ran out.
“You shall not escape!” was the foe’s angry shout.
The horse was urged to move on.

Forced into action, though still slightly plastered,
Gregarious still had his plan fully mastered.
He rang the town bell that would bring the disastered.
The horse was urged to move on.

The sharp pealing bell had the whole town awake.
They picked up their weapons both pitchfork and rake.
They were trained to respond, did not know their mistake.
He urged his horse to move on.

Through the trees as he rode he could see Myrtle’s door.
“I must reach my sweet Witch with great haste and I’m sure
She can turn them to toads, put an end to this war.”
He urged his horse to move on.

The commotion grew loud as the gang was assembled.
Not a cheery portrayal of justice resembled,
They marched in his way and the earth shook and trembled.
He urged his horse to move on.

“Oh Myrtle my love, I will soon be with thee.
Just through these dark woods and beyond that large tree.
I’ll hold you so close, then we’ll truly be free.”
He urged his horse to move on.

Through the woods and the trees he verily clattered
Each dream and each hope there so easily shattered
For Into an oak tree he suddenly splattered
The riderless horse still moved on…

© Rachel Svendsen 2014