I dreamed I was working on a story for my high school paper about the abuse of young women. I had it all written out on hundreds of little post-it page marking flags, in pink, yellow, green, blue, and purple. They were stuck in order all over my body, and I carefully transferred them to a notebook before getting up to get my lunch tray.
When I got back to my desk, my notebook was gone, but in a few minutes, my fellow students were all coming up to congratulate me. One of the teachers had seen my story and admired it so much, she'd taken it and had it printed in a special edition of the school paper. Within days, a national news outlet had picked it up, and I was famous.
I started writing more stories, exposing individual cases of abuse. I discovered and wrote about a beautiful young pageant queen who had been caught in bed with her boyfriend. After that, her father confined her on a tiny island, and brought her supplies once a week, sailing his yacht. Her prison could only be reached through a cleverly concealed trap door among the rocks of a tiny outcrop, nearly lost in the waves.
Next, I discovered a farm where tiny baby giraffes were being smuggled in illegally to feed exotic predators. In one cage, a huge python dozed, and in another a hyena slunk out of its little cave, as a famous country singer picked up the little girrafes, about the size of grown cats, and dropped a couple in each cage. When I reported them to the authorities, the country star and his mother denied all knowledge, and I began following them around and yelling, "Liar!" at them every time they talked about it. Then I woke up.
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