Dream Diary: Graduation Day

For some reason, in dreams I find myself back in monster grad school, only today is – wait for it – graduation day.  Classes are wrapping up and my friends and I spend most of the time partying.  For our final rite of passage, we must perform a display of our mastery over our chosen course of study – mine are apparently “death angel” and “warrior angel,” each majors Samael and Michael sponsored me to enroll in, apparently, according to my little schedule of graduation.

Apparently anti-angel sentiment is high at the school, as angels are seen as uppity and xenophobic to other races, so I’ve been masquerading as a demon this entire time.  I, however, cannot hide my power-up on the graduation stage as white wings shoot from my back and my aura fluoresces yellow and pink and that goddamn LED halo sputters on.

The crowd boos and my friends gasp: “We never knew!”

Michael and Samael are in hiding in elaborate disguises, shades on, otherwise they wouldn’t have been let into the ceremony.  Samael drinks punch with his pinky finger out and Michael is reading a paperback.

First comes my death angel demonstration: I take my white and silver scythe from Samael and twirl it around like a crazy baton master, shooting blue lightning clouds from the blade.  Electric static makes my hair stand on end.  Samael smiles.

Last is my warrior angel suite, with my flaming sword brandished high – I execute thrusts and parries, fly around the stage stabbing the air, and things kind of catch on fire.  I fan them with my shield to put them out.

Crickets.

Embarassed, I take the scythe in my left hand and sword in my right and start circling them around like numchucks, which Baba Yaga’s granddaughter had used a few shows before me.  The crowd is rapt, finally, as orange gold and blue energy forms a sphere around me then crescendos in a pillar of light to the heavens.

The audience is blown away.  No clapping, just dumbstruck.  Michael and Samael give me a standing ovation, making sure not to stand to  close to each other because they hate each others guts.

The headmaster claps me on the back and puts my graduation cap on.  Blushing, I shake his hand.

Samael, Michael and I grab platefuls of refreshments and hightail it to Michael’s van.  Sam begrudgingly sits passenger seat, ever the terrible driver, stirring the paper umbrella in his alcoholic punch.  For some reason it is a green VW Van.

“You did good kid, and I don’t say that often,” Samael murmurs.

Michael nods his head.  “I’m proud.  Maybe graduate school wasn’t a waste of money after all.”

Clearly my subconscious is thinking of next week’s finals…

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