Inmate Martha

In my dream, I shared a West Virginia prison cell with Martha Stewart. Despite her fame, there was a sort of easy intimacy between us, with Martha trailing her legs across mine as we whispered about our lives, sharing fears about prison and aspirations for when we were released. At night the warden would open the whole block and send us out into the woods, hunting a species of large cat for which Martha had developed a real taste. The other inmates would howl her name while she bagged one after another, spearing them in what became her trademark, low-to-the-ground stance. At dawn, she led cooking tutorials with whatever remained. Martha tried to act professional, up there behind her televised jail house kitchen, but we both would giggle whenever we made eye contact, recalling some embarrassing story from school shared beneath the covers at night. Insider trading didn’t factor into the dream.