Strange mash-up dream

While I was sleeping Friday night, my brain was gnawing away at the topic of rules for writers. At first, it was content to consider the work of James Lee Burke; that part of my slumber yielded yesterday's blog post.

Then, though, my brain decided to mash up two unrelated titles. The result was a book I'd definitely try reading: a James Lee Burke/Mark Twain collaboration, In the Electric Mist with King Arthur's Court. With my apologies to both writers, I have to imagine the opening might go something like this:

"CAMELOT--Camelot," said I to myself. "I don't seem to remember hearing of it before. Name of the asylum, likely."

The sky had gone black at sunset, and the storm had churned inland and drenched the land and littered the winding path of a road with leaves and tree branches from the long canopy of oaks that covered it. The air was cool now, laced with light rain, heavy with the fecund smell of wet humus, night-blooming jasmine, roses, and new bamboo. The buzzing of insects and the twittering of birds masked the lack of people. There was no stir of life, nothing going on. It was as lovely as a dream and as lonesome as Sunday. Hoof-prints marked the road, and now and then a faint trace of wheels on either side in the grass--wheels that apparently had a tire as broad as one's hand.

Yeah, I'd give that book a go.

Aren't you glad I got that out of my system?