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"DreamSpeak" (the twenty-ninth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "DreamSpeak" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), February 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and are not to be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| DreamSpeak by walshnyc@yahoo.com (Entry #10) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "Barbara?" Huh? "Barbie? Wake up, girl-" "Purple monkey cyclone!" "What?" "Huh. Where..?" I look around. I’m sitting in a chair, slumped forward onto a table, or a desk. The room is unfamiliar, but Chantal is here. "Hell-lo? It’s Florida. Our hotel room. Spring break- any of this ringing a bell..?" "Oh, yeah," I say, uncertain. "Are you okay?" Chantal leans close and stares. "I was only in the shower for, like, 20 minutes, and you’re out here snoozing face down on a table..." "Why are you naked?" "How do I look?" Chantal does a slow twirl, like a fashion model, fashionably nude. "Naked." Neck-kid, nick-kid, my mind echoes and distorts. "No zits, or moles, or anything I don’t know about? Be honest..." "No. Just nakedness." I look down to make sure I’m still clothed. I am. "Good. I hear that those ‘Girls Gone Slutty’ video guys will probably be around," she says as she starts to pull on her underwear; "I don’t want to be embarrassed if I get drunk and make a fool of myself..." "That makes no sense." Now sense; non-sense. "It would if you were awake. Are you sure you’re alright?" "I shouldn’t have smoked that joint today." "You didn’t smoke it today; that was yesterday." "It was? Well, I still shouldn’t have smoked it," I say, trying to get my bearings on the calender inside my head; "It probably didn’t interact well with some of the things already in my system." "What you shouldn’t have done was participate in that sleep deprivation study..." "I couldn’t afford to go anywhere for Spring Break if I didn’t," I say. I try to sort it all out: six weeks of sleeping in a strange bed with electrodes and monitors hooked up to me; creepy, pimple-faced guys waking me up at odd times and giving me pills and shots and asking me questions- all so I could have enough money to come...here? I finally get around to scanning the room. Two twin beds, carpet, conveniently the color of vomit, a tv, a sliding glass door that leads to a balcony, the hard-wood table I just pulled my face off of. "Well, if you think you can pull yourself together, we can start working an intensive course of alternating hard partying and tropical relaxation that will cure what ails you..." Chantal is now wearing a wrap-around skirt, a red bikini top, and a tiki mask. I would probably be alarmed if I had not spied the clown paintings above the bed. I hate clown paintings. "What are you doing?" I say, trying to refocus. "Getting ready for the party. Remember? The guy in the lobby who gave us the masks? The invitation is on the table..." She pulls the mask off and walks into the bathroom. "I’ll be done in a few minutes, then you can get in here..." I suddenly remember something about a guy in the lobby, but nothing about tiki masks and parties. I saw someone, a boy, a guy, who looked like a kid I went to high school with back in Indiana. A man, not a boy, but he still looked like him. He was staring at me, too, like he recognized me, but that’s all I can recall. I look at the sheet of paper on the table. There is a drying wet spot on it where I drooled, but I am too confused to be even a little self conscious. The words on the paper make no sense. They seem a jumble of ink spots that do not resemble any alphabet I know. Then it all it all starts to come together in my mind: I’m still asleep. The familiar person in an unusual place; not being able to read the party invitation, random nakedness, the clown paintings- I’m dreaming it all. As if on cue, Chantal’s voice fades in, raised, calling out from the bathroom: "I don’t know what they were giving you in that sleep study, but you were talking some weird shit a few minutes ago; something about ‘purple monkey tornadoes’..." "A purple monkey cyclone blows through the ice-cream stand, spewing toppings in all directions," I say, the words as familiar as a song lyric; "People rub rainbow-colored candy sprinkles from their eyes as chopped nuts fall from their hair..." "...maybe some of the stuff from the study is still affecting you subliminally," she prattles on. "Subliminal. Sub-lime-in-all. Sub-lime- they did that song ‘Santeria’. Santeria, sangria, diarrhea; Santa has diarrhea..." I want to wake up. If I’m really in Florida on ‘spring-break’, I want to be awake, not sleeping through it. I’m probably passed out in a beach chair getting dangerously sunburned at this very moment. And if I’m stuck in a dream, then it should be something less mundane than sitting around a cheap hotel room. I stand up and go to the sliding glass door. The lights of the hotel across the street are a random pattern of checkerboard squares. I can see the ocean shimmering just beyond. "...the party is in a bar a couple blocks up the strip; I figure we could be fashionably late..." "Fashion, be late; flashin’ me bait," I manage to figure out the lock on the glass door, open it, and step out onto the balcony. We’re pretty far up. Eleven floors, I’d guess." "...invitation is a riot; it’s some sort of tiki-code, or some shit, but I figured it out pretty quick. How about you?" Chantal just asked me something, but if it were important, I’m sure I would have known what it was. It is my dream after all... I go back inside and get the chair I had been sitting (sleeping) on and carry it outside. I put it next to the balcony rail and use it to climb up. I’m sitting on the rail, feet dangling in space. Car headlights and street lamps flicker and move below. This is going to be a flying dream. I love the dreams where I can fly. I’ll fly between the hotels across the street, and swoop low over the ocean. I am plotting my course when the sound of knocking comes from the room behind me. A moment passes, and I hear Chantal again: "Hey, Barb; there’s some guy here says he knows you; he says he went to high school with you..." I hear her, but that part of my dream is over. Let him go fly in his own fucking dream. I let go. I’m not flying; I’m falling, spinning, but that’s okay. I’m tired of dreaming and I want to wake up now. I know I’ll wake up before I hit the ground, or a car, or a dog, or a person. I know I’ll wake up before- |
| DreamSpeak by Mark Lambert Marknutswriter@aol.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| The body lay on the reclined chair
in front of me; the electrodes still attached to his forehead and chest. The
intermittent beeps from the monitor now merged together in a low hum. I brushed
my hand over his eyelids to close them and pushed his gaping mouth shut. What
was going through his mind? He never spoke. He'd generated no images. He'd just
screamed. I took one last look at the unfortunate man and pressed a red button to alert the Dumpers that we had a failure.I needed coffee and a cigarette, so I made my way to the vending machine and out the back of the church. The two Dumpers nodded as they rushed past me, on their way to the confessional area. The hot coffee refreshed me somewhat and I sparked a match to light my cigarette. "Having a sly break eh, Father?" Father Thomas surprised me. "Well, I see you're needing one too," I said as he brought a fat cigar up to his lips. "How'd it go with the difficult one?" he said. "We had a failure." "Hmmm. I thought that might happen," he said. "The man just wasn't up for confession." "Well, I don't know. I've never seen one like that before. He never said a word, and no images. Just screamed, you know?" Father Thomas glanced at me between huge puffs. "Your first screamer eh?" "Like I said. Never happened before." "Don't take it personally Father, some just don't want to confess." I sipped my coffee and thought about his words. Why would anyone want to confess to things they did that the church didn't approve of? I really wasn't sure anymore. I'd seen people lie there, electrodes attached to their head, a drug-induced sleep, and pictures of their dreams and thoughts transmitted to a large plasma screen. The pictures were vivid and sometimes bizarre; most spoke also and some shouted aloud. Some screamed, but hardly any just simply screamed and died like this one. "Must go," said Father Thomas, "got an indoctrination to do. Young girl. She's apparently having thoughts of independence and her parents are worried. See you later." He threw his cigar stub to the floor, stamped out the embers and left me alone. I thought back to my first confession fifteen years previously. The woman had been nervous, as I was, but I had to coax her thoughts out. I was trained to do that then. She'd had thoughts about having an affair with a work colleague. Reading passages from the Book was my punishment for her and she probably went away quite happy, relieved and only a little embarrassed. Today, after the rule of August 26th 2015, she would be strapped up to a machine, sent to sleep, and we would see her sins for ourselves. They have no choice. We make a decision on their fate, but I know the authorities are asking the programmers to automate the punishment process. I sparked another cigarette. Maybe my faith was slipping, or my faith in the technology they now use. I longed for the old days of face to face encounters. I didn't know how far their technology reached. Two men appeared from the building and stood either side of me. Men I'd never seen before. "Hello Father," said one. I looked around at each of them. Their white suits and red ties unnerved me. "You can finish the cigarette, if you want to," said the other man. "What's up?" I asked. I felt sweat form on my forehead. "You have been selected for confession," said the first without emotion. "You have worrying behaviour and thoughts," said the other. Before I could speak again, each man had grabbed my wristsand my arms were bent upwards behind my back. There was no point in arguing or struggling. As they led me to the confessional area, I wondered what images I would give them, what words I would speak and what punishment they would deliver. Or would I just scream and die? |
| DreamSpeak by Cam cam-9@verizon.net (Entry #7) |
| ~Honorable Mention~ |
| [...in chilling black the droning pulse of red sings small comfort...] sleek devils shift and slide in deep repent - leviathans displacing atmosphere - great, ghostly omens pausing their descent to whisper sadly into never's ear: "o, end this dream... to be again, to be." stark sentinels stand - swollen and forlorn - midst kingdoms of wan oracles who wait for night to welcome in again the morn and light the way their soft, revolving fate... pale godheads, torn and battered by the waves of crashing all, enfolding, feel the sting of thankless time, and from their hollow naves in hallowed voice, this mournful chant they sing: "o, end this dream... to be again, to be." and - heavy `neath the weight of restless tides - gaunt mariners, their mysteries revealed, peer wearily through lightless, desolate, eyes into the long abyss, from sight concealed... soft sirens sway and undulate in place, forgotten dawns annointing through their veins and ageless chords that once bewitched a race now lull in puzzlement the mute refrain: "o, end this dream... to be again, to be." and mortals - fools and kings – a jumbled roil march, bent, 'neath once upon a times, long passed and rail against their festering, bitter coils while weaving webs of yearning to the vast... and so, my blue boy, wipe your redred eyes; the ages grind with or without your tears to oil them on. the cease is long and dry, and salty deluge will not soothe the sere of chilling black's embrace. know, blue boy, this: the song we all will echo through the veil... "o, end this dream... to be again, to be." |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| DreamSpeak by dingusdongus2000@yahoo.com |
#1 of 13 |
| 78 words | |
| Do you talk in your sleep? Do you make a peep? Maybe you snore Or fall on the floor Even turn and twist And have one off the wrist Avoid the wet bit Get up for a shit Have a bad dream About salmon or bream Scratch your arse Let some wind pass Wake up too early With hair all curly But do you talk? And wake with a stalk What did you say? Will she care anyway? |
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| DreamSpeak by Annette Miller annettemiller@sympatico.ca |
#2 of 13 |
| 1867 words | |
| I clung to the galleon of sleep as it danced on inky,
swirling waters. Black clouds shrouded the masts, caressing the moon. Grey
smoke twisting, writhed like a snake between the riggings, suffocating me in
its dark, damp putrefying stench. I coughed, waking myself. I was drenched in sweat, the sheets soggy under my body. My head hazy with slumber, I turned over and drifted into a fitful sleep. A row of trees, pine trees appeared in the distance, cloaked in a white haze that rose from the snow covered ground. I watched a tall, thin women, clad only in a thin white cotton dress, a floral housemaids apron hung around her slender shoulders, emerged from the trees. She looked cold, almost blue in color. Blond hair, hanging like icicles around her face. Her bare feet crunching on the snow, as she approached me. Her hands grasping at the apron, twisting her fingers in the fabric. I called to her as she approached. At first, it appeared as though she didn’t hear me, but kept approaching, wringing her fingers in her apron. She drew level with me, and glanced at me with pale icy blue eyes. Her lips, blue with the cold, her face a deathly white. My body jerked, I felt myself falling back into the black swirling waters, grey mist spiraling up around me. The radio clock blasted from its place next to my ear. "It’s 7 am on Tuesday January 14th. We will have a high today of 20 degree!" I lay there breathless, my body damp and clammy. My brain obsessed with this strange dream. Who was this women? Slowly rising from the damp sheets, I stretched and headed for the shower and the start of my busy day. On my drive to work, I could not restrain my eyes from searching the horizon for that grove of pine trees. Nothing in the dream seemed familiar. Yet her pale face had burnt itself deep into my memory. I shuddered. Those icy blue eyes, reached down into my very soul. As I drove down the country lane, I noticed the tall grass sticking through the patchy snow, gently swaying in the cold wintry wind. Familiar, yes very familiar, I had seen that in my dream, I had that feeling of being here before, but there were no trees, and I saw no women. I huddled down into my coat, turned up car heater, and listened to the radio. That dream haunted me all day, my mind repeatedly returning to that pale cold face, and those icy blue eyes. That night I lay in bed, staring up at the dark shadows on the ceiling. Those icy blue eyes burning in my brain. I tossed and turned trying to think of the pleasant things in life, arranging over and over again the activities of the morrow. By the early hours of the morning I was exhausted and fell into a fitful sleep. Almost immediately I could see the grove of pine trees. The white mist swirling around the trunks, caressing the spiky green leaves with long white, slender fingers. There was that women again. I watched her as she pushed her way through the lower branches, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked in my direction and walked towards me. I called out to her. "Madame, is there something wrong. Lady, what is your name? Can I help you?" I walked up to her, and stood in front of her. "Lady, please tell me where are you going?" Those cold, icy blue eyes, looked right through me. I shuddered, feeling helpless. She continued wiping her hands on her apron and walked right through me. I stood there shaken, trying to comprehend what had just happened. I could feel the icy cold descending into my very soul, reaching deep down inside of me, icy fingers grasping at my heart. I jerked, and was immediately awake. I was freezing, I grasped at my comforter pulling it tight around my icy body. I lay there shocked and shivering. What did this women want from me? Who was she? Why was she plaguing my dreams like this? Sleep was elusive, so I got up and made myself a mug of hot chocolate and sat on the couch in the lounge, staring out the window at the gently falling snow. I felt uneasy, a feeling of panic slowly welling up in me, yet I could not understand why. Why was this women having such an effect on me? A week passed, my nightly visits by the ice lady continued, always the same dream. Always those icy blue eyes that bored into the depths of my soul. I was tired, dead tired. I needed sleep, but every time I closed my eyes and fell asleep, there she was haunting me. This one particular night, I decided to take a sleeping pill and get some rest. I lay in the darkness, enjoying the floating sensation as I drifted off to sleep. I found myself in my car, driving down the road. This dream was different. I remember a feeling of relief, of being relaxed, of watching the country side flash past. There was a person on the side of the road, up head of me. They were standing waist deep in the long grass that bordered the side of the road. Immediately I recognized the slender blond women. There she stood, wringing her hands on her apron. A feeling of foreboding came over me, depression settling on my shoulders like a black cloak. I looked at her as my car sped passed. She made eye contact with me, those icy blue eyes mesmerizing me, I could not draw my eyes away from her. She held me captive with those eyes until my car had rounded a corner and she was out of site. She did not appear in my dreams again that night. In morning I felt rested and far more relaxed. What had I been worried about. This was only a dream. That women meant nothing to me, she could not hurt me. It was over, I had driven past her and away from her. I felt sure the nightmares would end. Two nights passed and there was no reappearance of the ice lady. My spirits soared, I had beaten it. Life was good again, however this didn’t last, and again that night she haunted my dreams. I was again in my car, driving down the same road, and as soon as I rounded the corner I saw her standing in the road. Those eyes again made contact with mine, this time her mouth was wide open, distorted in a terrible inaudible scream. I jerked and was immediately awake. Trembling in fear, the image of her screaming, fresh in my mind. Staying in bed was not an option, I was so rattled and nervous that I got up and went to I made myself a mug of hot chocolate. I curled up in my comfy arm-chair and dozed the rest of the night. Three nights passed with no re-appearance of the ice-lady. I began to relax, thinking it was just a figment of my fertile imagination. On the forth night, I had only just drifted off to sleep when I again found myself driving my car down the lane. I knew as I approached the corner that I would see her standing there in the middle of the road. Sure enough, as I turned the corner, there she was. Her mouth wide open, screaming. However, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next. It so frightened me that sleep was out of the question for the remainder of the night. The ice lady stood standing in the middle of the road, screaming, wiping her hands, as usual, on her apron. Only this time her hands were full of blood and the apron was covered in a large, bright red blood stain. I sat all night bolt upright at the kitchen table. I was too scared to even think about sleep. I needed help. I decided then to seek professional advice. This could not go on. I was a wreck, unable to function. Slowly, at 7am I dragged myself out of the kitchen and went and showered. The warm water running in rivulets down my body. Somehow it could not dispel the coldness I felt inside. Depression like a black cloud hung over me. I dressed slowly and made my way to my car, heading out for work. The day loomed long and large in front of me. I had no idea of how I was going to get through this day. I made a promise to myself to seek help, to beat whatever it was that was destroying me. As I entered the small town in which I worked, I ran into a traffic jam. Traffic jams were unusual, but even in a small town they did happen occasionally. Probably just an accident up front somewhere.. The cars were backed up for about a block. Nothing for it but to sit back and relax, listen to the radio, and take things easy. Heavens knows that I did not feel well enough to get stressed up about a traffic jam. Suddenly there was an ear deafening crash, my car lunged forward, striking the car in front of me. My head whipped back, I heard the cracking of my neck. "God damn it! Idiot drivers! What the hell!" My head spun, there was a sharp pain in my neck. It took a minute for me to collect myself. I reached for the door handle, opened the door and slowly got out of my car. I glanced at the car that I had rear ended, a blond women was getting out of the drivers side door. I stood there in shock, my eyes locked on this women. It was the women of my dreams. The ice lady. Those icy blue eyes looked at me, and through me. There was no smile on her pale face. I trembled, a feeling of dread enveloped me. My throat was dry, I could not talk. As if in slow motion she slammed the door of her car and slowly walked in my direction. Her right hand reaching down into her jacket pocket. There was a flash of bright steel as she drew out a knife. I stood motionless, unable to move. I watched the knife as she lashed out with it. I felt the coldness of the blade as it penetrated deep into my body. My knees weakened, buckling as I sank slowly to the road. I looked down at the hilt of the knife as it protruding from my body. I watched the bright red blood stain growing on my shirt, the red liquid oozing hotly between my fingers as I grasped my chest, running down my hands and dripping onto the frozen road. Slowly, I looked up at the ice lady, my vision growing misty. She stood there in front of me, her mouth distorted in a terrible grin, as she wiped the blood off her hands on the front of her light colored floral dress. |
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| DreamSpeak by lee10@host365.com |
#3 of 13 | |
| 2467 words | ||
| If I had not slept so badly that night, if I had not
had such a startlingly realistic dream, I would not have been so tired that I
drove my car into the gatepost. But I did and I had to walk to work. It was a
foul day. The wind was howling and the rain was coming at me sideways. By the
time I’d reached the centre of town, I was cold, wet, angry and ready to
go back home and call in sick. I took shelter outside a hairdresser’s shop, the posh, new one on the High Street, trying to decide whether to go on or not. While I hesitated, I saw a small notice in the window. Being terminally nosy, I forgot my predicament for the moment and took a closer look. The notice read,
I was intrigued. Seeing the notice seemed so opportune I had no choice but to act, to push open the shop door and enter. The thought of work receded. After all, I had the excuse of a badly buckled car to explain my lateness. A wave of warm air hugged me. My coat began to steam and my spirits started to rise. I looked around the salon. Usually I paid no more than £10 for a quick cut at Fringes R Us. This place I estimated would bankrupt me. Concealed lighting poured from dozens of nooks and crannies. My face and dripping hair were reflected from glittering mirrors that lined every wall, floor to ceiling. A huge floral display on the receptionist’s desk oozed the thick scent of exotic flowers. There was no one about. I was searching for a bell to ring to summon help when a tall, dark, handsome man wandered into the salon through a door at the rear. His clichéd good looks caused my heart to pound double-time. He smiled. My heart did a back flip. "Good morning," he said cheerfully. "May I help you? Do you want my sister, the hairstylist or me," he grinned, "the dreamer?" I was about to say, "I want you," but blushed instead and muttered some inanity about the sign in the window. "Then it’s me you want. Mr.Merlin Jones. At your service." "Merlin?" The name escaped involuntarily. I am not usually so forward. He laughed, a deep chocolate-coloured chuckle, the sort that Hugh Grant, the film star might give. "I am the seventh son of a seventh son. Mum was a romantic. My sister, by the way, is called Susan." He gestured towards the door through which he had appeared. "Come. I have a cancellation. You can have a sitting straight away if you want." I followed him down a corridor past an office in which an attractive brunette was pulling files from a cabinet. "Morning Merlin," she called. She smiled at me. "Awful day, isn’t? You look like you need a towel. I’ll bring you one. Want a coffee?" "Thanks, Sue," Merlin called over his shoulder. "We’ll both have one." He gestured for me to enter a small room. It was furnished very simply. One wall was plain and a small table holding a bowl of scented roses was backed up against another. A painting of Glastonbury Tor hung on the third wall. The mists of winter wreathed the Tor so that St.Michael’s Tower at the top was barely visible. In the foreground, droplets of water, frosted like crystals, hung on a slender, leaf-less bush. The fourth wall was mostly a huge window covered with gossamer-thin, cream curtaining. It closed out the day without shutting out any light. In the centre of the room, three easy chairs lounged around a low coffee table. The room was cosy. I could barely hear the wind. "Please, do be seated." That smile again. "Shall I take your coat?" I handed it to him and sat in the nearest chair while he hung my coat on a hook on the back of the door. The carpet was thick, the green of wheat fields in spring. Susan brought in the coffee, giving me time to collect my scattered wits somewhat. Merlin sat down opposite me. "Please, help yourself to coffee," Merlin said. "Miss…er?" "Gwynneth Morgan," I introduced myself. "You’re Welsh too?" he asked, startled. "Yes, I am." "What a coincidence. Not a seventh daughter, I don’t suppose?" "No. I’m an only child." We smiled companionably at each other. "So, Miss. Morgan. Tell me your dreams." The chair was comfortable. The coffee was good and the sounds of the High Street were barely audible. I blotted my wet hair with the towel that Susan had brought in and found it easy to describe the dream that I had experienced the previous night. I told Merlin Jones how I had tried to board a holiday train but kept failing to do so. There were people everywhere, pushing and hitting me with their suitcases. I rubbed my shin, feeling again the battering I had received. Everyone else managed to climb on board, but every time I tried I was unable to do so. The gap between the train and the platform was too wide, or the door would not open or the guard pulled me back. Eventually, the train went without me and I was left standing alone. A harsh wind swept along the cold platform and the cries of a newspaper seller, whom I could hear but not see, became the cries of seagulls as the platform dissolved and I found myself standing on a pebbly beach. The wind blew off the sea and I could taste salt, moist and sticky on my lips. "And that’s it," I finished. "It wasn’t so much a frightening dream as an amazingly detailed, colourful one." "Mmmmm," Merlin murmured and gazed over my shoulder while he considered my tale. Then he put his coffee cup down on the table. "I find your dream fascinating, mainly because of the wealth of detail. I have never known anyone actually taste anything before whilst in a dream state." He paused. "But analysing the dream itself is not difficult." I leant towards him, keen not to miss a word. "Trying to board a train but being unable to do so, indicates a journey of which you feel no doubt about making, but one that will unexpectedly have to be given up at the last moment." "But, but that’s what happened this morning," I stammered. I told him about my car. "Do you mean to say that my dream predicted the accident?" "It is more than likely," he replied. "Especially as the taste of salt indicates a miserable experience causing you to shed tears." "I did cry," I whispered, seriously spooked. I did not go to work. After I had paid for the consultation and fled from the salon, I spent the day brooding. I’m a practical person. This sort of thing has never happened to me before. I found it frightening to think that I might be able to predict the future. There was no one I could discuss the matter with. My friends would laugh; my parents would worry. Finally I did the only thing I could. I had a stiff whiskey and went to bed. I slept. And dreamed. I was standing by Niagara Falls, wearing ordinary clothes and a golden crown. It was a beautiful day. The sun was strong, creating glorious rainbows in the spray. I was carrying a wooden stepladder. It did not belong to me, I had found it somewhere but I opened the steps nevertheless and climbed them, to get a better look at the water. I stared entranced for ages. My crown was heavy but I held my head up high to watch a flock of pigeons flying towards me. When I woke, the dream was still very alive. It didn’t fade over breakfast and I chewed my toast wondering if I should go back. I tried to weight the pros and cons; should I, shouldn’t I? Then I decided, who was I kidding? Of course I was going back. I had grudgingly walked into town yesterday. Today I flew. I arrived at the hairdressers’ just as Merlin Jones was opening up. "Hi." He did not look surprised to see me. I had to catch my breath before I could reply so he continued, "Have you come for another consultation?" I nodded. "Good," he said. "Sue and I were quite concerned about you. You disappeared so quickly yesterday." He opened the door and we went inside. "Do you have the time to see me now?" I asked. "Yes, I’m all yours for the next half an hour." He grinned, "but shouldn’t you be at work." "It’s not much of a job," I shrugged. "I don’t think I’m going in today, except to hand in my notice." Hundreds of startled Merlin Jones’ faces stared at me. "What?" I asked bemused. "Later, later." Merlin looked embarrassed. He waved his hand vaguely. "Come, let’s go into the back. The coffee machine is not on yet. Instant OK?" "No, don’t worry. I’ve not long had breakfast, thanks." And within minutes we were sitting at the coffee table and I was telling Merlin about my latest dream, even though I was more than a littler distracted by his deep, dark eyes. I finished and sat forward on the edge of the chair, my hands between my knees and waited. It seemed an age but finally Merlin looked at me. He shook his head. "I don’t really believe it." "What? What?" "To dream of gazing at Niagara Falls portends momentous events that will bring about unlooked for changes in your life." "And?" He held up his hands. "Let me finish. To be carrying wooden steps, which do not belong to you, foretells the fact that unaccustomed duties will fall to your lot. By mounting the steps, you will improve your position immeasurably." He paused. I didn’t speak. "A golden crown foretells advancement and honours. A position of power and wealth will be conferred on you." We looked at each other. I kept quiet. I could tell there was more. "The fact of pigeons flying towards you means that good and happy news is on the way." Merlin stood up so suddenly that I sat back in my chair. He crossed the room and stood staring at the photograph, his back to me. "What’s wrong?" I felt frightened. "You see," he turned to face me. "I was so impressed with you, that I spent the remainder of the day yesterday considering offering you a partnership in an enterprise I’ve been considering for some time." "A p…. A what?" "And the sun. I haven’t told you about the sun yet, have I?" "The sun?" "To dream of the sun shining so strongly promises happiness, health and success in love." Merlin sat down on the chair next to mine. For an age we did not speak but thought over the implications of my dreams and Merlin’s thoughts of a possible partnership. The door opened and as Sue later told it, she found us holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes, oblivious to her presence. And so our company DreamSpeak was born. My dreams guided our endeavours and Merlin quickly gained great renown as an accurate dream analyst. In no time at all we had offices in four towns. The business was so successful, by the time our seventh son was born it had become DreamSpeak plc. Our seventh son, by the way, we called Richard. One night, when Richard was about twelve months old, I dreamed I was standing in a small boat, being rushed downriver to the sea. White streamers of spray were blown from the top of the rough, black waters. The day was turning from dusk to foul night. I thought I was alone but something, some sense of peril made me turn, to see a phantom hovering above the waves. Its face was covered. The boat hit a submerged rock and I was thrown, screaming down a precipice into a ravine. Water ran down the slick, rocky sides. I searched for a foothold, a way out, but the phantom reappeared, driving me back. It floated at the top of the cliff and it spoke; terrifyingly it addressed me. "I am Vivien, the Lady of the lake. How dare you usurp my powers? How dare you steal a great talent that no mortal must even contemplate let alone use and abuse?" I cowered away trying to make myself invisible. "I fought long and hard to trap the Magician Merlin who sought to clip my wings. I bound him under a rock forever. You and that mate of yours are not worth that effort however. You will merely disappear from the face of the world entirely." She went to snap her fingers. And I woke; thank goodness I woke. I screamed, waking Merlin who grumbled, "Wos up?" I shook him properly awake and through tears I couldn’t control, I told him about my dream ordeal. He put his arm around me and he hugged me, whispering that I mustn’t worry. I switched the bedside light on and saw that he was worried, so I worried too. "Tell me about my dream, Merlin," I insisted. He didn’t want to, but what choice did he have? "Being on a boat on the rough waters of a river denotes trouble. A phantom, which covers its face, is a warning against continuing your present mode of life. If you do so you may bring disgrace upon yourself." He rubbed his eyes wearily. "And?" "And the precipice denotes snares and dangers to come, perhaps a crushing blow, a loss and undoing." I thought of all the hard work that we had put into our enterprise. I remembered the long hours I had spent doing DreamSpeak’s paperwork at night after the boys had been put to bed. I thought of our seven boys. I felt my belly, in which nestled the first of the seven sisters that a dream had revealed to me. I was not going to give up any or all of this. I refused to be defeated by a mythical sorceress. "Tell me, Merlin," I asked, "if I had managed to escape from the precipice what would have been the analysis of my dream then?" "To have escaped from the ravine up the precipice would have foretold a mastery of the situation and great reward." He looked at me fearfully, "but you didn’t dream that, did you?" "Not yet," I said. "But if you fetch me the whiskey bottle, I’ll do my damndest to change the course of my dream." I grinned reassuringly at him. "You know how stubborn I can get when I’ve had a drink" |
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| DreamSpeak by tom_set@yahoo.com |
#4 of 13 |
| 541 words | |
| He paused for a moment and gazed at the bridge. A long,
tall, world-renown monument to man's engineering expertise and ingenuity. A
symbol of accomplishment, of seemingly insurmountable struggles overcome, and
now glittering like a too perfect constellation in the midnight sky, a beacon
of life and hope. How appropriate. He was going to jump off of that bridge.
All of that hope and reverence which had once been his - was it that long ago - until the weight of the world had warped it into the stings and harrows of outrageous ill-fortune. His business was being crushed under a sea of unpayable debts, his children had abandoned their bickering household, his friends had shunned him and his recent excessive drinking habits, and only today he had returned to his home to find his wife was leaving him. There was only one thing to do. Shambling down the streets of what was often described as a picturesque city, but now seemed to him strewn with frivolous menacing monoliths, he weaved his way through the dockside district toward the bridge. He could hear the laughter and uproar of the saloons that he passed and was siezed by the impulse to have one last drink. A miasma of thick tobacco smoke and the furzy stench of stale beer assaulted him as he sidled past the braggadoccio of sailors on leave, to the old scarred wooden bar. Ordering a whiskey, downing it in one gulp, then ordering another, he turned around to face the raucous scene, so alien to him in this part of town. It was at this juncture that the bartender suggested there were more pleasures in this establishment he might enjoy. What the hell he thought. Let's enjoy my last night and spend my last dollar. Instead of being led upstairs as he supposed, where the cheap women pleasured and fleeced their customers, he was taken through a door in the back, down a dank flight of rickety stairs, and into a room, also filled with smoke, but of a sickly sweet aroma. The men laying about on cots in a dreamlike state, babbling softly to themselves or occassionally shrieking in laughter told him this must be an opium den. Revulsion and fascination fought for supremacy in his mind as he looked at these ragged creatures lost in their own world. Sitting numbly on a spare cot, a someone came up to him with a small clay pipe and offered it to him. He also produced a wooden match and as the flame drew nearer the bowl, he realized an important turning point in his life was about to happen - whether to join these dreamspeakers and lose his mind to a blissful insanity, or to rush out of there and *********************************************** "Honey! I'm kind of at an impasse here. I don't know if I should go uplifting, though it seems trite, or depressing, though it could be sort of existential. I mean, should I have him go back home, sober up, and put his life back together and keep on fighting the good fight, or should I let him waste his life away in that dream world?" "Just make him jump off the damn bridge and come to bed." |
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| DreamSpeak by My Nguyen idlemousse@hotmail.com |
#5 of 13 |
| 1902 words | |
| Overhead of the looming building, where a sign read,
DreamSpeak, a man underneath the bold lettering with a tired and haggard-worn
face stood just outside of the sliding doors. He looked up briefly at the huge
sign, assessing the building he was about to enter. His disheveled hair and
unkempt clothes did not speak of the millions in his bank, or the many more
accumulating as the heartless days do pass. This world-weary man saw, but could not see the people passing by on the street and the pigeons who are the clocks of time, that are also flying away in front of him. For he could not tell the gray suits from the gray wings that flutter away. The burning of the sun hurt his eyes, and the one or two batches of clouds were too few to shield him from the glaring light, as he squinted pass it all to see something other than this facade. He looked down at what brought him here: a card in his hand. In a way, to perhaps relieve his aching blood-shot eyes deaden from lack of sleep, peered down away from the stare of the sun, to shelter his eyes from being entirely scorched clean into empty, although preferred, unsightful sockets by the unblinking sun. The presence of the card in his hand was also there for as reassurance as well, as he tirelessly flipped the card out to view constantly, as if it was an anchor in the churning sea; the only thing to keep him stable, in a rocking and tumbling universe. The business card advertising for DreamSpeak, looked as it had as the other dozens of times his eyes had searched the plain script, for more meaning than it perhaps actually did carry. And as his weary eyes seek new meaning in an almost wasted life, he remembered with a tinge of hope, a small flame, igniting an almost dead, even obscured optimism. With a breath escaping into a small sigh, he covered the flowering of hope that the card held, and crushed this crucial element-like new wind that swept the barren land in the wake of his heart. He remembered a blur apart from the other gray uniform passer-bys. This now separate blur stood out from the rest he had long cut ties with. This person had reentered his life and left a distinct mark. And for whom he would have otherwise forgotten and dismissed as just another gray entity like all the rest, if this particular individual hadn’t placed this card in this man’s hand that he now held. It was a piece of himself that he thought was lost forever, but now little by little was getting being saved. It lit a dying light within him and he felt a hope nurturing in the hollowness. After he and his wife separated, the sharp pain that usually accompanied a person who was leaving a marriage after seven years, someone they have lived and perhaps felt some sort of affection towards did not come ‘til later. It was a mess that struck him with a slight blow at first and then harder and harder as the minutes passed, until it was just a rising wave of pain. As his money is slowly accumulating by the enterprise that he made, so is his torment cementing to suffocate and enclose him in its cold walls. It did not crush in one instant, but left him to die in a quiet, and unheard, agonizing death. In his work, he could lose himself, and so he thrust himself farther and farther into the void that he was in. He only had time to build his empire and to make more money. So that he was just a working machine, only obligated to have relationships, but never caring about the things that make an actual person whole. This was what drove many people, including his wife away when they finally saw that the higher he rose, the greater his plummet will be. And they didn’t want to be dragged down with him into the abyss when he did fall. As the days continued to pass, they suddenly began to lose value. Things that used to matter a great deal now were things he ceased to care about. Nothing seemed to satisfy him either, and the worse thing about it was that he did not know why he felt this way. He lashed out at everyone, seeking to place the blame on someone, something else even, although the source of it all simmered and boiled down to him. Looking down the street, it reminded him of the blocks of streets he owned. He could see much of what he had acquired blowing away in the dust. His assets from a small shop in the corner of one of his streets to a bigger-box in an even more modernized building on a bigger street, that he had all built long ago from a vision he made into reality. *** On a dull day shadowed with mourning clouds, this man began to feel how alone he truly was. He stepped into the bakery shop he owned to improve his heavy spirits somewhat with its cheery and warm atmosphere. He felt better already as he entered and breathed in the sweet aroma of the baked goods. It seemed to gradually fill him up although he hadn’t consumed anything just yet. The baker, a cheerful sort-of man, greeted him and placed a couple of sweets on a plate before coming over. It had been a little known rule before that no one was to mention this man’s separation from his wife or to be reminded of the state of desolation he was in, for he was at a point in his life that he couldn’t face anything just yet. This was the mistake the baker made, for he was a honest person who felt that everything should be out in the open, in order for the man to someday heal, instead of locking it up tight in a vise. With a flip of his wrist, the man angrily tossed the plateful of cookies to the floor and immediately dismissed the baker from his position for not minding his business even though he was meddling under good intentions. He could not stand to think or be reminded of it again. Better to be numb about it than to feel the loss puncture holes into his chest every now and then until he bled to death. This tortured man did not want to hear or discuss it anymore. He felt even more alone as the rift from him and other people grew, as he tossed compassion away and only shouldered despair as his true companion. He rushed out of the warmth and contentment of the room to face the cold and drizzling world again, to find another place of comfort where he could forget everything. *** He arrived to taste the wine ready for him. The manger of the restaurant placed the glass of intoxication in front of him, but before the liquid could touch the man’s lips, the phone rang. The manager cursed underneath breath. But the man said that it was all right and he could wait, so they could taste the wine together. The other man nodded. The manager turned his back for some privacy, and picked up his phone. "Hello!" he said softly in an exasperated tone. "Oh, it’s you," he said in a bored voice and already impatient to get off the line. "What do you want? I have a client to attend to." "Yeah, Margaret," his voice was rising and gradually he began to forget where he was. "You think I have the time.... Too bad, but I can’t pick them up today. I can’t do everything at once...That is enough. Find someone else. I’m too busy." Overhearing this conversation, the man just sat there, frozen in the space of his thought. The way the manager had talked to his wife was so ugly and terrible; it struck a poignant chord within him. The way he would put a stranger first rather than those closest to him, was something so harsh and close to home, that it was something it could not entirely face altogether. He slowly closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, trying to enclose his thoughts and remove the circulating misery. There was so much that he wanted to forget and so much that he wished he could do but couldn’t because it was much too late. He did not want to do business with the other man anymore and so he left the restaurant and went out on his way. *** On one indescript day as all the others, the baker came to his doorstep, and apologized for his inconsiderateness. Then he handed the man a business card and said that it might help him. The one-way conversation ended abruptly there and the baker said good day and left, afraid to say anymore. Now inside the building DreamSpeak, which was where the card had led him, the man looked around inside one of the office cubes. It had hanging plants near the window, with square modern furniture and a long oak desk to say who’s paying whom to be in charge here. The first question the analysist asked once the man was seated was, "What do you dream these days?" "I have no dreams," the man answered simply. "Well, when you close your eyes, what do you see? Picture all your wishes, dreams, and desires, and tell me what appears before you," the analysts suggested. The man closed his eyes and laid his head back onto the chair. He began to relax and to tell the story about the darkness behind his eyelids: "I am in a well where the tunnel that seeps downwards, and continues to echo ‘til the bottom is reached. It is where the hollowness is contained from within. No thoughts to express, no words to emphasize, and summing its whole what is the point? Only to reach to the bottom of this emptiness, where all its purpose is gone. And it just exists for no reason or need; wasting its years to haunt as a ghost. "And in the bottom of the well, parched and dry, lies the sands of time. It buries the dead and by and by, the dead become the mounds on top of them. Dry of decades pass, and being preserved so that other ages can see the desiccation that once walked this earth. "I compute each grain that flows through the funnel into the desperate sea of desert, mistaking it as something meaningful. Stars soon die, as their light fades, and it falls while something else rises in another form. "Of empty lights, only the biggest shines through and give life. I see from pinpoint to endpoint where images are connected to seek meaning in the absolute meaningless. "I am here with the night overhead and around, where lips of different shades kiss the sweating brow of the sky, expressing all its moods that I no longer have." The vision faded and the man said, "How can a dead man dream anyhow?" And the man let go of the crumpled card that was crushed in his hand and the now useless business card fell to the ground in defeat. |
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| DreamSpeak by Mark Lambert Marknutswriter@aol.com |
#6 of 13 Winner |
| 673 words | |
| The body lay on the reclined chair in front of me; the
electrodes still attached to his forehead and chest. The intermittent beeps
from the monitor now merged together in a low hum. I brushed my hand over his
eyelids to close them and pushed his gaping mouth shut. What was going through
his mind? He never spoke. He'd generated no images. He'd just
screamed. I took one last look at the unfortunate man and pressed a red button to alert the Dumpers that we had a failure.I needed coffee and a cigarette, so I made my way to the vending machine and out the back of the church. The two Dumpers nodded as they rushed past me, on their way to the confessional area. The hot coffee refreshed me somewhat and I sparked a match to light my cigarette. "Having a sly break eh, Father?" Father Thomas surprised me. "Well, I see you're needing one too," I said as he brought a fat cigar up to his lips. "How'd it go with the difficult one?" he said. "We had a failure." "Hmmm. I thought that might happen," he said. "The man just wasn't up for confession." "Well, I don't know. I've never seen one like that before. He never said a word, and no images. Just screamed, you know?" Father Thomas glanced at me between huge puffs. "Your first screamer eh?" "Like I said. Never happened before." "Don't take it personally Father, some just don't want to confess." I sipped my coffee and thought about his words. Why would anyone want to confess to things they did that the church didn't approve of? I really wasn't sure anymore. I'd seen people lie there, electrodes attached to their head, a drug-induced sleep, and pictures of their dreams and thoughts transmitted to a large plasma screen. The pictures were vivid and sometimes bizarre; most spoke also and some shouted aloud. Some screamed, but hardly any just simply screamed and died like this one. "Must go," said Father Thomas, "got an indoctrination to do. Young girl. She's apparently having thoughts of independence and her parents are worried. See you later." He threw his cigar stub to the floor, stamped out the embers and left me alone. I thought back to my first confession fifteen years previously. The woman had been nervous, as I was, but I had to coax her thoughts out. I was trained to do that then. She'd had thoughts about having an affair with a work colleague. Reading passages from the Book was my punishment for her and she probably went away quite happy, relieved and only a little embarrassed. Today, after the rule of August 26th 2015, she would be strapped up to a machine, sent to sleep, and we would see her sins for ourselves. They have no choice. We make a decision on their fate, but I know the authorities are asking the programmers to automate the punishment process. I sparked another cigarette. Maybe my faith was slipping, or my faith in the technology they now use. I longed for the old days of face to face encounters. I didn't know how far their technology reached. Two men appeared from the building and stood either side of me. Men I'd never seen before. "Hello Father," said one. I looked around at each of them. Their white suits and red ties unnerved me. "You can finish the cigarette, if you want to," said the other man. "What's up?" I asked. I felt sweat form on my forehead. "You have been selected for confession," said the first without emotion. "You have worrying behaviour and thoughts," said the other. Before I could speak again, each man had grabbed my wristsand my arms were bent upwards behind my back. There was no point in arguing or struggling. As they led me to the confessional area, I wondered what images I would give them, what words I would speak and what punishment they would deliver. Or would I just scream and die? |
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| DreamSpeak by Cam cam-9@verizon.net |
#7 of 13 Honorable Mention |
| 276 words | |
| [...in chilling black the droning pulse of red sings small comfort...] sleek devils shift and slide in deep repent - leviathans displacing atmosphere - great, ghostly omens pausing their descent to whisper sadly into never's ear: "o, end this dream... to be again, to be." stark sentinels stand - swollen and forlorn - midst kingdoms of wan oracles who wait for night to welcome in again the morn and light the way their soft, revolving fate... pale godheads, torn and battered by the waves of crashing all, enfolding, feel the sting of thankless time, and from their hollow naves in hallowed voice, this mournful chant they sing: "o, end this dream... to be again, to be." and - heavy `neath the weight of restless tides - gaunt mariners, their mysteries revealed, peer wearily through lightless, desolate, eyes into the long abyss, from sight concealed... soft sirens sway and undulate in place, forgotten dawns annointing through their veins and ageless chords that once bewitched a race now lull in puzzlement the mute refrain: "o, end this dream... to be again, to be." and mortals - fools and kings – a jumbled roil march, bent, 'neath once upon a times, long passed and rail against their festering, bitter coils while weaving webs of yearning to the vast... and so, my blue boy, wipe your redred eyes; the ages grind with or without your tears to oil them on. the cease is long and dry, and salty deluge will not soothe the sere of chilling black's embrace. know, blue boy, this: the song we all will echo through the veil... "o, end this dream... to be again, to be." |
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| DreamSpeak by GPain97046@aol.com |
#8 of 13 |
| 842 words | |
| "My love, my beautiful love, you’ve been worth it
all," Montrose said He had loved this house from the moment he was old enough to appreciate its beauty and what it represented. He would, as a child, run his fingers over the wide curving staircase that swept in a graceful arch, like a ballet dancer, up to the second and third floors. The polished ebony banister gleamed in the sunlight from the windows and the luxurious thickness of the white carpeting silenced his footsteps. The air in the house, sweet with the smell of fresh flowers cut from its gardens, intoxicated him. He paused and inhaled the essence of gracious living air. His beloved mother had inherited this house from her father and her father from his farther, for six generations. His beloved mother loved this house. He remembered her stopping and trailing her hands over the imported Italian marble, the stone’s beauty part of her. She kept this house a thing of grandeur and an inheritance to be passed along. Montrose loved the lead crystal chandeliers, imported from Venice, and the fine furniture handcrafted by Europe’s best makers. The furniture was made from the exotic woods from Africa and South America. The Rembrandt paintings were in gold-leaf frames and the gigantic fireplace in the main room kept the chill of his feet from the fierce winters. Montrose would sit at the foot of his mother’s chair and listen to the tales of her family and this beautiful house. His grandfather, his mother’s father, died before he was born and he loved to hear about his hunting expeditions. Bears, lions, elks and others hung in the main room, a testimony to his well-known reputation. When his father died, he felt nothing. His father had been a cold and unfeeling businessman, who was only interested in making money and making powerful connections, hence the marriage to his beloved mother. He hated the house and visited a few times a year, hence, Montrose was the only child. When his beloved mother died, he mourned for her. She hated the city and would only live in her beloved home. His mother was perfect, always knew the right answers to his questions of life. He worshiped her. He brought his first wife, Drusilla, to his house but, alas, the marriage did not last long. She hated the isolation and boredom. She wanted a second home in the city and when she was unable to conceive, he told her he would buy her one. Before he could do it, she drowned in the sea even though she was an excellent swimmer. He brought his second wife, Marcia, to his house but, alas, it did not last. She had three daughters and all three died in childbirth, She refused to have more children and killed herself in despair. He brought his third wife, Jeanette, to his house but, alas, it did not last. She also gave birth to three daughters and all three died in childbirth. She couldn’t have more children. One morning on her bedroom balcony, she fell and died instantly. Montrose did not miss any of his wives. All three were silly women who had not been able to give him sons, male heirs. DreamSpeak was the name of his home. It had been given that name when it was built. His beloved mother said it was a house to dream and speak about and must be kept for future family generations. He agreed with her. He stood, at the door of DreamSpeak’s main room, with torches in his hands. The authorities would be here in the morning to arrest him for the murders of his three wives and six daughters. How absurd these people are. I couldn’t help it my wives didn’t give me sons, only whimpering, sickly daughters, who squirmed in my arms until they fell and died. His home would be sold. The proceeds from the house and the rest of his money would be divided among the families of his wives. He knew they were common stupid people who did not understand why and what happened. They knew nothing about family pride and inheritance. He would never let that happen. He put the torches to the drapes of the main room. He watched them burn ever so slowly until they reached the walls and furniture. Then it burnt quickly and the whole room became engulfed in flames. Montrose went up his beautiful staircase, rubbed his hand on it for the last time and then put the torch to it. He went into every room and soon they were burning. He went into his bedroom and went out onto the balcony. He stood and watched the only he loved and cared about burn. The flames reached his bedroom and came towards him faster and faster. He stretched his arms out to embrace it for the last time, his love, his DreamSpeak. By dawn, it ended. Smoke and ashes were the only things left when the authorities arrived. DreamSpeak no longer existed. |
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| DreamSpeak by trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com |
#9 of 13 |
| 476 words | |
| A cool welcome breeze sniffed around the warm concrete
porch of the nursing home as two ladies put their ragged fans to rest on the
laps of their plain worn dresses and tasted the fresh air. A third sat primly
nearby looking stolidly in front of her. The orange peach fuzz of sunset crept
in as Edna, the most garrulous of the three, broke the humid silence. "You know because of this heat, I didn't sleep too well during my nap. I remember dreaming about my husband Jeb, God rest his soul." "That's nice, dear," said Lurlene, brushing a wisp of grey hair from her wrinkled forehead. "I haven't thought about this in years but when he used to talk in his sleep, he would sometimes talk about past lives like he had been an Apache warrior or a haberdasher in Philadelphia or a Phoenician sailor or a London bookkeeper, and a few others. Maybe there is somthing to this reincarnation." "I think it's a lot of bosh," replied Lurlene. "When I die, I hope I go to the kingdom of Heaven. Maybe Walter just watched too many movies." "What about your Elmer? Did he ever do anything like that," asked Edna. "Not at all." Lurlene added plaintively, "He never said much when he was awake and night he just snored, Lord knows I miss him but I don't miss that haw-woo, haw-woo every night." The two ladies cackled over Lurlene's imitation of Elmer's snoring as the night was slowly turning a bluish grey. Edna then aimed her bulk at the third old woman who had been listening absentmindedly. "What about you, Millie? Did your husband talk in his sleep?" Millie straightened up with a bit of a start at being asked a direct question, but replied firmly and quietly. "Milton never said much in his dreams except near the end. He spoke of going to Florida and he called me Dixie a few times. That's the name of his young secretary. I could tell he was going to leave me for her so I put some rat poison in his coffee thermos one morning and he was dead by noon." The two other ladies gaped at her in stunned silence as the day was fading to black. "I had to do it. I couldn't face being a divorcee or a scorned woman. A widow is so much more acceptable don't you think? If you ladies will excuse me, there's a bit of a chill coming on and I'm tired enough for bed." With that, she arose from her wicker seat with some difficulty and shuffled off behind her walker indoors. "Well if that isn't the most shocking thing she's ever said," exclaimed Lurlene. "Yes, and with her poor husband Milton visiting her twice a week and most of the time she doesn't even recognize him." |
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| DreamSpeak by walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#10 of
13 Winner |
| 1129 words | |
| "Barbara?" Huh? "Barbie? Wake up, girl-" "Purple monkey cyclone!" "What?" "Huh. Where..?" I look around. I’m sitting in a chair, slumped forward onto a table, or a desk. The room is unfamiliar, but Chantal is here. "Hell-lo? It’s Florida. Our hotel room. Spring break- any of this ringing a bell..?" "Oh, yeah," I say, uncertain. "Are you okay?" Chantal leans close and stares. "I was only in the shower for, like, 20 minutes, and you’re out here snoozing face down on a table..." "Why are you naked?" "How do I look?" Chantal does a slow twirl, like a fashion model, fashionably nude. "Naked." Neck-kid, nick-kid, my mind echoes and distorts. "No zits, or moles, or anything I don’t know about? Be honest..." "No. Just nakedness." I look down to make sure I’m still clothed. I am. "Good. I hear that those ‘Girls Gone Slutty’ video guys will probably be around," she says as she starts to pull on her underwear; "I don’t want to be embarrassed if I get drunk and make a fool of myself..." "That makes no sense." Now sense; non-sense. "It would if you were awake. Are you sure you’re alright?" "I shouldn’t have smoked that joint today." "You didn’t smoke it today; that was yesterday." "It was? Well, I still shouldn’t have smoked it," I say, trying to get my bearings on the calender inside my head; "It probably didn’t interact well with some of the things already in my system." "What you shouldn’t have done was participate in that sleep deprivation study..." "I couldn’t afford to go anywhere for Spring Break if I didn’t," I say. I try to sort it all out: six weeks of sleeping in a strange bed with electrodes and monitors hooked up to me; creepy, pimple-faced guys waking me up at odd times and giving me pills and shots and asking me questions- all so I could have enough money to come...here? I finally get around to scanning the room. Two twin beds, carpet, conveniently the color of vomit, a tv, a sliding glass door that leads to a balcony, the hard-wood table I just pulled my face off of. "Well, if you think you can pull yourself together, we can start working an intensive course of alternating hard partying and tropical relaxation that will cure what ails you..." Chantal is now wearing a wrap-around skirt, a red bikini top, and a tiki mask. I would probably be alarmed if I had not spied the clown paintings above the bed. I hate clown paintings. "What are you doing?" I say, trying to refocus. "Getting ready for the party. Remember? The guy in the lobby who gave us the masks? The invitation is on the table..." She pulls the mask off and walks into the bathroom. "I’ll be done in a few minutes, then you can get in here..." I suddenly remember something about a guy in the lobby, but nothing about tiki masks and parties. I saw someone, a boy, a guy, who looked like a kid I went to high school with back in Indiana. A man, not a boy, but he still looked like him. He was staring at me, too, like he recognized me, but that’s all I can recall. I look at the sheet of paper on the table. There is a drying wet spot on it where I drooled, but I am too confused to be even a little self conscious. The words on the paper make no sense. They seem a jumble of ink spots that do not resemble any alphabet I know. Then it all it all starts to come together in my mind: I’m still asleep. The familiar person in an unusual place; not being able to read the party invitation, random nakedness, the clown paintings- I’m dreaming it all. As if on cue, Chantal’s voice fades in, raised, calling out from the bathroom: "I don’t know what they were giving you in that sleep study, but you were talking some weird shit a few minutes ago; something about ‘purple monkey tornadoes’..." "A purple monkey cyclone blows through the ice-cream stand, spewing toppings in all directions," I say, the words as familiar as a song lyric; "People rub rainbow-colored candy sprinkles from their eyes as chopped nuts fall from their hair..." "...maybe some of the stuff from the study is still affecting you subliminally," she prattles on. "Subliminal. Sub-lime-in-all. Sub-lime- they did that song ‘Santeria’. Santeria, sangria, diarrhea; Santa has diarrhea..." I want to wake up. If I’m really in Florida on ‘spring-break’, I want to be awake, not sleeping through it. I’m probably passed out in a beach chair getting dangerously sunburned at this very moment. And if I’m stuck in a dream, then it should be something less mundane than sitting around a cheap hotel room. I stand up and go to the sliding glass door. The lights of the hotel across the street are a random pattern of checkerboard squares. I can see the ocean shimmering just beyond. "...the party is in a bar a couple blocks up the strip; I figure we could be fashionably late..." "Fashion, be late; flashin’ me bait," I manage to figure out the lock on the glass door, open it, and step out onto the balcony. We’re pretty far up. Eleven floors, I’d guess." "...invitation is a riot; it’s some sort of tiki-code, or some shit, but I figured it out pretty quick. How about you?" Chantal just asked me something, but if it were important, I’m sure I would have known what it was. It is my dream after all... I go back inside and get the chair I had been sitting (sleeping) on and carry it outside. I put it next to the balcony rail and use it to climb up. I’m sitting on the rail, feet dangling in space. Car headlights and street lamps flicker and move below. This is going to be a flying dream. I love the dreams where I can fly. I’ll fly between the hotels across the street, and swoop low over the ocean. I am plotting my course when the sound of knocking comes from the room behind me. A moment passes, and I hear Chantal again: "Hey, Barb; there’s some guy here says he knows you; he says he went to high school with you..." I hear her, but that part of my dream is over. Let him go fly in his own fucking dream. I let go. I’m not flying; I’m falling, spinning, but that’s okay. I’m tired of dreaming and I want to wake up now. I know I’ll wake up before I hit the ground, or a car, or a dog, or a person. I know I’ll wake up before- |
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| DreamSpeak by mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#11 of 13 |
| 1802 words | |
| I stand by the wall of a white church somewhere in the
Southern Europe. It's very old and been here since the Mongol invasion. Above
me is a sky of pale blue and clouds that run suspiciously fast. In front of me
is a trench that I, alone with others dug and now stand in line above it.
In front of me there is a platoon of soldiers. Helmets cover their faces and their rifles are at the ready. "Feuer," barks the officer in a calm, businesslike voice. The platoon fires and people start falling into the trench on both sides of me. There are more people than soldiers and those that remain stand in silence. "Feuer," the officer repeated. This time I feel a shock of heat wave in the chest and then everything turning the sky, the soldiers, the line of the horizon, the Earth. I am falling. I awaken with a funny headache and sit on the bed rubbing the painful spot. The same dream again. It repeats itself in random but stubborn inevitability. And although I knew it most likely meant absolutely nothing, I still had to wonder. I got up, went to the kitchen, took two painkillers with a glass of water, and stumbled slowly into my office. Usually I discarded the desire to explain my dreams because of the lack of time. Today however was Saturday and I was in no hurry to go anywhere, 'so why not', I decided. Scanning through my bookshelves, I noticed an old book my wife had bought somewhere that promised to explain your dreams. Flipping through the pages I searched to find something reminding me of the dream’s elements. "To see a church" meant the awakening of your consciousness, concern and tolerance. "To see an officer" meant a conflict with people in power. "To see the Earth" represented danger for someone close to you or concern about death. "To see lead or bullets" meant the fear of separating from the one you loved; a foreshadowing of troubles. Finally "To see many soldiers" was the harbinger of loss. This was as close to the dream as I could get out of this book. I tried to make some kind of a connection out of all these and this is what I came up with. First I tried to explain it chronologically. I was going through the process of awakening of my consciousness and was going to experience a loss due to the conflict with the power. As a result I was going to be in trouble, separated from my loved once. Finally I'd be concerned that someone close to me would die. This didn't make too much sense and I tried to connect it in a different way. Someone close to me went through the process of the awakening of his or her consciousness. This awakening was going to engage them in a conflict with power, which is apparently a very dangerous undertaking because it foreshadows trouble for this person and loss for me. One thought interrupted and dismissed this interpretation. I had this dream many times since childhood. Did that mean that every time I had it someone close to me was in trouble with authorities? Not that I could remember, not then and not now. I closed the book and put it back on the shelf. I looked for another book, the one memorable from college days. The interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud. I flipped through several pages, reacquainting myself with the Freud’s method. He advised to the initially collecting free flowing thoughts, images and associations emerging in the mind of the patient as a reaction to the elements of the dream without critically evaluating them, however irrelevant they might seem. I broke down my dream into the following fragments just like before: church, crowd of peasants, the freshly dug trench, platoon of soldiers, commanding officer of the German army, the shooting and the falling. The association with the white church I found immediately. One summer of my youth I spent at the Boy Scout camp where I met an interesting art teacher. The group of us hiked to the nearby monastery and sketched the different buildings inside its walls. Thinking now about this activity I didn't find it very engaging, but back then, probably because of the personality of the teacher, I was literally glued to my drawings with the intensity I can only compare to the one with which my kids play computer games. The next item on the list, the crowd of peasants, came to me with a struggle. Thinking of these people in the dream more intensely, I remembered that although they seemed alive it was as if they were not part of the same reality as I was. I could only compare this feeling to a scene in the movies that for different people was shot at a different times and superimposed, sort of like when one actor plays several characters. Thinking about their powerless poses and home made linen robes, they seemed to appear from the Soviet movies that dealt with the difficult and deprived of civil rights life of peasants before the communist revolution of 1917. In turn the image presented in these movies was borrowed from the Russian artistic movement of the nineteenth century called "Narodniks", which focused on the sufferings of the lowest class of Russian society. The next association - the freshly dug trench came as a memory of my work in the building brigade in Siberia. One of the operations in constructing a hospital for the local village was digging a trench for the foundation. I went there one summer hoping to earn some money because, it was rumored, that in Siberia, earnings were larger. It turned out to be a myth. The platoon of soldiers brought the memory of the barricades of the Paris Commune of 1870 and the "Bloody Sunday" of 1905 in St. Petersburg where the army shot into a peaceful demonstration. The image of the meticulous German officer came from the true stories told by my father. During the Second World War he was captured by the German army and spent five years as military prisoner. Yet instead of anger and bitterness toward the Germans, he was full of admiration of German organization, cleanliness, and overall sense of stability. Adding to that impression, I remember my own short stay in Vienna - watching with bewilderment as Austrian women washed the street in front of their business with soap. I don't know how closely I followed Freud's methodology, for he warned the reader that their application requires a certain skill, but that's what came out of my tinkering: I experienced a desire to be engaged in something very interesting, something that would occupy my thoughts completely and with great intensity (drawing the Church). At the same time I was afraid that without a solid financial foundation (digging the trench in Siberia, hopes for big money) I would be subjected to financial difficulties in my life (sufferings of the lowest class of Russian society and following it barricades and shootings). So if only I would prepare a financial foundation for myself, then I would be able to achieve organization and stability (neatly dressed German officer and Austrian women washing the asphalt with the soap). I lay on my couch, looked up at the ceiling and fell into the reverie. Each of those interpretations could have been the true one. But I could just as easily be mistaken, connecting the elementary associations in the wrong way. I could just imagine Dr. Freud telling me, "What in the name of God have you done here? And yet it is elementary my dear Watson". Maybe there was another truth, not the truth of everybody else, not the truth of voodoo magic and not the truth of psychology, but my own private truth that lay somewhere close by on the flip side of memory. Stupid little rhyme popped into my mind, something clumsy and silly that I heard in my childhood: Dream, dream, Speak to me Tell me a secret Let me be. These words took hold of my mind and spun there like a broken record in the neighbor's apartment. I even cringed and shook my head trying to get rid of its annoying repetitiveness. Suddenly a thought came to me. At first it was a weak and light hint wavering somewhere on the horizon of my awareness. But the taste of this was sweet and the sensation was intriguing. Slowly and carefully I pulled the invisible thread of the thought like a fisherman pulls on his line, and then 'voila'! I tugged it to the surface. This dream must have been transferred to me from my father. He was captured in Brest, in June 1941 and spent five years in the concentration camps in Poland and then in Germany. He was first placed the Jewish Ghetto, but then with group of men he jumped the barbwire and under machine gun fire, ran a hundred yards to the other section of the camp. Many ran, but only one out of ten made it to the Armenian section. Lucky for my dad, he didn't have a typically Jewish appearance and could easily pass for Armenian. But he was actually even luckier. When the Germans were checking everybody in the Armenian camp for circumcision, he was sick with typhus and lay with a high fever in the rain. The German soldiers were too fastidious to check him, his chances to die were too high anyhow. But he didn't die and eventually he ran away from the Germans in 1945 to become a guerrilla fighter in Greece. Which of the horrible scenes he witnessed got transferred to me God only knew. Why didn't I think of him right away? Maybe because it was too obvious. Maybe because there was no rational in a thought of transferring the fears genetically. Yet despite the irrationality of such an explanation I felt right and relieved. A calm assurance settled in my mind and spilled like an ocean wave rolling through the nerves on my back. I picked up the phone and dialed a long string of digits. "Hi dad, how are you doing?" "Hi son. I'm ok. What’s does the old man need?" I imagined him now at eighty-one. His hair is completely gray, but eyes are still alive and kind. And although we were separated by thousands of miles, we are very much connected and not only by blood. I didn't know of course if his memory was indeed transferred to me, or I was simply experiencing placebo effect, but since this moment and on the dream reappearance became rare. More importantly the uneasy thoughts connected with the dream didn't bother me anymore. |
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| DreamSpeak by Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#12 of 13 |
| 899 words | |
| Alpha Centauri is special - not only because it is
the closest stellar system to the sun, but also because it is one of the
relatively few places in the Milky Way Galaxy that may offer terrestrial life
conditions. A wise man of the Dogon tribe lay sleeping, dreaming, in his ancient cave, hewn long, long ago from the side of a cliff. Around him were old ceremonial masks, many different animal skins, two ornately carved stools, some brightly woven blankets, and earthen jars containing strange herbs and medicines. By his straw cot where he lay was an intricately painted bowl containing the remnants of some mushrooms designed to enhance his visions. The images and voices that spoke in his dreams had been unusually strong in the past two days and he had known that tonight he needed to understand them in all their supernatural clarity. 100 miles south of Timbuktu in east central Africa live a tribe called the Dogon in a 125 mile stretch of escarpment called the Cliffs of Bandiagara. Dogon, in the older literature means 'stranger' or 'pagan'. They have an oral history that has known about Proxima Centauri for thousands of years. They have known that the Earth revolves around the Sun, that Jupiter has moons, and that Saturn has rings. The Dogon tribe had lived simply for all that millenia, virtually unchanged, in harmony with the Earth. They trusted their wise man's interpretations of signs and his dreaming revelations. The shaman, engorged with 5,000 years of history and knowledge, had slipped into a semi-waking dream that made him feel as if he were floating on water. Falling deeper and further into his visions, thoughts and ideas began to crystallize in his mind. He felt the spirits of animals and trees and all living things. Sirius, the Dog Star, is the brightest in our sky and is the same type of star as our Sun. Sirius A has therefore always been known to man. In 1842 it was found that there was a sister star, Sirius B, right next to it. Only in the last century was it discovered that there was a third star, Sirius C, or Proxima Centauri, even closer. The Dogon had always known this. Translated from the Dogon language into English , Proxima Centauri is called the "Sun of Women". It is described as "the seat of the female souls of living or future beings." As the dream evolved, the telepathic voice in the wise man's head began recounting the ancient history he already knew of. The famines and floods of Egypt that had nearly wiped out all its people, the great plagues of the Middle Ages that had cut the world's population by one third, and all the way up to the modern immuno-viruses of AIDS, SARS, ebola, and a dozen others. He knew these terrible things had happened and was just now beginning to understand why. According to Dogon mythology, Nommo was the first living being created by Amma, the sky god and creator of the universe. He soon multiplied to become six pairs of twins. This is a metaphor for our original 12-strand DNA. Our present physical DNA contains 2 strands which hold the genetic codes for our physical evolvement. All of this knowledge possessed by the Dogon and other primitive tribes must have come from somewhere but from where remains a mystery to the Western world. The Dogon shaman sat up in his bed, still trance-like, but even more fully aware of the voice that spoke to him, not in any language, but in thoughts. He had known, of course, about the visitors that had come to Earth at various times during the centuries, but this was as close as he had ever been to actually hearing one speak: "We, of Alpha Centauri, have come here many times and kept in constant touch, monitoring the progress of humanity. Our project of colonization has been largely a failure, save for those that have avoided 'progress' and lived with love and respect for the planet, their neighbors and family. We have unsuccessfully tried to breed out the bad seed, but the genes of hatred, anger, greed, and misguided religion have been very resistant so far. Now we have perfected a super virus which will being released in a matter of days. In the time of one moon cycle, all advanced civilization will be gone forever and the sickness we unleash will also die with it. Your tribe and a thousand others on all the continents will be saved because of your respect for the earth; taking only what you need and always giving back. In the next 40 days, your people must avoid any contact with anyone outside of your tribe. After then you may venture from your rocky lands and reap sustenance from more fertile valleys. Then through all of you, peace and prosperity shall be restored on this planet. We of Centauri have always been your friends and teachers and will continue to be so." The wise man smiled and drifted back into a deep sleep. The pungent aroma of his slow-burning herbs wafted gently by as he settled into his rough cot. Tomorrow he would spread the word to all of the Dogon. Modern civilization that had been systematically destroying a fair green planet would soon be gone and Mother Earth would be safe again. |
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| DreamSpeak by Joshua Fitts fitties@hotmail.com |
#13 of 13 |
| 2452 words | |
| The sand under her feet was wet and cool as she walked
along the beach. Looking out to sea, the calm water rolled slightly into shore.
The early morning sun cast a soft orange glow over the coast. Ahead she saw her
mother sitting on the small deck of their beach house, watching her. She waved,
and her mother waved back as she took a sip from her coffee. As she drew closer to the house she heard something come in with the wind. A soft whisper could be heard flowing within the air. She felt that this was not wind at all, but the flowing air was the whisper itself. The air moved around her and into her with every breath, making her feel nauseous. She felt that if the wind could choke her, it would without remorse. The realization of what was happening hit her and she felt sick with fear, her heart jumped into her throat. She was dreaming, and he was coming for her again. The pattern was always the same since she became trapped in here with him. Using her own memories, he would attack her, trying to kill her. Bent on destruction, he was tireless in his efforts, growing stronger after each attempt on her life. Only by what little strength she had left, she had escaped deeper into her mind, retreating against a far more powerful enemy. Her DreamSpeak ability was limited to telepathy, but him, he seemed to be able to enter and slowly take over her mind. She’d never met another DreamSpeaker before, and now wished she hadn’t. Every time he came for her she could feel his anger and hate flow from him, all directed at her. "He’s justified though," she said to herself. "I caused the crash that killed all those people." Tears welled up inside from sorrow and guilt. "If only I had been paying attention, this would’ve been avoided." A crackle of thunder caught her attention and she turned to look out toward the water. The sky over the ocean came alive. Dark and frightful clouds swarmed in at unnatural speed. Within seconds the entire sky was a violent swarm of clouds, churning all the way to the horizon. Lighting cracked fervently in the sky, and her ears rang with each thunderclap. The seas mimicked the sky, as swells on the water churned and crashed into each other. Frozen by the unnatural display, Stacey stood helpless on the lonely beach. She spun back toward her house, looking for her mother. She was leaning against the deck railing, watching her. Scared, Stacey tried to run but found she couldn’t move. Looking down she saw her feet buried in sand and felt it grip tighter, almost painfully. "Mom, please help!" Stacey cried. She looked back to her mother as she desperately tried to pull herself free, but her mother answered her with silence. She thought she saw a smile trace across her mother’s face as she pleaded. At that moment she knew that someone else was looking at her, not her mother, but the presence that she was all too familiar with. Panic set in and she began clawing at the sand around her feet. With each gouge that she made with her hands, more sand flowed in to fill the void, burying her deeper than before. She saw something in the corner of her eye and looked up. Her mother was standing next to her. "Why did you do this to me?" Her mother said as Stacey whipped around. "You should’ve been watching the road!" Stacey shuddered at the site of her mother. This was how she was found after the fire had been put out. Her usually brown curly hair was burnt off her head, and only blackened scalp remained. Her face was melted and blistering, and her lips had burnt back, showing her charred teeth. Stacey shuddered at the sight of her mother and felt tears stream down her face. Her mother died when their beach house caught fire. "Mom –" "You should be dead not them!" She said. "It’s your turn to die!" She moved across the wet beach swiftly. A knife appeared in her hand ready to strike at her daughter. The blow coming fast, all Stacey had time for was to close her eyes and raise her arms in a feeble attempt to stop the blow. The knife-edge sliced down her arm, tracing a line of blood in its path as it carved her flesh. The pain seared like fire and she screamed. It was a scream that was nothing like she’d ever heard before. Deep and reverberating, it caused the teeth in her mouth to vibrate. It drowned out all sound, and she felt a sense of calm wash over her. She had fallen back again, deeper into her mind, escaping him once again. Checking her arm, the knife wound was gone. This was the closest that she’d been to death. He almost had her, and it was only a matter of time until there was no where else left to go. Looking around she found that she was in a plain, infinitely white room. There were no walls anywhere, and she didn’t see an end to the vastness of the room. She reached out and tried to feel for him, sense how close he was, but she got nothing. He had been able to hide his approaches before, but each time she checked in fear and nervousness. "Why am I trapped in here with him?" She asked herself. Thinking back, the last thing she remembered was reaching for her cell phone. She felt herself slam into the dash, and then black. Even unconscious she felt the people around her with her power. He came in stronger than anyone did, but one by one she could feel them all die. She lost count, but she knew there were at least twelve. "At least twelve people are dead because of me." Not long after she felt them die, he began coming for her. He could feel her, as she could feel him. With each attack, he grew stronger and herself weaker. He was slowly taking control and deep down she wanted to let him. Feeling exhausted, she laid down and fell fast asleep. ********* A low rumbling woke her and she sat up, and found her sanctuary was shaking mildly. She felt the vibrations come up from the floor, and they were getting stronger. Standing up she noticed something to her right. Turning, she saw a dark shadow descending upon her alabaster room. He was coming for her again, and terror flooded her veins. The black passed through her, and she closed her eyes against the rush of wind following the wall of darkness. Opening her eyes she found herself in a car traveling north on I-95 to Bangor from Augusta. She looked around quickly and found she was in the passenger seat of a car she’d never seen before. In the driver seat, she saw a thin, sickly looking man. His short brown hair was greasy, and matted. She knew it was him, the man terrorizing her in her dreams. She didn’t just know it was him, she felt him, his presence permeating the car like a damp, rotting stench. He swerved the car into the passing lane as he avoided a slower car. The dotted middle line streamed past nearly solid from the speed. She glanced at the speedometer, the needle edged past eighty-five. The speed limit was sixty-five. "I’ve been waiting for you." Stacey said. "You’ve escaped me too many times. This will be the last time we meet." "I know why you’re doing this, but it doesn’t have to be this way." She said. "You don’t deserve to choose! I’m nothing now! You don’t understand anything!" He said, his hand coming off the wheel, backhanding her. "I can’t believe you can DreamSpeak. You don’t deserve The Gift!" He stamped on the gas and the car surged forward. Ahead she thought she saw her car, but it vanished from site before she could be sure. "Soon…soon it will all be over." "What are you going to do to me?" She asked, but he said nothing. As he sped through a curve in the interstate, she saw her car about one-hundred yards in front of them, and they were closing fast. As she watched him gain on her car, she realized this was the moment of the crash. He brought her back to this memory, but this wasn’t hers. She was seeing this from his car, his memory. Confused, she was about to say something, but noticed something strange in a logging truck a few car lengths ahead of them. One of the metal guard poles that help kept the stacked wood in place buckled and failed, sending a shower of timbers into the interstate. Logs bounced around the road, landing on cars, and sending others careening into each other. She watched her car, worried for herself, but found she couldn’t see a driver. Stacey knew this was when she was reaching for the cell phone. She saw a log smash into a minivan, bounce off and slam into the hood of her car. She felt guilt lift off her and a new strength fill her heart. She didn’t cause the deaths of all those people. Still speeding along, her and her soon to be killer were milliseconds away from slamming into the back of her car. She screamed, the same guttural scream that caused her bones to vibrate, and she felt calm seep through her. The destruction of the interstate faded, and everything around her was black and silent. The dark that surrounded her seemed to have form, and she could almost feel its cold on her skin. She started to move in the blackness, and that’s when she noticed it. The same festering stink that was in his car on the interstate filled her nose. He was in here too, somewhere in the darkness. "Where did you take me?" He asked. He was somewhere to the right of her, close, very close. "Take you?" She said to herself, not realizing she spoke out loud. "Yes you stupid whore, where?" "I…I don’t know." "It doesn’t matter. I’m still going to kill you." He said. "I didn’t cause this, the crash wasn’t my fault…you have to believe me." "I know it wasn’t your fault." "Then…why? Why do you want to do this? I didn’t do anything to you!" "Shut up! I want light!" He said, and immediately plain and unending light filled her entire view. She saw him to her right. The same oily haired man that was in the car stood ten feet to her side. He was no older than thirty-five and stood wearing a hospital gown, his feet bare and boney. Hunched over, he held himself up on a cane that quivered under his weight. His head was shaved and a stitched cut traced across his forehead, five inches in length. "You still don’t understand do you? I want your body." "My body?" "I want it for my own. Mine is useless since the crash, and the only thing that’s in my way is you." He said as he moved closer. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt him in a way shed never experience before. He seemed to come in stronger than he ever had, and she felt a link to him. She knew, this was the last meeting, and it was either him or her. "Now, its time to die!" Raising his hand ah wave of energy emanated from his fingers and slammed into her, sending her flying backwards. "I’m in control in here. Here, I am God! Goodbye Stacey." He shot another wave of energy at her. Instinct took over and she thought of blocking the blow. Lifting her arms up, she felt the blow hit her, but she didn’t fly backwards. She looked at him and a look of shock played across his face. She’d deflected his blow. It hit her suddenly and the realization of her epiphany astonished her. In here, she was on the same playing field as him. Her mind, versus his. A battle of wills played out in the nether reaches of her subconscious. Standing up she looked at him and no longer saw him as an all powerful being, but just a man. A person that can die as easily as her. "What…how…?" "You’re not as powerful as you thought. It’s my turn." She thought of a giant hand reaching out to grab him, and her arm shot forward and clasped around his head. She squeezed and felt his skull crush under her grasp. Blood and tissue oozed from between her fingers. Releasing her grip his lifeless body fell limply to the floor. He was dead. His body gradually disappeared, his presence in her mind gone. She was alone. Everywhere around her was quiet and for the first time in what seemed like forever, she felt safe. What power he did take from her streamed back quenching a deep thirst she didn’t realize existed. Each inhalation also brought on growing sense of exhaustion. Collapsing on the floor she fell asleep. ********** The brightness of the room stung her eyes when she woke. It took her a few moments to get accustomed to the light. Glancing around the room she saw an IV in her hand, and a nurse standing in the doorway scribbling on her clipboard. She looked up and saw Stacey and ran out of the room. Not soon after nurses and doctors surrounded and began assessing her. "Where am I?" Stacey asked. "You’re at Easter Maine Medical Center, I’m Dr. Richards." "What happened? The crash!" "Yes. It’s ok Stacey. You’ve been in a coma for a few days. You need to rest." "The crash….were there any survivors…other than me?" "Yes, one other…but he passed away just a few moments ago. You should consider yourself lucky. You escaped with minor bruising." She knew the other survivor was her tormentor. Both fighting for life. He was fighting for his, and her fighting him off for her own. She felt sorrow for him, and began to cry. "Stacey, it’ll be ok. I’ll have the hospital psychiatrist come and see you a bit later. Would you –" "What was his name? The other survivor?" Stacey asked. "David. David Foley." David Foley. He seemed more human with a name. Not such an animal anymore. She waited for the doctors to finish their tests and they let her be alone to rest. She cried herself to sleep. Her tears a mixture of happiness and sorrow. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club