A New Wife
I was going to write about the dream that lead up to this dream. One about a video game like adventure to avenge a college professor’s father’s death from an alien race. I piloted spacecraft with mysterious orbs, shot at alien marines, “respawned” after I died. But it was the short dream right after all that that made me wake up crying.
It was Jessica, lying on a wooden board that rolls back and forth, I’m staring down at her face. Her eyes are closed. She’s younger, maybe five or six years younger. She has a beautiful smile on her face, it’s as if she is sun bathing with a warm orange glow on her freckled cheeks. Her fine brown hair hangs across the board and falls downward.
I realize at this point that she has no idea who I am. We’re meeting again for the first time when she opens her eyes and says hello. At this point, everything we’ve had together, everything we’ve done together only exists in my mind. I look down past her face, past the rolling board she’s laying on and see that what it rolls in to. It is a huge furnace. It is a crematorium. She’s clearly still alive and happy. But “we” are dead.
I started crying and woke up crying. I went to my phone and saw a text message. It’s a grocery list from my wife. She’s fine and wants steak for dinner. That makes me feel better.
The Glamour Bath
I wake up in the early evening. The sun had just gone down, the last orange rays giving way to the dark of night. I went to bed fairly early that night back in college. I was in my room towards the front of the old rental house that probably could have applied for a historical placard if it wanted one. A huge bay window covered in cheap ass, thin bed sheets posing as pseudo curtains was to my left. Directly in front of me were my drums. All was normal except for the florescent light that had just been turned on many feet past my drum set where the exterior wall should have been.
It flickered like a strobe light for a few seconds before it dimly illuminated a dank, Saw like bathroom that extended many feet past where my bedroom should have ended. There was a putrid toilet, stained brown, in the corner. Nasty, dirty, dark gray tile all over the walls and floor. There were some strange heavy iron chains hanging from the ceiling opposite of the toilet. Right in the middle was a pedestal sink, cracked and filthy. Above it was the remnants of a shattered mirror.
I always wanted my own bathroom. I tried to get up but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. Not just dream paralyzed, I was conscious that I was dreaming, but I couldn’t wake up or move. At one point I swear I actually opened my eyes and looked out my actual window to the left, but my body would not move. It was as if I slept on all of my limbs wrong at the same time.
After what seemed like forever, I jolted awake. It was only eight or nine at night. I walked down the hall to use our actual bathroom. It also had a nasty pedestal sink and was covered in tile from floor to walls. Pink tile. Not as intimidating.
Mortal Golem Combat
Two blackened metallic-charred creatures, sinewy and sharp, dance violently in what could be described as a dimly lit abandoned silo, ridden with rust, glowing a dull orange-red. Burgeoning bloody masses hang from their shadowy dark torsos as they flail frantically at each other with their sharp, thin tendrils. Their movements are quick and precise, yet jittery like old claymation monster movie effects.
I’m not sure why they are fighting, where I am or what I am. My perspective is sometimes third sometimes first person. I see my assailant. A haunting dark scribble, ridden with macabre wounds, spewing forth thick blood red tapioca-textured guts. Everything is muted except for the loud metallic crashing sounds of his footwork, as if he were dragging thick chains across the iron silo. I determine the other creature is dead or has disappeared and now the victor wants nothing more then to kill me.
I can see only one eye on his pointy charcoal head. It glows a dark red, steam rises from his blackened burnt brow. I hear guttural bellows now, demonic and reverberating, hitting me in the chest every time he exhales. No mouth, no nose, just one dim eye on the left side of his face and giant, rigid, black, sharp tentacles for arms that slice at me relentlessly. He is more jagged, flat silhouette then full bodied figure, outlined by the dull glow reflected off the silo walls; as if he were some sort of violent golem created from charcoal and metal whose sole purpose in life was to slice things open.
I try to turn and run but there is nowhere to go. We are chained to the rusty silo walls with rusty chains. It wouldn’t be that bad if I wasn’t within his reach. His figure arches and compresses at crackling speed as he jerks and thrusts after me. I bend my body to avoid his sharp tendrils, but he’s already gashed open soft belly. I’m going to die here. The last thing I remember is a scraping sound like a car muffler being dragged across asphalt as his keen, sinewy toes dug into the silo walls to provide leverage for one more swing.
My First Dream
The first dream I ever remember having occured when I was around four or five years old. I had this same dream many times over. I used to go to sleep making myself think about it because I loved having it so much.
It was just me and my uncomfortable “big boy” twin bed with these simultaneously awful and quizzical bed sheets. They had the alphabet on them. All the letters were represented in alphabetical order, of course. They were scratchy; made of some strange nylon/cotton/steel wool blend that was neither warm nor soft. But none of that really mattered. What mattered was that each letter was a monster. As in sharp teeth, crazy eyes and wild hair. I remember “M” was excessively hairy, like It from the Addam’s Family. “T” was pretty ferocious looking with his sharp fangs. “L” was probably lacking a monster chromosome, cockeyed with his long gooey tongue dragging on the ground. It was these sheets that I’m sure provided me with the magic to fly.
It would always begin the same. I would lay down for bed, not really tired. The room would be dark sans the warm orange diffused glow of the street lamp through my window. I had trouble sleeping even in those days. I would lay there, force myself to close my eyes and think about this dream. Then, after a little while, it would happen if I was lucky.
My body, flat on my bed, felt like it was floating on water. A sensation not unlike that of having had one too many drinks and seeing the room spin, but without the nausea. The walls and ceiling surrounding me would dissolve. Nothing but the black of night and the stars existed in my field of view. I could feel it from under the bed. A thrust, a propulsion towards the empty sky. We (the alphabet monsters and I) would rise, first slowly, then quickly upwards. The bed would shift and tilt, providing me with glorious little aerial peeks of Chandler, AZ at night.
I could feel the wind, feel the gravity on my body as I was magically piloted through the sky. I could see the strings of Christmas lights dotting the miniature city of ants below. The saguaro cacti looked like caricatures of themselves, lit by the moonlight from above. This dream was fun, never frightening.
I never remember the landing. I would fly around for an undetermined amount of time and then invariably wake up the next morning to sunshine, Trix and cartoons. My pillow would probably be on the floor. My sheets were in a ball by my legs. I loved this dream.
