The first dream involved LW making a post to explain and apologize for his recent absence from the forums.
Apparently a bunch of scots he knew in meatspace had been plying him with a variety of wonderful strong drink after he had successfully predicted, some time previously, that a certain (probably fictional) Scottish politician was going to seize a significant amount of power on the world stage and make life a misery for as many people as possible.
One of his acts in power had been to outlaw the use of various rude words. These scots certainly had serious potty-mouths - surprise surprise - considering the one such word I remember is one not even I would use. LW was glad of their company (and their nigh-endless supply of booze) nonetheless, though, and so he had allegedly been spending his days partying in a drunken stupor with a bunch of Scottish dudes instead of supplying Bay12 with his usual stream of wit.
Fortunately, he returned (presumably finding some way to balance partying and shitposting) and all was now right with the world forum.
This does sound concernedly plausible. Life does whirl in a blur when in the company of good revelry
24/09/2018The dream of this night was made under conditions of exhausted sleep, brought about by an awful chest infection making breathing whilst asleep difficult. The conclusion was to not sleep, at least until 5:00AM passed and staying awake didn't seem to remain a viable option - but by then at least my airways seemed much less phlegmed and sleep much more possible.
Passing into heavy, delirious sleep, I dreamed a composite of four dreams.
I was crossing a busy road, an area where eight roads intersected and I had to pass two pedestrian crossings in order to reach the stairwell on the other side of the road. Making my way across the first road, the traffic piled up at the second while I waited for the sign to change from the red man to the green. Behind me a drunk and agitated old English hobo was milling about through the crossing behind me, with the cars waiting angrily yelling at him whilst he yelled back at them. Distracted I crossed the second crossing, stopping to pick up a sandal I slipped out of, with a motorcycle rider hurriedly yelling at me to run before the traffic lights changed.
'Fuck, quick, go, go now.'
Running quickly down the stairs into the underground I was met by no ticket barriers or even a station, instead running immediately into the platform of a train of an unknown line. Opposite me seemed to be a proper train station, on my end the platform seemed large enough for only one carriage. If I had been conscious, I would have remarked at how strange this would otherwise seem. Perhaps my distraction could be justified because I was immediately focused on the family in run-down rags crossing the train tracks a minute before the train arrived. There was a husband, wife, a child and a babe, with the wife carrying the child and the child carrying the babe. I shouted at them to get out of the tracks, worried they would get electrocuted or run under - the husband climbed out and stood, watching me. The other three made it to the other side and I felt relieved that they had made it, until the mother turned around and went back to the tracks. I screamed at them to please stop, to not play chicken with the train as it would not be able to stop in time, she did not even seem to understand my words - and tripped over the tracks.
The train screeched to a halt making an immediate brake and somehow managed to stop just before hitting the family. I relaxed and after a short few seconds the station was shook with falling earth, bricks, masonry and strained supports, a second train hitting the first braked train, plunging the station in darkness. Lights flickered back on and the station looked visibly damaged, but not as damaged as it should have been. The tunnels were blocked off but my humble platform was now much larger, with stairs leading up and around to the other side of the station.
Seeing an information booth now on my side of the station, I immediately went over and pressed the button relaying me to a station worker where I informed them of the emergency. I was panicking but calmed myself, resolving to give as much useful information as I could, not letting fear get in the way of helping an effective response. I detailed that two crashes were observed, that there were no fires, that there were definitely casualties, that there was a risk of the station collapsing and that I would try to find as many people as I could and leave. A mid-country male voice referred to me and told me to stay put and tell everyone to stay put, I told them I would. I asked the man how he knew my name, he told me that I had mentioned it earlier, I told him emphatically I had not. The man did not answer any further, I said I would stay put, to which he responded with 'very good then.' This was the last I heard from him, and so I left the information booth.
I saw on the other side of the station an old but fit man who wore a blue suit and spoke English with a faint European accent, though thoroughly Estuary, who helped me search for survivors. We unmistakably heard voices from survivors - underneath the train, the bodies were torn and burnt, but peeling back crumpled carriages people emerged blackened but intact, until nine survivors joined us to total 11 people. The husband of the family was never found or noticed by anyone. The trains had been fortunately empty for the most part, with few traveling this early on the line at this late a time, while there were no signs of drivers - almost no one had died for what could have been the perfect catastrophe. I told the survivors that we were to stay put and they told me that I was insane, and began to grow rude with agitation. We all marched up the stairs of the station only to pause, looking out cautiously from behind the tiled corner to find two rows of riot police and tactical officers, with a much larger crowd of intrigued people behind them. It was daytime outside, despite me having entered the train station at night, but this fact did not seem odd to me. I told the survivors if they would not listen to me they could take their chances with the police line, because something was clearly wrong about the whole situation.
While the 10 of them discussed plans I found a ladder to a tunnel which in turn led to a derelict-looking door. Opening this door, I walked through to find several large and exceedingly friendly Americans, who summoned more of their flock to marvel at the dude who just walked out of this old door. I looked around and observed that it was the lobby of a large and extravagant hotel, and immediately ran back to the others, telling them I had a plan. Using some hand soap and antibacterial wipes we cleaned ourselves to the best of our meagre resources' capabilities and left through the chute into the hotel, leaving bit by bit as departing guests or tourists. Leaving last, I walked up to the police line and asked what all this business was about, and the police responded that they weren't entirely clear why they had been ordered to close off the station, remarking that it was a potentially dangerous situation. Leaving, one of the officers seems to realise I was from the station and chases after me, at which point I flee and escape in the crowd.
I find refuge in a gang of three chavlings, quickly taking control of the gang by virtue of them being much, much younger. The former leader of the gang at first resents my influence, but grudgingly accepts that they are still learning, though their pride refused to outright state they were learning. The perspective at this point changed to the viewpoint of a newsfeed remarking at the exploits of these monkey chavlings and their risky stunts, with the newsfeed cutting to the four of us scaling a net-draped tower to steal three bottles of fabled vodka, an elixir said to have magical properties. Whatever the hype said, it was certainly worth a lot of compensation to the right buyer, and with it we could escape the slowly tightening drag net in the British Isles, laid by some unknown pursuer. One of my chavlings unscrewed one of the bottles, which was recycled from a cheap reused bottle of aloe vera water relabeled with permanent marker, drinking it whilst dangling 400m above the ground. He took a swig and passed the bottle to me, I smelt it sweet and refused a sip, I told him I would slap him if we weren't so high off the ground, as we don't drink at work and especially not while both of our hands are needed. I further told him not to drink what we risked our lives to get, especially since it seemed like it was sweetened with lead and likely to kill whoever drank it, so it was best to sell it and buy real vodka instead. He was disappointed but agreed, and we escaped with two and two thirds bottles of vodka elixir.
Finding a disreputable inn, we place the two and two thirds vodka elixirs down, where we are surprised by several lovely ladies placing drinks and delicious trays and bowls of food - like chicken satays, onions, peppers, lamb, gravy and spiced to perfection with an assortment of breads and beers. I had not realised how hungry I was until I saw all of the foods, while the boys were distracted by the girls. The matriarch of the group tried to charm me with talks of fair "treatment" whilst they hammered out the specifics of our contract of exchange, reaching for two of our elixirs I grabbed them all and put them in a rucksack, angrily demanding that the matriarch not treat me like an uneducated, uncivilised barbarian and conduct our contract of exchange honestly & wisely. She insisted that the terms would be fair and would all be sorted tomorrow when everyone was better-rested, but I was implacable. Eventually she relented and said I would have to speak directly to her boss, the Electric Eel.
At this point specks of glowing dust and floating detritus felt to me as if I was under the ocean again, but I was confused because I was sure I was not underwater. All confusion worsened when I found the Electric Eel, who was an electrified Moray eel of extraordinary size - his full length unknown, emerging to find who it was that demanded audience and attention. We spoke together for long about various issues, I asked what the Electric Eel was concerned with the elixirs for, what he was willing to provide, what assurances of forfeit were he not to fulfill his end of the bargain and so forth. The Electric Eel argued that he need not justify why he was concerned with his purchase, that he was willing to provide all I asked for to leave the Sunken Isles, that he would require assurances that the Elixir was genuinely pure and original. Eventually our discussion became more philosophical, concerned with what brought people like myself or the Moray Eel to such dens of desperation. I remarked that I believed the Electric Eel and I were more alike than one might imagine, and I told the Electric Eel that was why I was backing away onto the top of the table. The Electric Eel understood at once that I knew he meant to kill me instead of sign any contract and lunged, I kicked the Satay tray into his face and threw a tray of boiling grease and roast pork at him. Burned and in pain, I was prepared to kill him with a hefty candle holder, but instead grabbed the gang and left slowly. The Electric Eel asked why I spared him, knowing that he would come after me for revenge. I told him it was his right to act as he might, while I must act as I must, leaving. We reached a beach before the dream ended.
25/09/2018Exhausted nights seemed to have continual knock-on effects causing further exhaustion, and this and the next night were no exceptions either. This dream was much shorter in terms of sequence, taking place entirely in my bathroom going about my morning routine. The only deviation from the norm was that I was female, and after what would seem an otherwise ordinary gender flipped sequence, I tightened a corset around my waist until my ribs cracked and blood leaked from my eyes, nose and ears. This accurately reflected how my lungs felt in real life as the chest infection reached its zenith, I woke up coughing phlegm soon after.
26/09/2018I dreamed I was in Paris with my friends looking for a certain room reputed to be haunted. I climbed up the stairs floor by floor and continued going in blind faith, never searching for the right number, until I reached a height that was impossible. I felt a chill run through my spine finding the floor that should not exist, and I realized I was entirely alone. I walked through to find a hotel room, its door held invitingly half-open. Inside I could see the dim light of a lamp on, and I opened the door to see a cozy looking and half lived-in room. Compared to the bright daylight I saw everywhere else, the light here seemed off-season, like an Autumnal sunset and not the peak of a Summer daytime. The curtains were closed but I didn't have time to open them. I found a notebook which demanded my attention and I picked it up, turning around immediately as I heard the door creak open. The first limb I saw was an arm, hinged wrong and far too long, as white as a layer of skin removed from its body, or like a body devoid of blood. It was symmetrical, quadrupedal, walking on arms and legs with joints not too different from a cricket's, they were wrong. Its torso was emaciated, its ribs sticking through an empty stomach, while its face held two eyes which stared at me piercingly. It had long wet black hair, with a lazy, long lolling tongue.
I believed I knew who my friend was, and I suspected I had even met them before. Facing them as they approached me, I closed my eyes and walked towards the door, walking continually. At the point where I should have met contact I instead felt a cold draught. Opening my eyes, I found I was by the stairs, and began walking down never looking back. When I returned to my hotel room I found my phone had several missed calls and messages from my friends asking where I had gone, as they were searching for me throughout the city. I told them I was just at the hotel and apologised as I didn't realise I was gone that long, they asked me where I had gone but I left the messages unchecked while I checked the notebook, the only proof I had that I had been to that floor. The surface of the notebook was leather, with a faded glass eye on the top. The notebook's contents were intriguing, full of mundane notes and bookkeeping contents, musings or random thoughts - but it also contained warnings and experiences, and stranger ramblings and musings still. It became immediately alarming when I found the notebook describing the hotel room I was in, right down to the spectre of death in the mirror behind me. The door unlocking and my friends coming in shocked me upright, with the figure of death gone. They asked why I was crying, and I realised I was crying. I told them it was nothing, I just found this weird notebook. My good friend (whose name incidentally means the mad, or the firm hand of Allah) and fearless peer flicked through the notebook. He said it was mine: It was my hand writing, writing about things I had seen, done or thought, and it was recognisably identical to one of my notebooks. I told him it was impossible, because I still had that notebook and brought it out, fresh and red, and the older notebook had written about things which had not happened.
Yet it was unmistakably in my handwriting.
We go to eat dinner and I fall asleep, seeing a vision of death coming to take me to the next. I wake up and spit out a single strand of spaghetti, leaving and coming back before the waiter believed I was trying a dine and dash. Going to sleep I see a vision of death coming to take me from my room to the next. I wake up and leave immediately for a walk, always running from this ephemeral figure in its black mourning garb appearing from behind doors, buses, walls to reach a hand out to me and take me to the next. I try to work and retain a sense of normalcy but everything becomes impossible as I try to stay one step ahead of death; my friends express concern that all of this erratic behaviour continues even when we return home and suspect madness. I try to get a referral to the NHS but even in my dreams getting a timely appointment is impossible. Eventually Summer fades and I'm exhausted and tired, I write a letter to death telling them that I am not trying to run from death, nor do I fear wherever I shall go whether it be Heaven, Hell, the next life or enlightened oblivion. I tell them I do not intend to outrun death, I only seek to reschedule death so I can finish my unfinished work. I hope this works, noticing with some hilarity that Halloween is here. I message my most trusted friends saying briefly that I was going to try and reason with the spectre of death, in as unalarming terms as one could possibly convey such an insane message.
Sitting on a park bench drinking schnapps alone, I waited for the hungry ghost, the reaper, Yama, death to arrive. I see no visions or apparitions, instead a bunch of kids trick-or-treating go by, chased by a terrifying little sausage hound dressed in black robes, its eyes glowing green and red in the yellow streetlights. I see an overweight Nigerian lady chasing this sausage hound, carrying a cheap plastic scythe and wearing cheaper black felt robes. She resigns herself from catching the little sausage hound and waits on the bench for it to tire and return to her, at which point we begin having idle conversation. She says I look terrible, I said I felt like death. She laughed and said she felt that way sometimes too. She told me not to miss my bus, I tell her I guess it's time to see where I go next. The buses come and go but I find one unnumbered bus after the 47 and the 381s go by, and on this bus I find myself sleeping there. It doesn't take me long to realise there is no bus driver nor are there any passengers except me and my dead body.
The perspective changes to my good friend, the mad, zealous and empirical one. He hears from one of my family that I was found dead at the end of a bus journey, natural causes, tragic and so forth. He's convinced that there's something suspicious about this whole ordeal, since insane or no, one does not simply report repeated suspicious sightings or portents of impending doom without there being
something wrong behind it. One of my other friends asks him if he really believes that there was a suspicious plot, to which he says no, but it's suspicious enough to warrant a deeper look. He searches through all of my things being thrown away and asks my family if he can take the notebook specifically - they let him and he sets to work reading it in fullness. He chances upon a particular page which looks half like a recipe for a delicious stew and half like a recipe for summoning an outerdimensional being. Naturally he starts making the stew, fulfilling the instructions to the letter, shocked to find the lid open revealing a snake-like self-assembling construct of pigsmeat and goose meat, demanding to know what immortal name he had been given. When my friend tells the demon-like entity that it had been irreversibly named Shrek, the demon flies into murderous rage and tries to kill him, beaten back into the pot with a soup ladle. My friend puts up the heat and cooks the entity thoroughly into what looks like a delicious stew and writes down the results of this recipe, vowing to redo the experiment with a camera and a team under more secure lab conditions, cursing that he didn't bring enough salt to deal with the outerdimensional bullshit I was telling him from beyond the grave.
The perspective cuts back to me on the bus, as I reach into the coat inner pocket of my dead body and pull out my wallet, discarding all the notes and collecting all the coins I could find. Lots of £2 coins, £1 coins, one £5 coin, one 20p, one 50p, I give £2 to the driver's seat, and a bus driver collects the £2 before I take my seat. I had more than enough it seems for myself, the ferryman, and no doubt many others. I wait calmly as the bus closes its doors and begins to drive forwards. The dream ends with my friend promising to deliver his vow that he would refuse to let me die whether I wanted to die or not, drinking scotch whilst eating shrek, planning to execute the appropriate protocol.
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Topic: The Dream Thread (Read 609873 times)