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Worldwide Ace » Momentary Marathon Dreamscapes…

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Momentary Marathon Dreamscapes…

30 June, 2004 (06:07) | Dreams

The doors swung back and forth where the gurney had just gone. The wooden floors shone of a fresh coat of polish, the laquer glistening and screaming at me not to run or risk breaking my neck. I ran anyway. This was a small town hospital, so if I was going to break my neck anywhere, this is where I’d want to do it, surrounded by doctors. I followed the wake through the swinging doors, finding myself in a waiting area, the gurney already far ahead of me. The room was basically empty and I could hear the doors slow down as they swung back and forth behind my back.

The receptionist wore a 1950s style nurse’s hat, the red cross staring at me while she hunched over paperwork behind the counter. Slowly, she looked up at me, her eyes focusing with a sympathetic smile before shifting to ten feet behind me. I watched her mouth open in awe and she jumped for the grate that covered the desk when they closed. Her arms waving in sudden panic, she slammed down the chain link barrier and locked it, my mind reeling as to what could’ve caused that reaction. Was I disheveled and unseemly? Was I carrying a weapon? I glanced down, noting my polo shirt and khakis, nothing out of the ordinary.

I could feel the glare from behind me as soon as it hit the back of my head. I turned, staring through the two small circular windows at the penetrating eyes filled with hatred. The knives twanged as they hit the door, wobbling in a twisted silver smile they punched into the door. I don’t know who she was, but her power was immense. I turned again and ran, knowing the chase would be the only survival. I was a marked man, and this girl was my Carrie White.

I dove to the right, bursting through another swinging door and into a kitchen, the scream of rage following me like a predator winding its way through the jungle on the heels of its prey. Cowering behind a table, I tried to catch my breath, but it was coming out in dark, moist clouds. I heard the door creak open. Slowly, the footsteps approached. The fringe of her white dress caressed the cold metal tables as she came towards me, whining softly like the distant screech of fingernails on the chalkboard. I could feel my heart pounding in every inch of my body. Her foot appeared in front of my cubby hole of safety.

I closed my eyes shut, hoping she would walk on. I heard a footstep as she passed, but wouldn’t let out my breath. I peeked an eye open and watched her dress flow passed me, leaving my view of the wall across from me clear.

“BOO!” she yelled, her head ducking right into my line of sight.


“Come on you cocksucker. We’re going to be late.” I slowly shook my head as I rolled out of bed. smacked me. “Everyone’s already out in the car already.”

I sat up, my mind wondering what had happened to my pursuer. One minute, I was dead to rights in a hospital kitchen to some freaky, psychokinteic she-bitch and the next, I’m here? Where the fuck is here anyway? I must’ve dosed off and had an odd dream. Regardless, I certainly didn’t want to be the reason for being late. I hopped out of bed, and wandered out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

The house was a standard suburban New England home, complete with ornate wooden furnishings dating from the 40s and on. Sarah’s mother was waiting by the door with a snide disapproving look on her face. What have I done? Oh god. There’s no way I slept with her, is there? No. No way. No fucking way.

Note: Sarah and I know each other because I was her counselor several years ago. We’ve kept in touch, but there’s no way in hell I’d touch a sophomore in high school (unless she’s been repeating that grade for 5-7 years), so this part of the dream really, REALLY freaked me out.

“You’re going to make everyone late,” she said.

“What?”

“Late? As in not on time? And Sarah spoke so highly of you.”

“So you’re upset at me for being a little late.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes, now hurry up.” She turned and waltzed through the door, her arms still crossed in front of her in annoyance. Oh, thank god, I thought, quickly following in my somnolent stupor. Statutory was not on my list of things to do before I die.

Her mother headed for the passenger side door, motioning for me to get in on the driver’s side. Instinctively I went for the back door. It swung open, Sarah staring at me with a bemused smirk. I closed the door, assuming that meant I was driving. was sitting in the driver’s seat. I motioned for him to move and sat down at the wheel.

Note: damasta and I have never met. I’m not quite sure what he looks like, since I always thought he was kind of like a young Bob Dylan based on his avatar. Still, I knew it was him. Don’t ask me how. These things happen.

The sedan lurched forward onto the VFW Parkway. We sped along, dodging through traffic, not really headed anywhere. And then I hung U-turn… back into oncoming traffic. What the fuck am I doing? I’m not stupid enough to drive like this. This has got to be a dream. And aren’t I in Boulder? I’ve got to be. My eyes slowly forced open, somehow still seeing the road and its lush greenery while my dresser appeared before me. I peeled my eye open, the last moments of the dream falling away like pieces of an orange rind.

The clock read 7:28 PM, a mere 53 minutes from when I first lay down.

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  • You have the most elaborate use of metaphors I’ve seen anyone use for everyday use. I mean, yes, technically livejournal is writing, but it’s still more of a journal.. not a novel. I don’t mean it in a bad way either–your metaphors are fantastic. More likely, I’m jealous that I can’t get my point across as well because I’m awful at metaphors and analogies.

    Not sleeping is a truly awful feeling. I find that my brain needs ridiculous amounts of sleep just so I don’t drive myself insane with inner monologue.

  • You have the most elaborate use of metaphors I’ve seen anyone use for everyday use. I mean, yes, technically livejournal is writing, but it’s still more of a journal.. not a novel. I don’t mean it in a bad way either–your metaphors are fantastic. More likely, I’m jealous that I can’t get my point across as well because I’m awful at metaphors and analogies.

    Not sleeping is a truly awful feeling. I find that my brain needs ridiculous amounts of sleep just so I don’t drive myself insane with inner monologue.