I Have a Dream
I had my oldest sister and some of her friends over for a little get together, later at night. We put red light bulbs in all the lamps and fixtures, and after a few beers, we got it in our head that we wanted to play some music. So I fetched the bongos, the guitar, the banjo, and the castanets, and we played a calypso version of “Suzanne” by Leonard Cohen. We screamed it at the top of their lungs in my bedroom.
It was three in the morning.
My upstairs neighbor came downstairs and pounded on the door, rang the doorbell, and I hushed everyone. I ran upstairs – she had gone back to her apartment – and knocked on her door. She opened it a crack, using her body to block my line of sight. She had grey skin and rotting teeth, purple gums bleeding black ooze onto her tongue.
She had turned into a witch.
In spite of her attempt to block my view of her apartment, I could see monstrous henchmen hanging out: a wolfman wearing a tuxedo; a giant green caterpillar writhing on the ground, glowing yellow eyes looking into mine; a baby with bright-yellow skin levitating in the background. I blinked, and suddenly these weren’t monsters. They were Halloween costumes. But somehow, I knew that this was a trick of hers, that she had cast some sort of spell to make me think these weren’t her monsters. To make me think she wasn’t a witch.
I sincerely apologized for making such a racket, and asked if there was anything I could do to make it up.
“Go get me some applesauce,” she demanded. I had to run down the road to get back home – I was in the middle of nowhere, on a country highway. She had tricked me!
As always happens in a dream, running down the highway was a slow and labored affair. It seemed as though I was running through water, with stones in my pockets. I was terrified, especially when a motorcycle-riding cannibal rode towards me, and circled back at me. I tried to run down in the weeds, close to a blue pond, in order to hide, but he slowed down and looked at me with his one eye (he had a greasy blue cravat wrapped around his head and covering his left eye). He had long, wild, greasy orange hair matted down to his head, a tattered flannel draped on his shoulders and deerskin pants. He rode past ever so slowly, then tore away and summoned his gang of cannibal bikers.
I had to escape. But where? Looking around, I could see a variety of buildings, including a long log cabin on the other side of the road, across a river. I ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t terribly fast, jumped the river (kind of – I made it to the other bank, which, for some inexplicable reason was paved and tiled, like the edge of a swimming pool – and held on with my arms, pulled myself out of the water.
Behind me, I could hear the biker gang approaching. I sprinted to the house, where a large Amish family held a prayer session to protect them from the nefarious biker gang. Once inside, I told them the menace approached, and they panicked. I looked for a loft or second story we could climb to, but there was none. The cannibals entered.
The Amish people ran around in a frenzy, no help at all. It didn’t matter; the cannibal bikers were after me. And instead of being cannibal bikers anymore, they were now 60-year-old men with abnormally thick glasses and stubble. Were they zombies? I cannot recall, but they did approach me with arms outstretched.
Looking back on the kitchen counter, I looked for a proper weapon to fight them back with. Between a pile of jarred tomatoes and a crusty baguette, I chose the baguette. I beat them back, swatting their hands aside and drilling them in the heads with my bready club. As pieces of the baguette splintered off, I was soon left with just a small chunk of bread in my hand. But there were still three of these stinky old men!
Music filled the air; it was the fight music from the Batman TV series. I resolved to use my fists. My left hand flew into the glasses of the old-man zombies – Pow! – Bam! – Woppo! – and knocked them to the ground. I kicked one in the ribs.
Victory was mine!
It was three in the morning.
My upstairs neighbor came downstairs and pounded on the door, rang the doorbell, and I hushed everyone. I ran upstairs – she had gone back to her apartment – and knocked on her door. She opened it a crack, using her body to block my line of sight. She had grey skin and rotting teeth, purple gums bleeding black ooze onto her tongue.
She had turned into a witch.
In spite of her attempt to block my view of her apartment, I could see monstrous henchmen hanging out: a wolfman wearing a tuxedo; a giant green caterpillar writhing on the ground, glowing yellow eyes looking into mine; a baby with bright-yellow skin levitating in the background. I blinked, and suddenly these weren’t monsters. They were Halloween costumes. But somehow, I knew that this was a trick of hers, that she had cast some sort of spell to make me think these weren’t her monsters. To make me think she wasn’t a witch.
I sincerely apologized for making such a racket, and asked if there was anything I could do to make it up.
“Go get me some applesauce,” she demanded. I had to run down the road to get back home – I was in the middle of nowhere, on a country highway. She had tricked me!
As always happens in a dream, running down the highway was a slow and labored affair. It seemed as though I was running through water, with stones in my pockets. I was terrified, especially when a motorcycle-riding cannibal rode towards me, and circled back at me. I tried to run down in the weeds, close to a blue pond, in order to hide, but he slowed down and looked at me with his one eye (he had a greasy blue cravat wrapped around his head and covering his left eye). He had long, wild, greasy orange hair matted down to his head, a tattered flannel draped on his shoulders and deerskin pants. He rode past ever so slowly, then tore away and summoned his gang of cannibal bikers.
I had to escape. But where? Looking around, I could see a variety of buildings, including a long log cabin on the other side of the road, across a river. I ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t terribly fast, jumped the river (kind of – I made it to the other bank, which, for some inexplicable reason was paved and tiled, like the edge of a swimming pool – and held on with my arms, pulled myself out of the water.
Behind me, I could hear the biker gang approaching. I sprinted to the house, where a large Amish family held a prayer session to protect them from the nefarious biker gang. Once inside, I told them the menace approached, and they panicked. I looked for a loft or second story we could climb to, but there was none. The cannibals entered.
The Amish people ran around in a frenzy, no help at all. It didn’t matter; the cannibal bikers were after me. And instead of being cannibal bikers anymore, they were now 60-year-old men with abnormally thick glasses and stubble. Were they zombies? I cannot recall, but they did approach me with arms outstretched.
Looking back on the kitchen counter, I looked for a proper weapon to fight them back with. Between a pile of jarred tomatoes and a crusty baguette, I chose the baguette. I beat them back, swatting their hands aside and drilling them in the heads with my bready club. As pieces of the baguette splintered off, I was soon left with just a small chunk of bread in my hand. But there were still three of these stinky old men!
Music filled the air; it was the fight music from the Batman TV series. I resolved to use my fists. My left hand flew into the glasses of the old-man zombies – Pow! – Bam! – Woppo! – and knocked them to the ground. I kicked one in the ribs.
Victory was mine!
posted by Sam at
6:26 AM
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