Rain cleanses and drenches and warms and passes,
Wind blows and forces and throws and clashes
A river drives, and belows and speeds and flows
Life thrives and triumphs, inspires and grows.
People "are", and love and sneeze and live
Lovers meet, and court and cuddle and give
Wisdom flushes and builds, renews and rearranges
Preparing us for inevitable changes.
Genre: Dark Superhero Fiction
Inspiration: Snow covered trees just out the window
The high winds blew the masked man's cape across his field of vision. Perched in the branches, high above the rocky cliffs below him, The Shepherd knelt surveying the valley below. The light of the full moon accentuated his formidable, sculpted physique and he lamented that there was likely no one secretly appreciating it from a distance. Even if there were a lone wanderer who did happen to be looking up into the branches while walking alone, late at night in a remote wood, the steel gray camouflage of his suit was too perfect to be seen by a mere mortal. It would take a creature, likely devoid of a human soul, but capable of sensing heat signatures to even detect his presence; or perhaps some kind of diabolical mind capable of deploying a hyper-sensitive motion detection system. Regardless, the likelihood of being seen, let alone appreciated for all the hard work he put into his rippling physical construction was nil.
The flapping cape was becoming a frustration, but frankly, would have been a more pressing issue were in not for the nuisance that his Shepherd's Crook was causing him. It was large - over six feet in length, and very inconvenient for someone who favoured a perch in a tree to a pasture. He was beginning once again to second guess his cunning disguise, which was inevitably the result of a slow night. If only someone - perhaps the same hypothetical, diabolical madman with motion sensors - would attack, or even persecute the villagers below, the Shepherd would have to indulge his wandering mind. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Being the village blacksmith by trade, and immediately familiar to most villagers, he had chosen his secret identity based on his deep loathing of shepherds (a direct result of their refusal to shoe their animals, which seemed only natural to the blacksmith given their arduous grazing). It was either that, or capitalize on his hatred of jogging. Regardless of motivations, once he had settled on his identity the crook seemed a natural accoutrement, and was easy enough to fashion. Indeed, there was never a question of appropriateness for his disguise...
A dream:
I'm swimming the open sea not far from a green shore to my left. I have the sense that I am with people not because I can see them, but because someone has convinced me to be here despite what I think is doubt. I am treading water as suddenly a herd of sharks and turtles speed past me in a steady flow of animals. The flow does not stop as I watch the creatures swim past and jump over me at what looks like 30 or 40 kilometers an hour. As the sharks approach me their mouths are often wide open and menacing but none bite, grab or even graze me; the turtles I can see are the ones jumping through the air, often over my head. I am not frightened, but not entirely calm either.
At some point I decide to submerge myself and as I dive deeper I look above me to the light surface superimposed on the sky with the steady stream of creatures speeding by. I turn my attention to the depths which seem as if they are only 10 or 20 feet under the surface judging by how far I've swam, but which also are receiving no sunlight making it cold and unfamiliar. Somehow my gaze is illuminated by some kind of spotlight as if from a submarine in an underwater documentary. On the dark bottom, which is flat and manicured like a golf green I see an illuminated building alone on the bottom of the sea. It's tiny and appears as a decorative porcelain house one might see at Christmas time adorning a diorama, even though in my mind I know it to be a functional building. I recognize it's red brick architecture as belonging to an institution - a university perhaps - and continue swimming. Because of the scale of the building I get the sense that I am either extremely large, or the place I've found is extremely small - I am not sure which. It's at this point, when I start to run out of breath, that I realize I can breath under water (at this point I actually did realize I was dreaming I believe, but did not wake up. I didn't make the mental leap to realize that I could control my dream though). As I slowly swim through the water I make my way up a small rise in the ground -perhaps 10 feet high. I know because of the scale of the building that this must be a huge hill to those who occupy the building, and on its manicured side I see a sign which bears the logo of a university. I am excited to have discovered something that might be long-lost and think nothing of the scale of it.
I have a vague memory of recounting the discovery to someone at a dinner table later in the dream and waking up soon after.
Another dream:
I am in an urban environment which seems to be a deserted town. Despite not having seen them, I know I've been separated from my friends, or perhaps some kind of team that I am a part of. When I am inside I am not in danger, but running between building puts me at risk of being caught by vicious and ravenous kangaroos. I don't see them but know they are there. I have my dog Murray with me and am very concerned for his welfare (in retrospect this seems an awful lot like the movie "I,Legend" which i saw about 2 months ago... odd) . He's generally being obedient and running with me. I find refuge in a deserted house. I then realize that because this place is deserted I have completely open access to explore the abandoned houses. As I explore I find a secret room of sorts... its in the top floor of a house - perhaps in a spire or a tower. It looks like a kids room and is very densely packed with clothes, books, posters etc. It seems like a fun place to be and I feel perfectly safe.
Note: I often dream of exploring secret or obscure passages in old houses. They are almost always very high up in large houses, and are small, carpeted rooms.
Another Dream:
I am in a mountain lodge of some description, not alone. I look across that the lodge is on to see a mountain pass, which green as if it's summer. I somehow become aware that I am expected to go skiing with the people I am with but only have part of the day to do so... I am unsure of weather I should given my time restrictions. they walk across the street to got to the ski hill and I decide to join. I realize after the very short walk, that because I was in such a rush to catch up, that i somehow managed to bring along a spare set of cross-country skiis and what seems like a stack of papers (it is later revealed to be strange contraption I don't recognize - some kind of plastic light box for viewing pictures... it's white). I consider going back to the lodge to return these items but am in a rush. There is some confusion but I quickly end up in what I know is the ski hill base station... It looks like a mall, being very wide and long with tile floor. Knowing that my goal is to find a place to put my superfluous items I manage to stow my cross country skis inside a couch cushion which provides the backrest on a public seat. I then walk a distance, aware of my skiing time running out and somehow end up chatting to someone I know. While sitting on a couch I end up using the picture display machine briefly. I then end up walking the wrong direction trying to stow the machine somewhere, constantly aware that my skiing time is
being diminished.
Karen parked her car in the busy lot, applying the parking brake with significant force. It was a mix of both the day’s frustrations and habit and caused the car to make a jarring crunch. It satisfied her need to inflict a jarring crunch on something. She slammed the door behind her for good measure.
She looked back quickly, and pressed the lock button as she walked away from her car. “Perfect”, she thought to herself with a sinister inner smile, as she looking at her red Pontiac Grand Prix occupying a quarter of the space beside the one with the other three quarters of her car in it. It was that type of day.
She galloped across the parking lot intently focused on her target - the Subway, where her husband Barry worked; 70 yards.
Her feet felt heavy, like she had grown hooves, and she found herself deeply resenting the fancy cars that surrounded her in the lot. She positioned her car keys in her fingers strategically and extended her right arm digging the 18 year old metal into the cold steel of Mercedes, then Toyota, then BMW then another Mercedes; 60 Yards.
She was closing in on a woman who with the aid of a walker, seemed to be making her way towards the bus stop. Karen hated public transportation and on any other day might have left her impulses at that, but today was special and she required consequences. No public-transportation-using, walker-needing, frail old bag was going to impede her progress, and so she walked – directly through the woman. The sound of scraping metal nearly drowned out the sound of the woman’s shattering hip, but not so much that Karen missed it. She was flushed with an adrenaline blend of guilt and satisfaction; 45 yards.
Karen thought she might have been frothing at the mouth, but if she was didn’t have time to address it. She was too busy marching forward, assessing the threat of the various people now approaching her with angry and confused faces. Guy with glasses at 9 o’clock, just strapped his kids into the mini-van after food shopping – anyone who does the food shopping with the kids in the middle of the day couldn’t possibly be a threat. 12 o'clock - Middle aged man wearing an expensive leather jacket, carrying a rented video – no threat; he’d be too worried about his hair. Woman, 3 o'clock, 60, hip pouch, smoking, T-shirt saying: “The only Bush I trust is my own” – This one was trouble. 30 yards.
Karen pivoted on her feet turning left and for the first time in 40 yards lifted key from car. Her new path took her on a collision course with Poindexter McGrocery-Shopper; a name she would have called the man if she had taken the time to talk to him. Instead, without the volition to verbalize her feelings, she screamed; a bestial, primal roar, uglier than the most heinous of vomit puddles. Poindexter was clearly affected and slowed his pace. He rethought his collision course, stopped in his tracks and crinkled his face as if to say “What the…?”. And had he said that out loud, would only have gotten that far, because in an instant Karen had reached him. Missing the physical reassurance of her keys causing significant damage she remedied the situation by stabbing him in the forehead with her “The Club” key – a jagged and unnecessarily pointy specimen ideal for stabbing the father of two. The wound, as per her plan, was both conspicuous and disfiguring, while not crippling. He did need to drive his children home after all. Impressing herself with this display of mercy she resolved to walk faster. Poindexter stood incredulous behind her, applying pressure to his forehead. 20 yards.
Now her pursuers were hot on her tail, but Karen was close. Close enough to smell her husband’s insolence… his extreme disregard for all that was precious to her, his uncanny and irrefutable lack of consideration for what she loved, his callous and calculated willingness to dispose of her Franklin mint commemorative plates. A collection, judged to be world class by not just one, but two of the local church collectors guilds. She seethed with rage, as she thought of him last night photographing her collection; “for insurance” he had said. All bets were off when she found the welcome message for his newly registered Ebay ID in the email inbox this morning. She knew. 10 yards.
Karen was running now; from the pursuing masses, among whom the 200 lb (clearly lesbian) democrat looked most intent on bypassing pleasantries and inflicting pain on her, and toward her lying, pathetic and technically retired but only recently re-employed husband of 37 years upon whom she intended to rain a torrent of harm.
Her laser focus zeroed in on the bar across the door and she lunged, pushing it with all her might, intent on her entrance being not only noticeable, but also, with any luck, destructive. The force with which she hit the door and the strength of the safety glass both shocked and impressed the onlookers. 0 yards.
As she regained consciousness she could feel the heat of the “Live at 6” news camera lights and the sting of the cold handcuffs behind her back. Her haggard and lethargic image made her an instant star across the state, if not simply for the damage that had preceded it, then for the red and swollen “lluP” embossed in mirror-reflection on her forehead; a result of her 7 Mph (by conservative estimates) lunge into the etched door handle.
If only the mall security cameras had been good enough to allow both zoom and slow motion, Barry was sure that he could have made more money off the video. As it was though, he’d have to settle for the $1,700 that the Fox producers had paid for his contribution to “Wife-Zillas” – just enough to supplement what he expected to make selling his wife’s collection; He quite liked the plates after all.
Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Plush
I cringed when I saw her walking my direction across the Quad. I knew I'd have to answer for the mess I left at her house this morning, not to mention last night - oh shit... last night. Still in recovery mode I felt the very real and prominent symptoms of my hangover intensify as she got closer.
It was a great night, but it only hit me now that I'd have to answer for the things I'd done. Depraved, awkward and strange things. Instinctual things that lurk in the depths of men's souls; things we should never have to answer for. Part of me must have known. We were 7 months into a 2 year program together and she was in all but 2 of my classes. I was old enough to know I had to be accountable, but perhaps young enough I hoped to get away with it.
Her face was streaked with the dark smudges of running mascara; she'd been crying.
"You Asshole" She screamed 10 meters away.
Everyone I was with turned and after a quick assessment knew she must have been talking to me. Their collective gaze fell upon me, all with an awkward smirk, not yet sure of the severity of the infraction.
"What is THIS" she pleaded, clinkled face, drastically contorting her soft features.
Holding back a retch, I stood to face my accuser, nay witness. Filled with shame I knew i was cornered.
"Stuffing" I answered "synthetic cotton".
"You violated..." Shit, here it comes "Mr. Mcgoo! I've had that dog since I was a BABY!"
"Stuffed dog" I offered by way of correction. It was after all, in accurate to call it a "dog".
"What happened after I went to sleep you depraved pervert?!" She was angry I could tell, but I couldn't shake the feeling that if she hadn't passed out on her bed as soon as we'd gotten home none of this would have happened.
"I lost control" was all I could muster - I did after all, I just wasn't sure how. After hearing her snoring the last thing I remembered was waking up naked and sticky on the cold tile floor of her decaying bathroom, empty plush carcass of a stuffed dog beneath me. There was synthetic cotton stuffing everywhere.
"I can sew" I offered with a slight desperation in my voice. My eyes must have been closed, or perhaps I was distracted, because I missed the lunge. Before I knew what was happening I was on the ground and being smothered by the shaggy, time-worn skin of Mr. Mcgoo.
I knew then that this relationship was over.
Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Enlightenment
Gordon had been waiting for "tomorrow" for the better part of seven months now. Not tomorrow, as in the day after today, but "tomorrow"; a concept, or premise that was meant to be the day after "today" but never seemed to materialize. The "tomorrow" Gordon waited for promised more than "today" (which is yesterday's tomorrow), ever managed to deliver.
The tomorrow he waited for was promised seven months ago by a powerful and odorous Psychic; Madam Consuela. Consuela - in addition to a glandular problem which made her smell like a meat locker 4 days after a summer power outage -had powers of insight beyond regular comprehension. She had told Gordon that "tomorrow" would be the day that everything became clear to him - murky rivers of thought would be as clear as mountain springs, gloomy skies of reflection would be upper-atmospheric in their crispness, and cataract obscured logical conflict would be laser corrected to 20/20 hawk-eyedness. Aside from the astute and richly imaged metaphorical prophesy, Gordon's epiphany came from never having realized that he was quite that stupid. He'd only gone to see Madam Consuela because his friend Arnold had told him that her stench exceeded that of any creature (alive, or dead and bloated on steaming asphalt). Experience the stench he did, but he never expected to be enlightened... furthermore, to find that all of this time he'd been crippled by a lack of clarity was icing on the cake.
So Gordon had been waiting with baited breath. Since seeing Consuela he had actually become quite frustrated with the degree of his stupidity and was eager to shake it. Seven months later; today, the day on which he'd payed the very last installment on the prophecy which by sheer coincidence had cost exactly the amount of his life-savings, he was certain that tomorrow was the "tomorrow" he was waiting for.
Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Case study
Jen wasn't a model of consideration. Because of this it wasn't news to her that various people preferred not to spend much time with her, but she blamed them; they were too lazy to make the emotional commitment it took to better themselves in the ways Jen saw necessary. The difficulty was that she wanted to be around them - around anyone. In the company of others, it became abundantly clear to Jen that what others would perceive as failures in her life were entirely out of her control.
For example: last week she had been shopping with Martina - a co-worker that she had befriended and her phone rang while they perused the selection at Town Shoes. While silently judging the awful pumps that Martina was trying on, and secretly hoping that she would buy them so that everyone in the office would see how fat they made her legs look, she snagged the phone from her purse and answered. Answering was a mistake as it turns out - Stephen, who she had been seeing for 4 months had reached the end of his rope that morning when he found a bag of potato chips he'd bought in the garbage, unopened. The call was abrupt and to the point. After learning where to shove her "controlling, ego maniacal self-centeredness" Jen hung up in arrogant disgust but felt slightly warmer as she saw Martina paying for the shoes. It was a small victory considering Martina's choice to browse the upstairs section instead of in the basement had caused Jen cell phone signal to stay in tact and therefore resulted directly in her current emotional distress. She made a note to punish Martina further. If she had been able to avoid the call she was confident that she would have avoided the breakup through careful manipulation of Stephen.
It wasn't the end of the world she convinced herself (again); Stephen was a pig. He had the foundation of a strong and worthy partner but chose to poison his soul with trans-fats and charitable notions. With no patience for those sorts of endeavors - she understood the notions, but execution was never practical as part of a desirable lifestyle - Jen had immediately set out to adjust Stephen's perspectives (as she had done with others many times before). She had begun to suspect over the last few weeks that Stephen's constitution was too weak for her reforms, and that day he had confirmed it for her. Just as well.
Jen had never imagined her future as her present had manifested itself. It was a failing of humanity and community that every potential companion in her midst fell so drastically short of her exacting standards. There was no question of reasonableness; as a successful, beautiful, well adjusted psychologist of 47 she knew she was better qualified to judge.
Genre: Fiction
Inspiration: Kitchen sink
In a blinding flash it came to me. Literally blinding, as I felt myself wincing at the world around me struggling to stay upright. It was what had become my darkest day - one for the ages upon which I could reflect in my old age and remember how truly dark my origins had once been. It wasn't a rebirth, just a shitty day and it's a matter of personal disposition that my lowest points become yet another beginning. After all, were I to consider a mid-point, or perhaps even a mid to high point a beginning then I'd just be giving my experiences too much credit and ignoring the gut-wrenching value of emotional destitution.
This epiphany was a simple one and yet probably my most profound: the strongest bond I felt in my life, at the fragile and emotionally incontinent state that I knew as the age of 48, was to my dish rag. I hadn't stopped to think about it often enough I guess but in upon reflection I realized instantaneously that it was my centre. Close not because of sentiment, though it was knitted by my mother, but because of its longevity and reliability. It was a hideous, odorous, utilitarian, practical and ultimately disposable accessory that provided a familiarity in my life unlike anything I knew at that time or had recently experienced.
On the first snowy day of Toronto winter, I'm finding myself looking forward fondly to warmer days.
Genre: Gaudy fiction
Inspiration: The word "fork"
The tines of the tuning fork rang in the air, piercing the smoke filled room; a sonic aurora. Stanley felt the bead of sweat threatening to fall from the ledge of his brow into his eye but he dared not move too abruptly. It must have been forty degrees in there... that coupled with the odd darkness and the cigarette smoke dancing in the few sunbeams disecting the giant room gave it a feeling of a seedy, burlesque lounge. The velvet accents and gaudy crystal that vomited across the marble floor only accentuated the uncomfortable feeling that he had travelled into a different dimension; perhaps changed forever by a cultural revolution led by Liberace.
From the corner of his eye he saw her watching. Cigarette holder in hand, her fuscia silken slip flowed across her leather arms and legs. Like a tanned hide flapping in a windy shed, the backs of her appendages swayed fluidly as she adjusted her awkward and disturbing position on the love seat 30 ft away. This was not the first time Stanley had tuned this piano.
Margaret was rich. Too rich. And she was lonely - not because she lacked the reassurance of constant companionship, she hated people - but because she had not felt subject to the lusty testosterone fueled desperation of men that she was at one time unable to escape. She often thought to herself that this was the curse of old age: to have spent so many long and irresistible years on earth subjecting men to her infallible perfection that clearly, they had grown immune. Tirelessly she vowed to search the earth for the genetic anomaly that had been spared the fate which in her mind was worse than death - an inability to recognize womanly perfection. Stanley was being tested - he had been here before and had shown a glimmer of desperate need that she knew she could incite.
Stanley had no idea that he'd projected such strong signals while tuning the same piano 5 weeks earlier. The room that day had been hotter (if that was even possible) and despite an ominous creepiness emanating from Margret's disturbing perch surpassing what he was now enduring, he was unable to resist the need to ask for some water. Margaret knew immediately that his intention was to have her rise and to watch from behind as she walked to the kitchen. It disgusted her in a way that she had been craving for 27 years.
The sweat on his brow was now threatening Stanley the same dire sentence so he tried to move as little as possible. He wasn't sure what had him back here in only 5 weeks, but he was going to do anything to avoid returning again. The tears he saw forming in the wrinkled corners of Margaret's eyes as he declined to stay for dinner then conveyed the kind of desperation he was only too familiar with.
I was thinking the other night as I went through the motions of settling into bed, that I have for many years of my life, almost subconciously, very often asked myself the same question as I settle in to sleep. I nestle under the covers, position myself as I would imagine myself able to fall asleep according to overall comfort and think to myself:
"If I were to be put in a state of artificial hibernation for many years for the purpose of travelling through space, and through some unknown freak of scientific flaw could feel either comfortable or uncomfortable during that time (assuming I was unable to move), would the position that I am now in be a good one?"
Its interesting how the prospect of feeling them for years unending highlights small discomforts in a way that might otherwise go unnoticed for a longer period of time.
Genre: Holiday fiction
Inspiration: Seasonal
Eggnog makes Stephen vomit so he passed on that particular offering. Wondering to himself why anyone still serves it, he surveyed the foreign room looking for someone who he could feign interest in so that he didn't look so conspicuous alone at the snack table eating cheddar cubes.
His wife was heavily engaged in a conversation with her boss' boss and some other woman who looked both angry and suspicious. He felt as if he went over and was introduced the woman would ask him direct and probing questions all building towards a crushing crescendo of defeat once she discovered he was a roofer. It wasn't easy for Stephen to be married to a lawyer - rewarding yes - but at holiday season, when overachievers gathered to celebrate their resounding financial successes and skirt family discussion (invariably to hide divorces, loveless marriages and other varied domestic disasters) they were at their most self-congratulatory. It was not a good time to be a roofer married to a lawyer.
That wasn't exactly true - Stephen booked at least a month of his year at this party. 3 days after bonus time people were feeling both drunk and charitable, and there was nothing like a trades person to evoke the most gut wrenching and uncomfortable of reactions from white collars.
"Ohhh. that's great - I could never handle those heights... I'm so impressed! In fact I was just saying to (insert wife's/husband's name here) the other day that we need to get our roof done... what a coincidence! how is your May looking?"
Stephen always followed up and always booked the work at 130% of his regular un-discounted rate. It was a petty and deeply satisfying penance that he made his wife's colleagues pay - It almost made up for the fact that the only thing Cramer, Snider & Berriman offered to drink besides wine (no roofer he knew drank wine) was eggnog.
Genre: Dream
Inspiration: Dream
I considered not recording this dream because of how messed up it seems but then I decided that I could not be an honest raconteur without full disclosure...
I was a woman... Although I had not had a sex change operation something had happened against my will, overnight, that had caused me to become a tall, skinny woman with dark skin (black or Indian perhaps). My hair was jet black and very large and curly. I knew very well that I had been myself only hours before and was having a very difficult time understanding how I could possibly manage my life as this new person - work, marriage, friends. To add insult to injury I was also heavily "adjusted" (for lack of a better term) - collagen lips, hideously taught skin, and worst of all was missing my shanks altogether. From just below my ribs to my hips, on each side of my spine was a large empty space with dry sinew and bone protruding, as if a shark had taken a bite out of each side. My impression is that this was done as part of whatever procedure had turned me into this monster.
I remember desperately wishing that this was a dream, but a few days had already passed in my dream and therefore I was sure I had to somehow live like this. I broke down talking to my wife in the kitchen of a house I lived in over 8 years ago - to be honest I am not sure whether it was because I was a tall black woman, an ugly woman, or a tall ugly woman with holes in my sides. Maybe all of the above.
Somehow my mother appeared (probably because the kitchen we were in was in my parents old house) and she began to laugh nonchalantly at my predicament - she was sure this could be fixed and that actually made me feel better. I awoke just as I was being examined by a doctor on the kitchen counter - he was poking and prodding in my "side-holes" and just then I thought that even if I could somehow be reverted back to myself, I would really miss having a full set of back muscles (due to the side holes having removed a whole range of motion) because there are a lot of things I use them for. At that moment I woke up with a slightly sore back.
The feeling of relief and satisfaction of realizing that a bad dream was just a dream - especially after you've talked yourself out of it having been a dream - in incredible. Even more so when you get to role over in the comfort of your bed and go back to sleep. Incredible contentment.
Genre: Dream
Inspiration: See above
I'm flying with a group of people in a large plane, like a 777 perhaps - but the inside of the plane is more like a lounge - Comfortably appointed with earthy tones and large windows. I am somehow familiar with the group including the pilot (or co-pilot) and my memory begins with us joking around. He had said something poking fun of me and I returned the ribbing by pointing out that the plane had somehow come to a stop - "We're not even flying" I said. We hadn't exactly landed because we had litteraly come to a stop mid flight, but we were set on the ground. There was nothing abrupt about the "landing" and it seemed to be normal except for the fact that we all wanted to get where we were going. As I poked fun at him I looked out the window - I remember the view was the middle floors of an office tower about 30 ft from the plane. I seem to know that we had come to a rest on the belly of the plane on the edge of a large drop - perhaps on top of a building, or some other similar struture. Very soon after pointing out that we were stopped the plane started to fly again taking off from the precipice not vertically, but also not with any acceleration on the ground - it was flown by the other co-pilot (the one I was talking to was in the loungy area with us).
Immediately my view switched to first person from the perspective of the nose of the plane. I remember watching and talking to someone who I knew was beside me (perhaps in the cockpit?) but I have no recollection who. The plane's engines roared as they pushed the large plane very slowly through the air - perhaps 30 or 40 kms per hr. Ahead of the plane was a very steep hill rising in front of the nose covered with typical urban features - a gas station, telephone poles, roads... we were perhaps 20 ft off the ground as we climbed steeply to surmount the hill. The plane was barely fitting between the poles and signs that stuck up above the streets, and I remember as it tilted sideways on its horizontal axis to fit between the streetlights. I lauded the pilots skill at that point. Where the plane lifted off from its perch the bottom of the hill was comprised of a busy street below with a large, more open area on the hillside facing us. There were taller buildings on either side of us but were flanking us by about 100 ft on either side. As the hill progressed to the top though, space between the buildings on either side narrowed as the streets formed a triangle. As we approached the top of the hill I remember avoiding an abnormally large and off-kilter train to our left, a few very out of place and abnormally small Russian cargo planes parked in the bank of the hill to our right, and flying towards a very large and strange scaffold/structure directly ahead of us. The structure looked most like an extremely large, dock yard crane - the type that unloads cargo ships - in that it was steel and laticed, except that it was enormous.
We flew into the structure still going 30 or 40 and the next thing I remember is as follows: We had landed, again on the belly of the plane. The ground beneath me was white and icy and slick aluminum. Somehow I knew that we had landed on top of a much larger plane that was now moving through the air - I knew because of the ice, wind and the height that I had to be careful. I was still with all my companions (perhaps 4 or 5). The strange thing was that the top of the plane I was on was not really the top of anything, it was just a surface and it didn't really seem like a plane - around us bolted to the icy white aluminum below foot was the huge abutments of the steel latice that was at the top of the hill. Somehow I was on something that was a combination of the Russian cargo planes I saw and the giant crane like structure. I know we had landed there for a reason - though there was no panic in the dream, landing there was somehow saving us from real danger (perhaps running out of fuel or something similar). The plane we had flown there in was beside us - it was covered in ice and was also abnormally small - maybe 50 ft long. To get out of the cold, and into a comfortable environment for the duration of the trip we decided to get into our plane which it turns out was perched near the edge of the structure we were on. To get in, someone climed on the top of our plane simply by straddling it and lifted up a hatch at the very front which was located where it's windows were. Half the front of the plane lifted to let us in. Two people who were also going to get in stepped too near the edge of our plane and nearly fell off both planes altogether - I was not particularly concerned because I just wanted to get in... end.
Genre: Urban Curiosity
Inspiration: The word "shackles"
The shackles clanged around the lanky wrists like miniature bells linked one upon another hanging loosly from a steeple at the end of a human arm; a pious human arm.
"WHAKish" A whip cracked across his broad back cutting a long tendril of crimson blood accross the broad shoulders. He muttered in fatigued agony.
"Thou hast forsaken the Queen for the last time and thine time to expire doth hitherto forbode your continued comfortable existence" growled his formidable keeper from behind the armour of hard leather.
He uttered but a squeek of acknowledgement as beads of hot sweat poured from his brow through his bloodshot eyes and over his parched lips, and without being able to verbalize it he thought to himself: "huh?"
"I hath but to club thine head with this bat to end your pathetic burp of a life scoundrel, and shall in the next minute decide wheather though hast earned a right to breath, or foregone thoust..ed... thine? thoust... hmmm."
Her stumbling gave John a moment to reflect on the fact that he was shackled on his stomach with his hands behind his back, naked save for a loin cloth in the backyard of a women who he had met only 3 hours earlier. The fact that he was immediately repulsed by her girth hardly seemed important now - he had invested a good 2 hours in getting laid (making small talk, paying for dinner, home made ice cream at the gourmet shop) before she had tied him up and thrown him down the stairs at her house. Damned though if he wasn't going to see this one through - it seemed to him that as her whiping became more tender, she might be close to touching him something that didn't sting like the fire of a thousand suns; it had been ages since John had been with a woman. Even if she was 320 lbs (he approximated by sight but he was pretty good at that being a vegan nutritionist and all), John owed it to Mary to see this date through. Mary was a sweetheart waitress at John's favourite restaurant and surprisingly attractive for a lesbian ex-con with legs of uneven length; all things John discovered after an unsuccessful bid for a date. He spat out a mouthful of grass as he redoubled his effort to crawl to the end of the lawn where Gertrude - his "master" - was going to tie him to the roof of her car for a drive around the block. He knew for certain scraping his knees over the sidewalk that this was the last time he would accepted a blind date with a cute waitresse's parole officer.
