Tuesday, December 20, 2011

The Oneiroi, part IV: Question

Tell me about fear.


It's an unfamiliar school. High chain-link fences, monolithic buildings, silent stretches of blacktop, all lit by cold white floodlights. The football field is cast in darkness - there is no game tonight.

I am walking alone.

The leaves are stirring on the gaunt trees, so there must be a wind. I can't feel it, though, and I realize that I am not awake.

Interesting, I think.

I keep walking, without fear now that I know this isn't real. Mostly without fear: recklessness is not so strong in me that I don't round the darkened corners without some trepidation.

There's a narrow walkway, an alley of sorts, between the fenced-off practice field and another massive, windowless wing of the school. I walk, and as I walk I pass by a trio of students on bicycles, sitting by a stone bench underneath one of the lamps.

They are bleached pale by the frigid glare, and their faces are suspicious as I go by. A sudden, mad impulse seizes me and I pause. Three pairs of accusing eyes fall on me.

"Is this," I say, and my pulse starts its butterfly-winging in my throat, "a..."

The next word is painful, as though I am pushing against a thick membrane, the membrane of willing suspension of disbelief, I hope not the membrane of sanity, of safety in my own head.





Terror is a tiger snapping at cage bars. I'm too cold to panic, too numb to feel what I've just done fully. But the tiger is not so much a cat as power wrapped in orange and black, and the bars of its prison, my last vestiges of control, are weakening. Questioning reality is a dangerous thing, and its stain is dark and permanent.

The three look at me with eyes like the eyes of demons. Not the red demons with forked tails - the demons that lurk in dark hallways, under beds, behind doors, in the shadows and the ill-lit spaces of your bedroom. In your mind.

They don't answer.

I walk on, and count the minutes until the sun rises.


Sweet dreams.


  1. }:O wut.

    Das messed up, dood.

    Hey, I realized something today mostly thanks to you: I have a story waiting inside of me, but it only comes out in droplets like a leaking faucet. I hadn't thought about it for months but I drew a freaky bird-man and he needed a story. Turns out his story coincides with another freaky man's story (a tree-man, to be exact). And then I realized. This story I have, it doesn't have to come out all at once like a waterfall, and I don't have to wait to be struck by lightning to be able to write it. I just have to barf up the ideas I have in little segments, little tidbits of world-building and character development. Kind of like what you seem to do with GW. :)

    Dunno if that made sense, but that was a serious epiphany for me today. Thanks!

  2. I was so scared while I was dreaming it. :O

    Yes! That's exactly it. I haven't been writing much GW lately, and I've made no progress whatsoever finding out what the main plotline is, but I'm getting lots of ideas just thinking about it. It's like having a casual conversation rather than a srsbsns interview.

    I'm glad to have been of assistance. :)