Roaming Chickens

Behind my childhood church in Anderson, Indiana, lie acres of woodland. These woods feature trails leading to cabins, gazebos, a secret bench, named Meditation Point, overlooking a ridge and creek, and a hidden lake in a clearing amid the trees. A few locals know about the lake, but not enough to draw a crowd. 

I stroll along a trail toward the church when I reach a fork. One path leads to the church, the other ascends a hill to a gazebo. I spot my dad hiking on the latter. I stop to converse with him. As we talk, I glance into the woods and notice he's set up a small chicken coop, complete with fencing, a henhouse, and roaming chickens.

As my dad and I talk, I glance up toward the gazebo, only to find it gone. In its place now lie a few small boulders. Things have changed since I was here last.

I wake up

Train and Trolley

My father aspired to emulate Evel Knievel, planning to launch a train across a thousand-foot gap in the tracks. I had originally agreed to join the stunt, but fear of death compelled me to back out. On the day of the event, another person and I ran several miles along the beach to secure a prime vantage point. Miraculously, my father succeeded.

That same day, another spectacle unfolded on the artificial island where we were stationed: a trolley ascending one of its extended hillsides. Tragically, one of the women aboard perished. I found this perplexing, as the trolley posed no apparent risk—it climbed slowly and steadily up the incline.

I wake up. 

Evil In Her Eyes

On a field trip, we traveled to an old mansion with what appeared to be ancient ruins nearby. I joined a few friends in exploring the ruins. While they continued onward, I walked back to where the bus was parked—only to find it gone. We'd been left behind.

I sprinted down the length of the driveway, leaving my friends behind but hoping they'd catch up. Spotting the bus at the end of the drive, I screamed for the driver to stop. They did. I boarded and found a seat at the back, next to the teacher and her daughter. The teacher's daughter wasn't in our class; she was much younger, around the age of five.

Partway through the bus ride, I glanced at the young girl and noticed her face starting to contort, her voice shifting to that of a man. She growled and spat at me. I knew it was the mansion—something evil there had attached itself to her.

At that moment, I realized we'd left a few of my friends behind. I yelled, "Tim, are you in here?" No answer. We had to turn the bus around.

My friends were still on the second floor of the mansion, in a small bedroom with a bed and a television. A sinister presence hung in the air, though nothing was visible. One of them walked to another bedroom to check on the others.

We returned to the mansion. They made their way downstairs and out the door, feeling the evil around them the whole time, then hurried back to the bus.

All seemed well. I changed seats to a row in front of where I'd been sitting and looked back at the young girl. There was still evil in her eyes.

I wake up. 

Trick, Treat, and Twilight

     The dusk settled thick over Sandoval, Illinois, a town now humming with the quiet murmurs of Halloween. Caught between the veil of sleep and the waking world, I found myself threading through the cool streets, each breath mingling with the cool whispers of autumn. Nearby, the familiar haven of my aunt and uncle's dwelling stood as a comforting silhouette against the eerie unfoldings of the night.

     The young adventurers, my nieces and nephews, embarked into the night's fold with laughter as their lanterns, their small fists holding onto bags yearning for candy. The town seemed to have tucked away its playful spirit, leaving the streets barren of other youthful trick-or-treaters.

     I trailed their innocent venture, my steps hurried by the cold fingers of concern that clutched at my heart. The streets of Sandoval seemed to cradle an eerie silence that night, a silence only broken by the distant laughter of my kin.

     As they delved deeper into the night's enigma, an unexpected turn sent a cold shiver down my spine. A figure emerged from the shadows, not menacing in appearance, but holding a subtle, unsettling intention. The script of their evening took an uncanny turn as this figure, veiled in enigma, obstructed their path home. Not a villain, but a keeper of unsettling whims borne from the night's whisper.

     Fueled by a gentle storm of love and fear, I stood firm against the veiled threat, the narrative of care against the obscure intentions carried by the Halloween night.

     Then, under a pale gleam of streetlight, a startling sight awaited as I glanced at my niece, Anna. Her leg bore the markings of eerie hollows, and peering into them revealed an unsettling emptiness, a surreal vision amidst the quaint and quiet streets of Sandoval.

     Guiding their tender souls back to the warm embrace of home, the scene shifted gently, leaving behind a quiet echo of eerie wonder. The night whispered a tale of mild dread, its words now nestled within the hushed corners of the mind, waiting to be inked under the soft glow of dawn's first light.

I wake up

Meanings: This dream might symbolize a myriad of unfolding scenarios, each carrying its own whisper of fate. It might be hinting at the acquisition of property, possibly through inheritance or legal channels, marking a tangible shift in material circumstances. Similarly, it could be foretelling a moment of recognition within community affairs, a moment under the spotlight of communal acknowledgment.

Amidst the hopeful whispers, there's also a hint of loss, an eerie foreshadowing that may be preparing the dreamer for an impending moment of letting go. Yet, as one door seemingly closes, another opens with the promise of good news soon to grace the dreamer's path, a silver lining amidst the cloud of uncertainty.

The dream also carries a soothing promise of liberation from worry, a gentle assurance that a tranquil mind might be on the horizon. It's a narrative interwoven with both hope and dread, a complex tapestry that reflects the multifaceted nature of life's unfolding journey. Each scene in the dream mirrors a possible reality, echoing both the fears and the hopes that accompany the human experience.

Innocence Lost

     Amidst the ominous silhouette of an elementary school, a place once resonant with the laughter of youth, I found myself enveloped in an eerie foreboding. This institution, a supposed haven for childhood whimsy, had now seemingly devoured a young soul within its grim facade. The little girl was a ghost, her absence a haunting melody that strummed fear through the heartstrings of every adult present, each one a restless moth spiraling in the harsh glare of concern.

     I ambled through a corridor that resonated with the eerie echoes of lost innocence. From the depths of her classroom emerged a teacher, her complexion a stark pallor. As she spoke, her words, tinged with an odd worry, fluttered about the presence of any fingerprints the lawmen might have unearthed within her realm.

     Clinging to my father, I voiced my thoughts in a soft murmur by his ear. A strange worry, I noted, a peculiar fret amidst the storm of a child gone missing. We, a disparate crew of truth-seekers, crossed the threshold into her realm, a space tinged with the ghostly aroma of chalk dust and fear.

     Standing guard at the entrance were rows of lockers, their cold metal forms serving as silent sentinels. A sound echoed from within one, a noise that seemed like a secret yearning to breathe the air of revelation. As I pried it open, the sight before me was a gut-wrenching reality. The missing blossom lay there, but life had mercilessly fled from her form.

     The bitter truth wound its way through my veins. The teacher, the one fretting over fingerprints, was the dark mastermind behind this horror. The realization hung in the air like a chilling phantom, a grotesque truth that bore the metallic taste of fear and dread. It was a haunting enigma, encased within a mystery, nestled within a tale of terror. Life, it appeared, was laden with such grim spectacles, echoed through the endless corridors and mirrored in the eerie hush of a forsaken locker.

I wake up

Past Echoes, Present Whispers

   

    I find myself back at Liberty Christian High, the halls echoing with ghostly remnants of adolescent chatter. I venture into the basement, bracing myself for the expected damp darkness, but it surprises me. It's not the musty cavern I'd imagined. A group of people even huddle at the far end of a corridor.

    Still, an unsettling shiver runs down my spine. The school has shifted its skin since my time. It's familiar, yet foreign - a puzzling paradox. "They've spruced the place up," I tell a friend, my voice bubbling with a tinge of nostalgia and admiration.

    My words tumble out, cloaking my deeper feelings - a mix of appreciation for the new and longing for the old, for times that will never come back, and for changes that came too fast, like a ride on a rickety rollercoaster. A bizarre blend of homecoming and alienation weaves through me. This place is both my past and an uncertain present, standing as a symbol of inevitable progress and relentless time.

I wake up

Beneath The Surface

    In the last light of day, I'm at my father's house. It's old and dark. I have a simple job: carry a bag of garbage to the kitchen. The shadows grow long and I feel scared, like a kid alone in the night. I see a ghost - a lady wearing an old-fashioned bonnet, drifting by the kitchen.

    I rush outside, spilling my fears to my dad. He steps inside and climbs the creaky staircase. I follow, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior, and there she is again, the ghostly lady, halfway up the stairs. My dad is at the top. I'm stuck at the bottom.

    Then, something strange. The ghost comes down the stairs and plants a deep, hard kiss on my lips. It leaves me shaken.

    Later, we swim in the nearby lake. The house ghosts, supposedly wiped out by my dad, are nowhere to be seen. But as we swim, something pulls him under. The ghosts are back, angry and looking for revenge. He's struggling, crying out for help.

    "I didn't mean for you to kill him!" I shout at the ghosts, but they don't listen. His last scream echoes as he's dragged under for the last time. The lake, still and silent, becomes his grave. Revenge, it seems, is served cold and deep.

I wake up.

The Flight

 

    My old man, in his infinite wisdom, secures reservations for my escape to Atlanta. But in this twisted turn of fate, Tandy, my loyal feline sidekick, finds himself trapped within the confines of the car's treacherous glove box. Without warning, the box plunges through the very depths of the vehicle, threatening to unleash the beast upon our already precarious journey.

    Undeterred by this devilish omen, we venture into the dark caverns of the movie theater, seeking solace amidst the flickering shadows. It is there, amidst the silver screen's hypnotic glow, that I surreptitiously reveal the grim truth to my father—an unyielding reminder that time, like a relentless demon, shows no mercy. The realization sets in: my plane, its steel wings eager for flight, now beckons me urgently.

    With a nonchalant flick of his hand, my father assures me of alternate arrangements. "You'll catch a later flight," he mutters, his voice brimming with unnerving calm. And so, we embark on a harrowing journey through twisted roads, leading us to an airport nestled within the desolate reaches of the countryside.

    Hidden beneath a cloak of forced composure, I yearn for a window seat. Oh, the allure of those heights, where dreams meet the vast expanse of the sky. Airborne, we become mere pawns in a cosmic game of chance, suspended between the realms of heaven and earth. The allure of it all, the primal thrill, seeps into my bones.

    With trepidation and a faint glimmer of hope, I take my place among the faceless multitude, boarding the metal monstrosity that promises to whisk me away. But as I step inside, an undercurrent of unease tugs at my senses. The whispers of past flights gone awry echo through the cabin's recycled air.

    The journey ahead, shrouded in uncertainty, unfolds like a forgotten nightmare. The realms of reality and terror merge as I buckle up, clinging to my fraying sanity. The plane, like a sentient creature, hums with ominous energy, its metal veins pulsating with unknown intent.

    In this realm of suspended time, I find myself captive, a prisoner of the skies. The fate that awaits me remains hidden in the abyss, an enigma that may unveil itself in fleeting moments of turbulence or in the serenity of a smooth ride. I am but a pawn, a character trapped within the pages of this terrifying tale, as the plane hurtles forward into the unknown, the relentless journey toward destiny unfolding before my eyes.

Waverly Hills

    Venturing into the eerie depths of Waverly Hills Sanatorium, my companions and I weave through the dilapidated remnants of what was once a bastion of healing. This place, with its dark history and whispered tales of spectral hauntings, holds a reputation as one of the most haunted locations in the world.

    Through broken doorways and along crumbling corridors, we traverse the decaying labyrinth that time has forgotten. These weathered walls bear the weight of countless stories, the echoes of suffering and anguish lingering in every gust of wind.

    Rooms upon rooms reveal themselves to our curious eyes, each with its own macabre tale to tell. The ravages of time have left their indelible mark, reducing this once grand establishment to a mere ghost of its former self.

    Yet, amidst the debris and decay, we stumble upon a sight that captures our attention—a shattered statue, the remnants of a monkey frozen in a permanent state of destruction. Some have dubbed it "The Monkey King," a moniker that carries an air of both reverence and foreboding.

    As I gaze upon this twisted relic, I cannot help but wonder about the secrets it guards. Was it a symbol of mischief and playfulness, or does it carry a darker significance, a portal to the otherworldly? The absence of ghosts may deceive the senses, for this forsaken place holds secrets that lie beyond the realm of the visible.

    Whispers of forgotten tragedies resonate within these crumbling walls, even if their apparitions elude our mortal gaze. The absence of specters does not diminish the palpable weight of the past, nor does it quell the uneasy sensation crawling up my spine.

    In this desolate chamber, where the monkey's shattered visage looms like a grim specter of the past, I find myself ensnared in a web of curiosity and trepidation. The absence of ghosts may deceive, but beneath the surface of this forsaken abode, a maelstrom of forgotten souls and dormant spirits awaits its moment to materialize.

    Waverly Hills Sanatorium, a place where the boundaries between the living and the dead blur, holds its secrets close. And as we wander through its desolate halls, the sense of anticipation grows, for the truth, like a slumbering beast, waits for the opportune moment to stir from its restless sleep.

I wake up

The Balloon Has Gone Up

    Yearning to serve my country, I make the decision to enlist in the military. The journey begins with a grueling two-week boot camp, a crucible of endurance and discipline. Alongside my comrade Chad, we find ourselves thrust into the company of seasoned soldiers, their eyes reflecting the weight of experience and the scars of conflict.

    Together, we march to the battlegrounds, braving the horrors of war. The air was thick with tension, the deafening sound of gunfire, and the acrid stench of fear. Our hearts pound in unison as we face the unknown, driven by duty and the unyielding camaraderie that binds us.

    Yet amidst the chaos, tragedy strikes with a cruel and unforgiving hand. My mother, a beacon of unwavering support, ventures to visit me in the midst of the turmoil. But fate, ever the cruel mistress, unleashes its merciless blow. An enemy soldier, lurking in the shadows, springs forth and in a split second, snuffs out the light of her existence. Grief clings to my soul like a suffocating shroud, engulfing me in an abyss of despair.

    Despite the weight of sorrow that threatens to consume me, Chad and I press on, our footsteps heavy with determination. We continue to navigate the treacherous path of battles, our minds scarred by loss but our resolve unwavering. Each engagement, a reminder of the fragility of life and the sacrifices we make in the name of duty.

    In the midst of the turmoil, a small helicopter emerges, its blades slicing through the air like whispers of hope. The pilot, a figure of unknown origin, turns to me and beseeches for assistance. His request is simple—to wipe away the encroaching dust that threatens the delicate machinery while we soar through the heavens.

    In that moment, doubt gnaws at the edges of my conscience. I confess my lack of experience, my inability to fulfill the role bestowed upon me. The pilot, understanding the weight of my admission, nods with somber understanding. "I appreciate your honesty," he murmurs, the gravity of the situation etched upon his weathered face. And so, the opportunity slips through my grasp, the winds of destiny carrying me in a different direction.

    Regret lingers, mingling with the scent of gunpowder and the cries of fallen comrades. In this realm of uncertainty, choices are made and fates intertwine. I am left to wrestle with the ghosts of what could have been, the path not taken—a solitary soldier, burdened by the weight of an unchosen destiny.

I wake up. 

Couch

     Within the walls of my relative's house, an unsettling presence lurks. A creature, elusive and mysterious, scurries through the hidden recesses of the couch's cushions. Its rustling echoes like a secret whispered in the dark corners of the night. But this is not the first encounter with the uncanny that this dwelling has seen.

     Earlier, I had the fortune or misfortune, depending on one's perspective, to stumble upon a diminutive raccoon—a tiny creature no larger than a mouse. Captivated by its unique essence, I carefully ensnared it, confining it within the confines of a glass tube, an odd trophy of my curiosity.

     Yet, as if summoned by the strange magnetism that pulses through this family abode, another member of our kin emerges, clutching the newly apprehended couch-dweller in their grasp. Is it a squirrel or a ferret? The answer eludes us, its true nature veiled by the whims of the fates.

     Amidst this peculiar spectacle, I find myself drawn to the presence of my grandmother—a figure who seems to exist in a world uniquely her own. A cigarette dangles precariously between her fingers as she shuffles through a deck of playing cards, her weathered hands etched with a lifetime of stories. The air hangs heavy with the scent of tobacco, mingling with the electricity of the unknown.

     My gaze drifts downwards, capturing the image of the tiny trash panda, sprawled on its back, limbs splayed in every conceivable direction. Its vulnerability tugs at my heart, urging me to seek solace in the embrace of nature's embrace. And so, with a decision forged in the crucible of empathy, I resolve to transport the diminutive creature outside, allowing it to bask in the revitalizing touch of fresh air.

     Together, we step into the world beyond the confines of four walls, the creature nestled safely in my hands. The atmosphere crackles with anticipation, as if the very universe holds its breath, awaiting the unfolding of this peculiar tale. And as we venture forth, I can't help but ponder the profound connection that binds us all—the living, the curious, and the enigmatic—in this ever-unfolding tapestry we call life.

I wake up.

Veiled Malevolence

    In the shadowy corners of my perception, a vision emerged—a tall, gaunt woman cloaked in the garb of a nun. A sight both mesmerizing and unsettling. She defied the laws of nature, suspended in mid-air, her body levitating four feet above the ground. Slowly, she rotated, casting an otherworldly silhouette against the dimly lit backdrop.

     An eerie hum emanated from her ethereal presence, a dissonant melody that sent shivers down my spine. As my feet propelled me forward, curiosity mingled with trepidation, an insatiable desire to unravel the enigma before me. I drew nearer, my heart pounding like a drumbeat of impending doom.

     And then, in the flickering light, her features became unmistakable. Her skin, as black as the deepest abyss, swallowed all traces of light, radiating an aura of malevolence. Eyes devoid of color or compassion pierced through the veil of my sanity, drawing me deeper into a maelstrom of fear.

     An icy grip constricted my chest, and panic surged through my veins like a toxic elixir. The revelation struck with undeniable force—she was not a mere mortal clad in holy vestments. No, she was a being of darkness, a harbinger of unnameable terrors.

     Yet, as I recoiled from her presence, my imagination unraveled a wicked tapestry. Within the confines of my mind, a distorted image materialized—a blasphemous fusion of divine and infernal. Jesus, distorted and twisted, adorned with a crown of horns. Arcs of electric energy gripped his hair, yanking it back in a torturous dance.

     In that moment, the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred, and I found myself teetering on the precipice of a horrifying revelation. The veil that concealed the true nature of our existence, of the forces that lurked in the depths of the unseen, was thinning. An unspeakable truth lingered just beyond reach, threatening to unravel the very fabric of my perception.

     My mind, a playground for the macabre, plunged deeper into the rabbit hole, consumed by a cocktail of terror and fascination. For what lay before me was not a mere encounter with a demon, but a glimpse into a distorted realm where angels wore horns, and electricity harnessed the hair of divine figures.

     In the face of such malevolent majesty, I trembled, my fragile sense of reality hanging by a thread. The world I once knew had shattered, leaving behind fragments of my shattered psyche. How could one reconcile the unfathomable horrors that lurked beneath the veneer of our existence?

    The answers, like whispers in the dark, eluded me, but I knew one thing for certain—what I had witnessed would forever haunt the recesses of my soul, etching a tale of cosmic terror that would forever leave me trembling in the embrace of the unknown.

I wake up.

The Republic Of Florida

    My family embarked on a journey through the heart of the New Republic of Florida, its gleaming capital rising before us like a monument to a new era. A city transformed, where the name of Donald Trump loomed large, and a palpable sense of change crackled in the air. It was a landscape shaped by the hands of ironworking cowboys, defying gravity as they constructed towering behemoths that scraped the very heavens.

     As our car traversed the immaculate streets, we gazed upon the colossal skyscrapers, still in their embryonic stages, reaching skyward like giants awakening from a deep slumber. The symphony of construction echoed through the air, a testament to the indomitable spirit of progress and the promise of a brighter future.

     In the midst of this architectural metamorphosis, a newfound hope settled within our weary souls. We embraced the dawning of an era that held the promise of change, of possibilities yet untapped. A collective anticipation swelled within us, like a chorus of whispered dreams, as we eagerly anticipated the marvels that awaited us on this journey into the unknown.

     Amidst the towering structures, we glimpsed a glimpse of the future, a tantalizing taste of the yet-to-be. And with every passing moment, our anticipation grew, fueled by the belief that within this city of dreams, anything was possible.

     Only time would tell. For now, we embraced the intoxicating allure of progress, embracing the vision of a city that dared to dream big. And as our car continued its journey through this evolving landscape, we carried within us a mix of excitement and trepidation, our hearts filled with the anticipation of the things to come, be they blessings or curses in disguise.

I wake up

Celluloid Dreams

     I found myself within the hallowed halls of the RED LETTER MEDIA headquarters, a sanctuary of cinematic nostalgia. Room after room brimmed with the relics of a bygone era, VHS tapes piled high like towers of forgotten memories. The air carried the weight of countless hours spent lost in celluloid dreams.

     Amidst this labyrinth of analog treasures, a figure emerged from the shadows—Jack Packard, the harbinger of cinephile wisdom. With a knowing smile, he confirmed my suspicions, acknowledging the existence of another video store hidden away on the upper floor. A realm yet unexplored, beckoning with the allure of undiscovered gems.

     We embarked on separate paths, Jack leading the way as I ventured deeper into the heart of the house. Each step carried the anticipation of revelation, the sense that the secrets of this cinematic haven were on the cusp of unveiling themselves.

     In a quiet bedroom, I sought respite upon a well-worn bed, its history embedded in the very fabric of the room. A flicker of movement caught my eye—a feline intruder, its gaze fixed upon me. "Here kitty kitty," I cooed, inviting the creature closer. But innocence belied its true nature as it lunged, claws sinking into my flesh. Laughter bubbled from my lips, an incongruous response to the chaotic mix of pain and adoration.

     A voice in the background offered a peculiar suggestion—to wave and greet the cat as a gesture of goodwill. I complied, hoping to quell the storm brewing within this unpredictable creature. But my efforts were in vain, as it pounced once more, its playfulness edged with a dangerous charm.

     Guided by an invisible hand, I found myself in a room where Jack stood in the company of Jay Bauman. The glass window before us revealed a private domain—a shower stall occupied by Mike Stoklasa. The room hummed with electric anticipation, a hidden power waiting to be unleashed.

     Four buttons adorned the wall, beckoning us to play with the unknown. Jack's finger met one of them, and water cascaded from the showerhead, an innocuous act amidst this peculiar setting. And then, my gaze fell upon a button, an enigmatic invitation that read, "Are You Afraid of the Dark?"

     Driven by curiosity and a hunger for the unexpected, I pressed the button, igniting a chain of events. Green slime, reminiscent of Nickelodeon's playful mischief, descended from above, landing with a sickening splatter upon Mike Stoklasa's unsuspecting head.

     In that moment, the boundaries between reality and surrealism blurred, as if the very essence of cinema had taken on a life of its own. Laughter mingled with the discomfort, an amalgamation of joy and unease that seemed to define this enigmatic realm.

     Within the RED LETTER MEDIA headquarters, I had ventured into uncharted territories, where the whimsical and the uncanny danced a peculiar waltz. And as I stood before the glass window, witnessing the aftermath of my impulsive act, I couldn't help but wonder what other wonders—and horrors—awaited me in this surreal domain of cinephile enchantment.

I wake up

A Quarter 'Til Extinction

    The bustling streets of New York City served as the backdrop to our unplanned detour, leading my sister and me to the doorstep of an elderly couple's house. As we entered their abode, a sense of unease settled upon my shoulders, for I knew all too well the importance of respecting one's dwelling. But my sister, oblivious to such concerns, carelessly trampled through their sanctum, stoking the flames of my frustration.

     Voicing my discontent, I admonished her for her lack of regard, demanding that she recognize the significance of our intrusion. She shrugged off my words, nonchalantly suggesting that I inquire if we could seek shelter within the confines of this unfamiliar dwelling. Exasperated, we stepped outside into the cityscape, where the twin towers loomed in the distance, casting long shadows over our uncertain future.

     News of an impending catastrophe reached our ears—an apocalyptic comet hurtling toward our fragile planet. Whispers of doom echoed through the air, as some proclaimed it to be an extinction-level event. Determined to devise a survival strategy, my family and a select few friends convened at a restaurant, hoping to find solace and a glimmer of hope amidst the encroaching darkness.

     Deep beneath the surface of our collective fears, a singular idea emerged—to seek refuge far below ground. My father, ever resourceful, recalled a hatch nestled within a nearby golf course, its depths shrouded in mystery. Yet, an unsettling revelation followed, as he revealed that he had overheard faint voices emanating from within, hinting at a clandestine presence.

     In the midst of our deliberations, a family friend, veiled in secrecy, led us to a hidden staircase—a portal to the unknown depths of the earth. Hope mingled with trepidation as we descended into the bowels of the earth, a motley crew bound by a shared desire to outlive the imminent cataclysm. Alas, our steps did not go unnoticed, for a group of wayward miscreants trailed behind, their intentions veiled in malice.

     Amidst the chaos, a figure representing workplace safety protocols chastised us, his fury ignited by our reckless disregard for OSHA guidelines. Panic gripped us, scattering our once united front. The malicious horde pursued me relentlessly, their malevolence manifesting in a vicious assault upon my person.

     As I stumbled homeward, bloodied and battered, the weight of impending doom and the twisted nature of humanity pressed upon my weary shoulders. In the face of an approaching cosmic reckoning, it seemed that even the bonds of friendship and the sanctity of safety guidelines were but fragile threads, torn asunder by the brutality of those who embraced chaos in the twilight of our existence.

I wake up

All Along The Watchtower

Dream 2.16.2018

I am working as a wrestler and writer for the WWE. A match in which I am appearing is about to begin. As I am cutting a promo with Triple H, I forget my lines. I run to the sheet of paper and nervously shuffle through the pages to find what I am supposed to say. It is obvious to the crowd that I've messed up. The match is about to begin. It's a three on three tag team match. Someone takes my place. I'm not upset about this. I need a break. I leave the show with Stephanie McMahon. We drive to a nearby grocery store. Later on, I think to pitch an idea to the company for a match. Stone Cold Steve Austin vs Shane McMahon. In my mind, this could be the biggest match in history.

The WWE is also The Honor Academy. The two are one and the same. All the interns climb a tower. I follow. It is many steps to the top. When I arrive, I see Vince McMahon in his office. He yells at me for not being in the right place. I walk to the center of the tower where dozens of interns are eating lunch. I grab a seat by my friend Derek. The table is a large, round table in a circular room. One couldn't easily talk to the person directly in front of them without talking loudly. Harrison Ford is in the opposite seat on the other side of the table. He is angry and yelling at the interns. I feel an air of status from him as if he is tired of these low life interns taking up his oxygen. He yells at the interns to be quiet as he walks into an office with big, open windows. I overhear his conversation as he picks up the phone. He says to the person on the other line, "yes, let me read what it says in this magazine and you see if it matches." I have a feeling that he is working on WWE business.

Derek and I finish our lunch. As he walks down the tower steps, I walk over to where Harrison is sitting. He along with many interns is watching the World Series on a TV mounted on the wall. I sit there as well, two seats away from the celebrity. He yells at the interns again. I notice that the interns are all wearing backward hats while I am wearing mine forward.

I walk down the steps of the tower and realize that the trip down was faster than the one up. I meet a girl who was an intern at the HA but I cannot remember her name. She has blonde hair and is shorter than me. She and I walk and talk. We mosey over to a rollercoaster that isn't supposed to be running but some interns have turned it on. As we watch the rollercoaster and some other rides, I tell her about a dream I once had (Chills and Thrills). I start to like this girl. As we walk in a parking garage, I notice someone taking my cat, Tandy, away. I take him back. I have to send him home to Indiana because he is no longer allowed here. I lose the blonde girl. We become disconnected. I don't know her name. I remember, however, that she returned a book with a yellow cover. I walk to the top of the tower where she returned it. I find it and look. Her name is inscribed on the first page.

I wake up.

The Island of Horrors

I've bought a ticket for the Titanic. While on the ship, I grab onto an airplane and ride it up to the sky. I let go and freefall to earth. Before I hit the ground, I type into the computer /home. When I type this, I appear back on the Titanic. I freefall from the airplane several times and then reappear on the giant ocean liner. I call my sister to tell her about how good it feels to fall from the sky at such an incredible speed.

The ship starts to sink. Everyone panics. The passengers get dropped off at a location. I stay on board. I suggest that we search for land so that we can live in a cave. The captain finds land. It's a large island. The ship can only transport a handful of passengers at a time.

On the island, they are building giant buildings to house everyone from the ship. I explore. I find my assigned room. There is a girl with short, blonde hair in the room. She is a friend. The rest of our roommates have yet to arrive.

I walk with my friends around the island. My friend Jose points at an area of water near the coast and tells me to never swim there because the tide is too strong. He tells me about one of the passengers who ventured to that area and they found him with a slit throat.

I see a light in the sky. It can't be an airplane because the year is 1912. I take out my smartphone and zoom into the light so I can take a picture. While zoomed in, I see another island with people living on it. I zoom in and see a few people sitting at a pub. I become scared when one of the people turns and looks right at me. I am miles away. They can't possibly see me with human eyes.

I move the camera around and look at other areas of the island. I see a hideous humanoid creature peaking its head over a hill. He is looking right at me. The creature begins running toward us. We scatter in fear. I run to my room and hide. The creature is at my door. I lock it and hold it closed. I look behind me, there is nothing. I look back at the door. I look behind me again, there is nothing. When I look back at the door, there are two people pointing toward the door. The door swings open and the demon stands before me.

Demons chase the passengers throughout the island. Most are killed. One demon has stilts for arms. I learn a truth. If you don't look the demon in the eyes, they cannot hurt you. I walk through the town that we built. I see no one. I walk over to an area where the demons and their minions are waiting for me. I look at the ground as I approach. They taunt me but never hurt me. I knight appears within the meeting place. He is pure white. The demons fear him.

I wake up

Terror In The Towers

    I'm at the top of one of the WTC towers. Most people have evacuated due to a plane crashing into the building. I still see a young woman sitting at a table and one or two others roaming about. A helicopter drops a terrorist into the building. We play a game of cat and mouse for a bit. I become anxious when the terrorist is near the young woman sitting at the table. The first time, he doesn't see her but when he is near her again, I know that he sees her. I yell at him to draw his attention to me. We fight with guns. I have a pistol. I shoot him.

    When the terrorist is dead and no one else is around. I plan to make my way to ground level. I open two doors and find a room full of terrorists. I grab a machine gun and mow them down but many of them aren't affected by the bullets. One man leads me on a chase through the upper hallways and offices of the tower. He has a small bird. I shoot at the bird but cannot hit it. The terrorist mocks me for missing.

    We have seventy minutes before the tower collapses. My friend, an older gentleman starts down the stairs. 100+ stories. We finally make it to the bottom level with 12 minutes left until demolition. The man says that he needs to go to the gift shop and get some new clothes because he doesn't want to meet my family looking the way he does. We go down a set of stairs to the gift shop. Many others are shopping. In an instant, the whole world begins to shake. I find a door that leads into an underground chamber. Many others and I run into it. We see the ceiling of the chamber sink in. We keep running through the chambers until we make it outside. I find my family.


I wake up

Shake Junt

    Within the pulsating heart of the city, my friend Adam and I found ourselves drawn to a peculiar strip club—a place unlike any other. Its very essence reverberated with an amusement park's whimsical allure, a carnival of tantalizing desires. Multiple buildings stood before us, each promising a distinct experience, a unique passage into a world of sensual indulgence.

    As we crossed the threshold, an employee's voice pierced through the cacophony, directing our attention to a red door—an invitation to embark upon the water slides of this erotic wonderland. But my curiosity, mingled with a hint of rebellion, led me astray. Ignoring the beckoning call, I ventured away from the teeming crowd, seeking solace within a quiet enclave.

    Finding respite in the hallowed sanctuary of the restroom, I shed my mundane attire, replacing it with garments more befitting this enticing realm. With wallet in hand, I meticulously counted my funds, pondering the cost of a seductive lap dance. Sorting my bills from humble ones to extravagant hundreds, my eyes fell upon an unexpected denomination—a three-dollar bill. Its peculiarity failed to strike me as profoundly as it should, for within this beguiling domain, even the fabric of currency seemed to warp with curious intent. With a nonchalant shrug, I departed the lavatory, prepared to seize the pleasures that awaited.

    Navigating through the labyrinthine corridors, my path led me astray, veering me into a darkened park. The air grew heavy with a palpable anticipation, as scantily clad women wandered the grounds. Yet, the scene unfolding before my eyes diverged from the expected. Two enigmatic buildings loomed, their walls adorned with an array of mirrors. A sinister inkling ignited within me, whispering that these reflective surfaces concealed voyeuristic delights. Succumbing to temptation, I pressed my face against the glass, peering through the veil of mystery.

    But a voice, a warning from the depths of my conscience, cautioned against such indulgence. Ignoring the admonishment, I pressed on, my eyes meeting a twisted tableau beyond imagination. Naked men and women stood frozen, locked within a purgatorial realm of punishment—a prison for those who dared misbehave within the strip club's tantalizing grasp. Bewilderment and fascination intertwined as the truth unfurled before me, casting a dark shadow upon the façade of sensual ecstasy.

    Retreating from the park's haunting embrace, I resumed my pursuit of the main building, my heart aflutter with the promise of witnessing the graceful undulations of the female form, a private performance meant solely for my eyes. Side by side with Adam, we entered an auditorium ablaze with fervor, where a stripping man commanded the stage. Adorned by a chorus of naked women, he captivated the frenzied crowd. Seeking solace in our designated seats, I cast a glance at Adam, his laughter echoing through the air, hinting at secrets untold.

    In a disorienting twist of fate, an inebriated figure collapsed into the seat beside me, teetering on the precipice of consciousness. His words slurred, attempts at conversation futile. The man vanished briefly, only to reappear in the same location, trapped in an inescapable loop of inebriation. Filled with a strange mix of sympathy and unease, I departed the theater, leaving behind the carnival of hedonistic frenzy.

    Stepping into the main corridor, a staircase beckoned, promising clandestine encounters and intimate connections. Led by alluring sirens, a select group of men ascended the steps, their destination veiled in anticipation. My curiosity piqued, I followed suit, ascending to a realm where desires found physical manifestation. Room after room stretched before me, a tableau of intimate escapades. And there, in a realm of pulsating music and dimly lit allure, stood a vision—an enchanting Asian beauty with cascading tresses. The temptation proved irresistible, and I succumbed to her rhythmic dance, our bodies intertwining in an intimate pas de deux. She shed her garments, revealing her ethereal form, enticing my senses to drink in her essence. And as temptation gnawed at the edges of restraint, I resisted the forbidden, allowing the symphony of scent and touch to consume me in its mesmerizing thrall.

    Having savored the intoxicating taste of pleasure, I descended from the heights, seeking Adam in the labyrinthine recesses of the strip club's expanse. Yet, an ominous voice, a prescient thought, echoed through my mind—Adam's transgressions had exiled him to the dark park, a realm of shadows and consequences. Determined to reclaim my comrade, I ventured forth, driving a path through the murky night until I located him and his cousin, shackled and confined. Persuading the employee of their shared connection, I secured their release, unearthing a glimmer of salvation in this world of unbridled temptation.

    Wandering through the expansive corridors of the main building, I marveled at the strip club's intricate design, each area offering its own brand of illicit amusement. The lobby, vast and towering, stood as a testament to the depths of desire and the heights of indulgence. Ascending yet another set of stairs, I arrived in a colossal square chamber, its periphery adorned with scales, each one poised to bear the weight of eager souls yearning for a specific temptress. Yet, as I scanned the collection of photographs, my gaze failed to alight upon the visage of the bewitching Asian enchantress who had enraptured my senses mere moments ago.

    Lost in contemplation, I found myself transfixed by a vertical flatscreen embedded within a building column. Its mesmerizing glow heralded the imminent arrival of renowned figures, including Tim Pool, a political commentator whose presence at this sensual carnival seemed incongruous. Observing his altered appearance, a burgeoning desire to meet the enigmatic figure welled within me. And so, I spoke his name into the air, and to my astonishment, his gaze met mine. A serendipitous encounter ensued, mingling admiration and excitement.

    Driven by curiosity's relentless pull, I ascended another flight of stairs, ushered into the private quarters reserved for the illustrious strippers. Amidst the laughter and camaraderie of a group of men, I surreptitiously explored my surroundings, drawn toward the faint sound of running water. My steps guided me to a shower, where a voluptuous dancer attended to her ablutions. Temptation flirted with exposure as I caught glimpses of her naked form, my eyes tracing contours bathed in rivulets of cascading liquid. Lured by my baser instincts, I ventured further, to the clothes repository—a retail-like haven of garments on hangers. Among the discarded attire, a pair of moist panties lay abandoned on the floor. Intrigued, I succumbed to a forbidden temptation, allowing their scent to fill my senses, a heady elixir of arousal.

    Returning from the depths of sensual exploration, I wandered through the lobby once more, my eyes fixated on a vertical flatscreen, its tales of illustrious guests captivating my attention. Jordan Peterson, a sage of wisdom, crossed my path, his profound insights escaping comprehension as swiftly as they were uttered. Briefly exchanging words, our encounter left me bewildered yet enriched. He ascended the stairs toward the scale room, and I charted my own path, an unexpected revelation coursing through my veins.

    The ultimate truth unfurled before me, revealing the proprietorship of this sprawling domain—my very own father held the reins of this titillating realm. A surge of exhilaration ignited my soul, promising liberties beyond those granted to ordinary patrons. A job awaited me, a ticket to revel in the clandestine machinations that orchestrated this captivating tapestry of flesh and desire. Donning the garments bestowed upon me, a cloak of privilege and access, I navigated the premises, anointed with a sense of distinction.

    In the twilight hours, atop the rooftop that crowned this lascivious kingdom, I approached my father, the architect of fantasies. Words, heavy with meaning, escaped my lips, carrying a longing for a different creative pursuit. "Can I be a writer?" I queried, basking in the glow of possibilities. "For the scripts that grace the screens of this establishment, they yearn for a masterful hand, a writer who can breathe life into their tales of seduction."

    And as the night wore on, the tantalizing dance of desire continued, within the confines of a strip club that transcended conventions, weaving a tapestry of wanton pleasures and secret longings—a sanctuary where the ordinary morphed into the extraordinary, beckoning all who dared to venture into the enigmatic realm of shadow and illumination.

I wake up

Red Door

I have left my job at Westrock to go back to school. I study banking and when I am done, I travel to my dad's work to offer my services. It's been a while since I've seen him last. He's gained weight and no longer is he donning stylish jeans but rather baggy farmers clothes. I am happy to see him. We hug and I tell him that I'm looking for a job. He gladly offers me one. I will be his recycling company's newest banker.

I explore my new workplace. I find myself on the rooftop opposite my work. The roof has a bridge that leads to the next building. I cross it. I enter a corridor that leads to one red door. There is a screen in which many words are flashing at random. At one point the screen spells "potato chip." It's revealed to my mind that this is a place where the rich and famous mingle. The screen is now telling me the exit the premises. I do so.

I wake up