Writing Dream, Dream, Dream [PG - VL]

[Shinmaru]

Lately I've been fascinated with the subconscious, dreams, and people's perceptions of these dreams (a theme that was reflected in my last short story, which I only posted on myOtaku[/shill]). The following is a three-part short story that will play on that. Maybe I'll offer up some long-winded explanation of the story when I'm finished. Depends on if a number of people criminally misinterpret the story :)

Anyway, enough chatter from me, here's the first part of the story.

---

The psychologist glanced down at his watch. It was now a quarter past 10:00 AM. His patient was fifteen minutes late. It was just like a child to saunter in whenever they felt like it. He didn?t let it get to him, however, as he had dealt with many children in the past. This type of behavior was not unusual, just slightly annoying. As the seconds passed by, the clock hanging on the wall above the door ticked away. Tick, tick, tick. The incessant ticking of the second hand started to grate on the psychologist?s nerves. His temper began to rise slowly. His hand gripped tighter and tighter upon the pencil he was holding. The ticking of the clock filled the room, louder and louder, until it was the only sound the psychologist could hear. His mind could focus on nothing else. His left eye twitched madly, and his arms were shaking. The pressure that he was exhorting onto the pencil built by the second.

The door opened, the pencil snapped in his hand, and everything went back to normal. The ticking died down and the psychologist?s frayed nerves smoothed over. A young man walked into the room. He was of average height, with average looks. He had short brown hair, and brown eyes that glimmered with intelligence. He was fairly skinny and the clothes that he was wearing hung off of him loosely. After the psychologist gave him a once over, he determined that he was not very threatening.

?Sorry I?m late, Doc,? the young man said. ?The traffic was terrible.?

?It?s the middle of the school day,? the psychologist said, raising an eyebrow slowly.

?I know!? the young man exclaimed. ?That?s what?s so amazing about it! You wouldn?t think that you?d have a tough time getting to your office, but that?s what happened.?

?I?m sure,? the psychologist said snidely. ?Please sit down, and I?ll retrieve your file from the cabinet.?

?Sure thing, Doc,? the young man said, sitting down.

?And please don?t call me ?Doc,?? the psychologist said, rolling his eyes. ?My name is Dr. Whimsley, and you will refer to me as such.?

?Gotcha, Doc,? the young man said, plopping down upon the couch and stretching out. Dr. Whimsley groaned softly to himself, and began sifting through the papers. After a few seconds of searching, he procured a file and brought it out of the cabinet, then closing the cabinet door with a loud clang. He tossed the file gently onto his desk, and the papers jutted out slightly from the manila folder.

?Brosnahan, Chris,? Dr. Whimsley said. ?This is your file, correct??

?Yes, sir,? Chris said. ?Unless there is another Chris Brosnahan that you know of on campus.? Dr. Whimsley ignored this remark and sat down behind his desk, probing through the papers in the small folder.

?Why exactly are you here?? Dr. Whimsley asked. He obviously knew why the boy was here, his parents had scheduled this meeting, after all, but he wanted to hear it straight from the boy?s mouth.

?Well,? Chris started. ?My parents made me come here. They seem to think that I?m going crazy or something. It?s a bit weird; I think that they?re just being paranoid.?

?And why would they think that you are going crazy?? Dr. Whimsley asked.

?I dunno,? Chris said. ?I don?t do anything wrong, really, at least not compared to most guys like me. It?s not like I picked up a butcher knife and tried to murder my mom over a slice of roast beef, or anything.?

?Of course,? Dr. Whimsley said flatly. ?Are you a writer of some sort?? Dr. Whimsley knew that parents sometimes grew concerned over things that their children wrote.

?Kind of, sort of,? Chris said.

?Would you care to elaborate?? Dr. Whimsley asked.

?I write sometimes,? Chris said. ?But I only write when I dream. I don?t think I?m creative enough to come up with something on my own. But then I have these really cool dreams at night, and I just have to write them down. You know what I mean, right??

?Yes, yes,? Dr. Whimsley said, smiling to himself. Now they were getting somewhere. Dreams were Dr. Whimsley?s field of expertise. ?Please continue.?

?I don?t really write anything else,? Chris said. ?Just the dreams. They?re the only things that I can see clearly enough in my mind to write down well.?

?Do your parents read these writings?? Dr. Whimsley asked.

?Yeah, sometimes,? Chris said. ?I used to show the writings to them all the time, but not really anymore.?

?Why not?? Dr. Whimsley questioned.

?I don?t think that they liked them,? Chris said. ?They liked some of the early ones?but as they progressed, I think they got kind of freaked out by them, to be honest. There was one that they loved because it was funny. Another one kind of confused them, and the last one disturbed them a bit, I think.?

?Would you care to tell me about them?? Dr. Whimsley asked kindly.

?You wanna hear about them, Doc?? Chris asked.

?Yes,? Dr. Whimsley said through gritted teeth, barely suppressing the urge to strangle Chris. ?I would like to hear about your dreams very much.?

?Sure thing,? Chris said. ?I?ll try to remember it as best I can?I guess I?ll start with one of the early ones, then??

---

It was high noon on a hot, bright day. The town was empty; everyone was either in the saloon or shut up in their homes. The hot, harsh wind whipped against my tanned, unshaven face as I galloped into town on horseback. I gripped the reins tightly, bobbing up and down on the saddle to keep my balance. My horse rode into town, and I pulled back on the reins, telling it to slow down. The horse cruised to a halt, rearing up into the air as it stopped. I turned over to the side, and attempted to jump off gracefully, but the spur of my left boot got caught in the leather saddle and I fell face first onto the ground. As I pushed myself up off of the ground, spitting dust, sand and dirt out of my mouth, only one thought crossed my mind:

I knew I should?ve worn that bandana over my mouth today.

Before I knew it, I was being dragged off by the horse; apparently, my spur was still caught in the saddle. I hopped on one foot as the horse trotted around, and I smacked its behind repeatedly with my gloved fist.

?Damn you, horse!? I yelled. ?Slow down, my foot?s caught in the saddle!? I pulled and tugged on the spur, and pried it loose from the saddle. The resulting momentum sent me sprawling to the ground. I got up quickly and dusted myself off. My blue jeans and shirt were covered in dirt, but not so much that I couldn't smack it all off with my hands. I was glad, and lucky, that the guns in my side holsters had not gone off. Over the past couple of weeks, I?d had a few accidents concerning those. I was still wondering how the farmer was doing.

I ran my hand quickly through my thick, brown hair, and then removed it just as quickly when I realized that my hand was still covered in dust. I looked around and was relieved to see that nobody had seen my gaffe. I spotted the local saloon, and decided that a nice drink would do me nicely, especially since it was so hot. I walked over to the wooden walkway leading up to the saloon, and stepped onto it. As I sauntered over to the bar, I could hear my spurs digging into the wood with each step. [i]Chink chunk, chink chunk, chink chunk[/i].

And then I stopped. [i]Chink chunk, chink chunk, chink chunk[/i]? I knew that didn?t sound right. I looked down at my boots, and noticed that the spur of my right boot was missing. I grumbled to myself and backtracked a bit towards the entrance of the walkway. There, in the middle of the dirt and dust, I spotted my spur. As I made my way towards it, however, the wind kicked up a bit and blasted some dirt into my eyes.

?Son of a bitch!? I yelled, rubbing at my eyes. Stinging tears flowed from my eyes as they attempted to wash away all traces of the dirt that had flown into my face. I rubbed the last bit of dirt away from my eyes and squinted down at my spur. Actually, I glanced down at where I thought the spur was, as the spur was not there, anymore. A short gust of wind kicked up a small mass of dirt, and a tumbleweed rolled slowly across the pathway. I took a deep breath, calmed myself down, got on my hands and knees and began feeling around for my spur.

?Ow!? After a few moments of searching, I found my spur. I sucked tenderly on my index finger, which had been poked by the spur?s razor-like points, and then I spit it out after I realized that it had been rummaging through the dirt for the past five minutes. I took my spur and twisted it back onto my boot, good as new, if a bit dirty. I stood up and wiped the sweat from my brow. Just about everything that could have gone wrong, did go wrong, and it was more than a bit annoying.

I walked back up to the walkway, and entered the saloon through the swinging doors. I walked forward a bit, and one of the doors smacked against me. I stopped, and glared at it for a moment, before gazing around the room. The saloon was filled to the brim with people. There were several people at the front gulping down drinks and chatting with the bartender. The piano man was in the corner playing the same song that I hear in every single saloon in the world. Would it kill them to get different music? No, it wouldn?t.

I walked forward slowly, confidently?but nobody was paying attention to me. They were still chatting away, playing poker, smashing each other with chairs or whatever the hell it was that people did in the Old West. I cleared my throat loudly in an attempt to gain their attention. It didn?t work.

?Hey!? I yelled. ?I?m a mysterious stranger and I?ve just walked into your stupid saloon, pay attention to me!? But nobody paid attention to me. ?You idiots, your saloon is shoddily put together, your patronage is poor, at best, and your father smells of elderberries!? Still, nobody paid attention to me. I was starting to get a bit annoyed. I snatched a bottle of some drink that a person was drinking, and I drank it down in one gulp. It wasn?t bad, but it wasn?t good, either. It was sort of meh.

?Where did my drink go?? the man whose drink I stole asked. I smashed the bottle over his head, and stormed up to the front, where there was still one stool available. I plopped down on the seat, and rested my elbows on the table.

?What?ll it be?? the bartender asked me, cleaning a few glasses with a dirty rag.

?I don?t know,? I said. ?Just give me a shot of something?whiskey, I guess.? The bartender?s handlebar mustache twitched slightly, and he fixed up my drink. He set down the shot glass in front of me, and I snatched it and gulped it down.

?Slow down,? the bartender said. ?You have to make that stuff last.?

?I?ll drink it however the hell I want,? I growled.

?Hey, don?t throw a fit or anything,? the bartender said. ?If you start making trouble, I?ll throw you out onto the streets.?

?Fine,? I said. ?Whatever, I?m not interested in making trouble.?

?Heh,? the bartender laughed. ?You passing through town or somethin?? I ain?t seen you here before.?

?Yeah, I?m just passing through,? I said. ?I try looking for adventure, you know a bad guy to capture, but I never find anything. I guess I?m just not cut out for that sort of thing.?

?Most people aren?t,? the bartender said, still cleaning his glass. ?But at least you?re trying.?

?I suppose,? I replied. ?I?ve never even seen an evil villain, though, so how hard am I really trying??

?Believe me,? the bartender said. ?Evil villains are bad news. You meet one of them, and you?ll be wishing you never saw one of them before.?

?Eh,? I said. ?You know, your glass would be a lot cleaner if you washed it with a clean rag.?

?You don?t tell me how to do my job, and I don?t tell you how to do yours,? the bartender replied sternly. I shrugged and leaned my head against the table.

?Stop moping around,? the person sitting next to me said. ?It?s unbecoming.?

?Eh?? I said, looking up. There was a person sitting next to me dressed exactly like I was, with the same poncho and everything, but he looked different, somehow. He was covering his face with a ten-gallon hat, for one. His skin was a lot smoother and cleaner looking than mine, for another. ?How do you keep your skin so clean and smooth looking in this town??

?Bathing helps,? the person said. ?Having naturally smooth skin helps, too, I guess.?

?Heh,? I said. ?Smooth skin, huh? That?s kind of rare in guys.?

?What the hell are you talking about?? the person asked. ?I?m not a--?

?What?s your name?? I asked.

?My name is Jessica,? the guy said.

?Jesse Ka?? I replied. ?That?s an odd name.?

?Please stop talking to me,? Jesse said. ?Just leave me alone.?

?Hey, I was just trying to make some conversation,? I said. ?You know, talk a little, discuss.?

??are you hitting on me?? Jesse questioned.

?Whoa, whoa, whoa!? I yelled, throwing my arms into the air. ?I don?t swing that way, buddy!?

?You?re such an idiot,? Jesse said. ?Just like half of the wannabe-heroes around here.?

?What are you talking about?? I asked.

?Nothing,? Jesse said. He kept his mouth open to say something more, but there was a commotion at the front of the saloon that drew our attention. A large man had burst in through the front, throwing the swinging gates off of their hinges. The man was tall and rugged, a full beard covering his large, tanned face. He peered around the room with wild, brown eyes and stepped forward menacingly. The little bit of light that was shining in through the door and windows made him look eerily shadow-like. I?m positive that all of the black that he was wearing had something to do with that, too.

?Who?s that?? I asked the bartender.

?That?s Black Bart IV,? the bartender answered. ?The rootinest, tootinest, most villainous cowboy on his side of the family tree.?

?Villainous, eh?? I asked, lost in thought.

?Yeah, villainous,? the bartender answered. ?And if you know what?s good fer ya, you won?t mess with him.? His words did nothing to convince me, however. Visions of gold and a harem of women worshipping me were dancing through my mind. If I could somehow fell Black Bart IV, then I?d be the most famous cowboy this side of the?er?wherever the hell I was.

?I?ll do it!? I said to myself. ?I just need a nice crowd to back me up!? I looked around the saloon. All who remained were me, the bartender, Jesse, Black Bart IV, and the piano player.

?I hate that damn song!? Black Bart IV bellowed suddenly. He took out his massive rifle, and shot the piano. The piano player stood up slowly, stared wide-eyed at Black Bart IV, and left the saloon without saying a word.

?You?d best get out of here right now,? the bartender whispered. I stood up and walked right in front of Black Bart IV. ?Hey, you fool, didn?t you listen to me at all?!?

?Hey, Bart,? I said, poking at his chest. ?I?ve got a bone to pick with you.?

?Who the hell are you, midget?? Black Bart IV growled.

?My name isn?t important,? I said. ?At least, it?s not important until after I kill you. I suppose that the townspeople will have to know my name so that they can cheer it endlessly.?

?Is that so?? Black Bart IV asked.

?Yeah,? I said. ?Yeah, it is.?

?Then let?s step outside,? Black Bart IV sneered, before turning and lumbering outside. I followed him outside excitedly, the swinging door hitting my backside as it had when I entered the saloon. I glared down at it for a second. It took a moment for my mind to register that the doors had been knocked off of their hinges earlier. However, this train of thought was hurting my brain, and I shrugged my shoulders and walked out onto the dusty street. Even though I had not been in the saloon for very long, the sun was starting to set. The sun?s rays cast a dark orange glow upon the town, setting a somewhat surreal look to our showdown.

?I?m ready when you are, Bart,? I said. My arms hung loosely at my sides, and my hands twitched near my gun holsters, ready to draw at a moment?s notice. As I gazed into Black Bart?s steely eyes, a bead of sweat trickled down the side of my head and onto the ground.

?You?re nervous,? Black Bart IV said, laughing. ?I knew you were all talk.? I closed my eyes, brought out my guns and got ready to squeeze the trigger. A shot rang out through the air, and I heard a loud thump. I opened my eyes slowly, my teeth chattering, and gasped sharply. Black Bart IV?s body was lying on the ground, blood pouring slowly from the side of his head. I looked around frantically, trying to figure out just what had happened.

?He wasn?t very tough to kill,? a voice said. ?I don?t see what all of the fuss was about.? I looked over to the side, and saw Jesse emerge from the saloon. He blew some smoke from his gun, and set it back into its holster. The spurs on his boots clanged loudly against the wood of the walkway, and then kicked up some sand as he walked out onto the dusty street.

?Jesse?? I asked. ?You killed Black Bart IV?? Jesse glared at me.

?My name isn?t Jesse,? he said. ?It?s Jessica!? At that moment, a large gust of wind blew through the town. The ten-gallon hat that Jessica was wearing got caught in the wind, and flew away, revealing the face of a pretty young girl. An old man ambled out from a building near Jessica. He walked but a few steps before the hat flew into his face. Jessica stood glowering at me, her long brown hair blowing softly to the right. The soft orange glow of the setting sun framed her beautifully, making her appear larger than life.

?Whoa,? I breathed. ?You?re hot!?

?How did a brain dead loser like you ever hope to become a hero?? Jessica asked, raising an eyebrow at me.

?Well,? I said. ?I figured I?d kill Black Bart IV somehow, and everything would take care of itself after that.?

?I see,? Jessica smirked. ?And now that I?ve killed Black Bart IV, just what are you going to do??

?Um,? I stammered. ?I guess I?ll be heading off now?unless you want to come with me, or something.?

?No,? she said. ?I?m not going anywhere.?

?Okay then,? I replied. ?I?ll leave now. It was nice meeting you, Jesse?er?Jessica. Sorry about that.?

?You?re not going anywhere, either,? Jessica said.

??why not?? I asked.

?Killing Black Bart was painfully boring,? Jessica said. ?I need a little more fun before I head out of town.?

?Oh, I see,? I said. ?I?m sure there?s some sort of town fair near here. The animal showcases and pie eating contests are always fun.?

?That?s not the sort of fun I had in mind,? Jessica said, a curious glint in her eye. ?You wanted a showdown, didn?t you? Well, you?re going to get one right now. Except you?re not going to be fighting Black Bart IV, you?re going to be fighting me.?

?Er,? I said. ?Aren?t there more productive ways that we could be having fun together??

?No,? Jessica replied flatly. ?Get ready for a shootout, and hope that you make it out with your life intact.? She took off her poncho and tossed it aside, revealing the two guns stuck in the holsters hanging loosely on a leather belt wrapped around her waist. Her arms dropped down to her sides, perfectly still, except for her fingers, which wiggled in short, excited bursts of movement.

I dropped my arms to my sides, and attempted to imitate her. My arms twitched nervously, and my fingers moved up and down in exaggerated loops. Though the sun was still setting, its rays hit my face straight on. Sweat trickled slowly down my face, falling onto the dusty ground, falling into my eyes. After a moment or two, I raised my arm up to my head to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I heard a loud bang, and then felt something pass by the right side of my face quickly. My right cheek burned and stung painfully, and I felt something drip slowly down the side of my face. I felt my cheek up with my right hand. Blood was flowing slightly from a very fine cut on my face.

?Christ,? I whispered. ?She could?ve killed me.?

?Maybe you?ll pay better attention next time,? Jessica said, twirling her gun with a flourish before packing it back into its holster. ?You?re lucky that I at least have some semblance of honor.? She looked over at Black Bart?s fallen body. ?Your friend over there would likely have killed you on the spot.?

?I guess I should thank you, then,? I replied. Jessica kept silent, her hands were lowered back into the position they were in before she shot at my face. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and mimicked her. The wind had died down slowly, but it was still decently strong. A small gust kicked up a cloud of dirt around my feet. A big, round tumbleweed rolled slowly across the street. In my head, I could hear some music playing, music that at once felt familiar, yet I could not place where I had heard it from. I couldn?t shake the feeling that it would be utterly appropriate for this situation, however.



And then came the stare down. We were locked onto each other, our bodies as still as statues, our spirits bunched up and ready to fight. I had a look of pure intensity on my face. I tried to put on the most intimidating look that I could muster.

?Hey,? Jessica called out. ?My eyes are up here, idiot.?

?Oh,? I muttered. ?Uh, sorry.? I moved my gaze up to her eyes and locked on to them. Though it was hot, my teeth were chattering slowly. My intimidating stare was faltering, as she gave me a steely-eyed gaze in return. She was completely still, and yet still appeared bunched up, wound and coiled like a snake, ready to uncoil and strike at a moment?s notice.

Jessica threw a quick wink in my direction. She was toying with my mind. This was the moment of truth, the moment where my manhood would be tested. Would I live or die? The ball was in my hands, but it would?ve been nicer had I known what kind of ball it actually was. A baseball, or a football, perhaps? All these thoughts of balls troubled me. I focused back on Jessica, fearful that she would shoot me again.

?Draw!? she yelled suddenly, her hands plunging into her holsters and pulling out her guns. I instinctively leapt to the side and rolled onto the ground shoulder-first and ran off for cover. I could hear a couple of bullets whiz by behind me, but I kept on running. I ran over towards a barrel that was by a building. I dove headfirst towards the barrel, and rolled behind it, taking as much cover as I could. More bullets darted above my head, and cracked against the wooden columns, splintering off pieces of wood onto me.

I leaned backwards against the barrel. I was breathing heavily, my heart was pounding, and my blood was racing. Before this, I hadn?t known what it was like to run purely on adrenaline, but I was sure that this is what it felt like. I looked down at the guns hanging loosely on my belt. I had a distinct feeling that I would not be needing them very much at this point. This wasn?t a game of shoot and kill, this was a game of survival.

My mouth was very dry, and my lips were chapped. I licked them a couple of times, but they dried up very quickly. I was sweating a bit, but I was nearly dehydrated. I coughed a very dry cough, and then I heard a loud bang. Water surged onto my head, washing the sweat off of my face. I took a few quick sips to re-hydrate myself. After a few moments, the flow of water halted. I rubbed my hair curiously; it was now matted flat against my head. I looked up, and saw a clean bullet hole in the barrel, slightly over the top of my head.

?You can?t hide there forever,? Jessica yelled out. ?Unless you want me to shoot you out of there, I?d suggest that you move!? I didn?t have to be told twice. I popped up quickly, and dove behind the wooden column. Two more shots rang out over my head, and one of them hit a window pane, shattering away large shards of glass. I froze for a second, and then I forced myself to get up and move. I ran on the wooden path, ducking and darting between the wooden columns for cover. Bullets seemed to spray from all directions as I twisted and turned to evade them. Little splinters of wood jumped out at me, dislodged from the walls when the bullets exploded into them.

I soon approached the end of the pathway. There was a small railing separating the path that I was on from another path. I ran as fast as my tired legs could carry me, and I bounded over the railing. Looking ahead quickly, I spotted an open window. If I could make it in time, I would be able to jump inside of the house and get some nice protection from Jessica?s assault. I sprinted over to the open window, my muscles throbbing with soreness, but I was cut off before I could leap inside. There was an old man standing at the window, staring out from the inside of the house.

?This is my home!? the old man shouted. ?Go away!?

?You don?t understand!? I said. ?I have to get in!? Instead of answering me, the old man reared back and punched me in the nose. I cried out in pain, holding my hands up to my nose, and I stumbled backwards. I ran into another railing and tumbled out onto the street. As soon as I realized where I was, my arms and legs shot out everywhere, desperate to get some balance and run off and hide. However, I only succeeded in making it to the middle of the lonely, dusty street.

I froze in a panic. My eyes darted everywhere, heavy paranoia setting in. Everywhere I looked and listened, I could hear something happening. There was the sound of a twig snapping in the corner. I could see a flash of movement on my right side. Straight ahead, I thought I spotted a faint shadow, distorted by the setting sun. My mind was everywhere at once, not focusing on one thing, but faintly recognizing many things. I didn?t know what was what anymore.

And I couldn?t hear her sneaking up on me. At the last second, I heard her spurs digging through the sand, but it was too late. As I turned around, the barrel of her gun was pointed directly at my forehead. My eyes went wide for a second, and then I did the only thing that popped in my mind at the moment: I got onto my knees and pleaded for mercy.

?Please don?t kill me!? I shouted, my eyes clenched tightly shut. ?I?m too young to die! I have so much to live for! I don?t know what any of it is yet, but I?m sure that I have a lot to live for!? My head was bowed slightly, and my hands were clasped together securely. I tried to look amazingly pathetic, which, now that I think about it, wasn?t really much of a stretch for me.

?Get up,? Jessica said. ?I?m not going to kill you.?

?Oh please, God, I?ll never do a bad thing again if I live through this, I swear!? I shouted. ?Wait, what did you say??

?I?m not going to kill you,? Jessica stated. ?Now get up, you?re annoying me.?

?I can?t believe that it actually worked!? I said, bounding to my feet.

?Your stupid charade didn?t work at all,? Jessica smirked. ?I wasn?t going to kill you in the first place.?

?You weren?t?? I asked.

?Of course not,? Jessica said. ?I just wanted to have a little fun with you, that?s all. I don?t kill anyone unless they have it coming to them.?

?Just wanted to have a little fun?!? I asked. ?What kind of sick, sadistic freak gets their jollies from chasing around someone scared half-to-death with a gun?!? Jessica frowned at me, and I shut up. ?Sorry, it won?t happen again.?

?Don?t worry about it,? Jessica replied. ?I?ll let it go.?

?So, what now?? I asked.

?I?m finished here,? Jessica said. ?I?m going to head off now. I have other places to go.?

?Well,? I said. ?Maybe I?ll see you around sometime.?

?Maybe you will,? Jessica said. ?It?s a small world, after all. Just try to be less of an idiot the next time I see you, okay?? A horse approached Jessica, carrying her hat. She took it, put it onto her head, and jumped onto the horse?s saddle. ?So long, Cowboy.?

?Yeah,? I said. ?So long to you, too.? Jessica whipped on the reins, and the horse galloped off quickly towards the setting sun. I wiped my forehead with my sleeve, and breathed a sigh of relief. After what had went on the past?however long I?d just been there, I was lucky to be alive. But I couldn?t help but think that there was something wrong, something not quite right. And then it hit me.

?Hey!? I shouted off into the distance, my hands cupped around my mouth. ?You stole my horse!?

---

Comments, critique, etc. are all appreciated. The tone of this first part was meant to be humorous, but don't expect the next two parts to reflect that. Well, the second part might, depending on the style I choose to write it in, but third part will definitely not be that funny. But that's by design, of course.

[KarmaOfChaos]

[color=deeppink][size=1]Nice play on words - Dr. Whimsley (whimisical). I liked the description of the neurotic psychologist. You always write stuck-up prick characters really well, and it was amusing the way he instantaneously regained composure once his patient entered the room.

As for the dream itself, I'm going with traditional logic here in assuming that it reveals things about Chris' personality, and his hopes and fears. He wants to be hero, but is overcome by fear, and various scenarios of what he feels to be "bad luck". He wants to be noticed but everyone ignores him.

Also, there's a dominant person in his life with ambigious gender issues.

You leave a lot open to interpretation, which is nice. It's hard to tell in places where you're just writing something for the sake of being amusing, or if it has some symbolic or metahporic, but regardless, I think Chris is going to give Dr. Whimsley a lot more trouble than he's planning on.

I'm eager to see where this one goes. Keep writing. ^.^

-Karma[/size][/color]

[Lady Asphyxia]

[font=Verdana][size=1]Welp, I have to be honest. When I read the first paragraph, where you spoke about "children", I immediately thought perhaps you were talking about an adult with a Peter Pan complex, or something.[/size][/font]

[font=Verdana][size=1]But this is [i]so much better.[/i][/size][/font]

[font=Verdana][size=1]My absolute [i]favourite[/i] part was this:[/size][/font]

[QUOTE]
?Are you a writer of some sort?? Dr. Whimsley knew that parents sometimes grew concerned over things that their children wrote.

[/QUOTE]
[font=Verdana][size=1]I thought that was really good, and very true, too.[/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1][/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1]The tone of the first part was humerous, and you did a very good job of it, too. The mention of the spurs were fantastic, and the way you play on the cliches of the westerns is great, too. [/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1][/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1]And, if I need to criminally misinterpret the story in order to find out the meanings, I will, you understand? And you don't know [i]what[/i] I can pull out of my hat. :p [/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1][/size][/font]
[font=Verdana][size=1]Fantastic piece. Please post again, soon. [/size][/font]

[Shinmaru]

Hehe, well, mostly I just put the 'criminally misinterpret' bit up there just to be a bit of an ass. I don't think I've ever seen anyone misinterpret any short stories that I've written, or anything. If they did, I'd jump in and set them straight lol. Usually, I prefer to let people form their own ideas about what I write. I'm interested to see what you can pull out of your hat ^_~

As long as you aren't making some vague connection with Nazi zombie goth rockers, or something equally ridiculous, then I think that we can deal :p

Anyway, I just needed a bit more encouragement to light a fire under me and continue the story. I've been working on my [i]hero[/i] post lately, so obviously this has been put on hiatus a bit. I'm not finished with the ol' [i]hero[/i] post quite yet, but I feel comfortable enough with it to put it off for now until I either finish this or until Zidargh finishes his post.

So, yeah, I know where I want to go with the second part, and hopefully I'll be able to put it up soon. I'll either edit it into this post, or make a new post for it, depending on if someone posts after me. *wink* I'd say a good timetable for when I put it up be sometime this week...maybe in the Monday-Thursday range. But, who knows, I might end up blazing through it at superhuman speed, or I might end up going as slow as a tortoise with it. My guesses are usually wrong, at any rate. lol

[Mimmsicle]

[FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=Sienna]Can anyone say Monty Python? You'd so fit in to write episodes for them, lol.

As everyone has said (here and elsewhere) this is quite humorous, sometimes in a creepy bizarre way that makes you wonder if you really should be laughing :p The way you poke fun at stereotypes and such are welcome comic relief. Chichés can be irksome to find in a story but you pull them off well with your laid back arrogance (lacking a better word, so it's meant in a positive way) *claps*

Knowing how some of your other stories have turned out, this one could go any way imaginable and therefore I won't be making any kind of interpretations yet. The fact that you're hinting that the future parts won't be in quite the same vein as this one also makes me hold back on anything this part might've stirred. I'll just say that you rock and feed us more ^_^[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT]

[Gavin]

[SIZE=1]Interesting, most interesting.

That was a truly excellent little piece of fiction Mike, I agree with Mimmi, you should definitely speak to Eric Idle or John Cleese if you get the chance. I found to be immensely well written as well as entertaining, although I did see the "he was a woman" bit coming. Adding the extra layer that it was in fact someone's dream does add a surreal nature to it, although that doesn't affect the story in any way. Honestly I'm just looking forward to getting to read the rest of the stories to come, knowing your imagination and writing skills Mike they'll be a joy to read.[/SIZE]

[Shinmaru]

Ah, finally finished. I had a fiasco with my computer a while back, so all of the work I'd done on this part up to that point got erased :( I think it was a blessing in disguise, though, because this rendition of the second part came out a [i]lot[/i] better than my first crack at it, I think.

This ended up a bit humorous, as well, but I don't think that it's as outrageous as the first part lol. Or maybe it is, in its own way. I'm not really good at seeing these things. Of the three parts, this was the one that was the haziest in my mind, but as I went along, things came out well, and I think that I was able to do a good job with it. Hopefully, everyone thinks so, as well.

Comments, critique, and whatnot are all welcome.

---

"That was a very interesting dream," Dr. Whimsley noted, scribbling furtively onto a notepad in his lap.

"Do you really think so?" Chris asked. He leaned back onto the chair a bit more, shifting his weight so that he could get a bit more comfortable in his seat.

"Yes, I do," Dr. Whimsley answered. "I think that your dream will give me tremendous insight into your psyche." Dr. Whimsley shifted through a few papers on his desk. He was searching for a few notes that he had taken that contained the dream analyzations of a previous patient.

"Wow," Chris said, with a low whistle. "Can it really do that?"

"Indeed it can," Dr. Whimsley replied, suppressing the urge to grin from ear to ear. He rather enjoyed the awe and wonder that Chris was lavishing upon him.

"That's pretty neat," Chris said. "Where can you learn about that kind of stuff?"

"Oh, certain places," Dr. Whimsley shrugged. "I studied psychology for years in college and in graduate school. It's a fairly demanding field of study, but very interesting at the same time." He found the notes that he needed under a pile of papers on his desk.

"Cool," Chris said. "So, what does my dream mean, anyway?"

"Well," Dr. Whimsley said. "Your dream is a very simple one to decipher, as most that I run into are. First, let us analyze the central figure in your dream, the cowboy. Would you agree that your dream is centered around the cowboy?" Dr. Whimsley scribbled a few more notes onto his papers.

"Well, yeah," Chris said. "He's in most of it, after all."

"Yes," Dr. Whimsley said. "Your cowboy differs from most cowboys, however; he was very, ah, inept, shall we say?"

"Sure," Chris replied. "I'd agree with that. He [i]was[/i] kind of a dork."

"Quite," Dr. Whimsley said, the right corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "Normally, the cowboy is seen as a very tough, rugged figure. He is the very essence of masculinity. Your cowboy was nothing like this - I believe that he is an extension of your own insecurities."

"How do you figure that?" Chris asked.

"And the woman in your dream," Dr. Whimsley continued. "Perhaps she is a manifestation of a woman that you have feelings for. Is there anyone that have a, er, crush on at the moment?" Dr. Whimsley was just about ready to pack his notes back into the pile where he had found them.

"Um," Chris said. "No, not really. Not at the moment."

"Are you sure about that?" Dr. Whimsley asked, momentarily caught off guard, his hands frozen in mid-air, still clutching his notes.

"Positive," Chris replied.

"That doesn't make much sense," Dr. Whimsley said.

"Why not?" Chris asked. Dr. Whimsley mused on this for a moment.

"Is there something that you are hiding from me?" Dr. Whimsley asked.

"No," Chris said. "I've got nothing to hide, at least I don't think that I do."

"Well," Dr. Whimsley said. "Is there anything else that you would like to tell me?"

"Hm," Chris said. "I think that cowboys are silly." He nodded.

"Pardon?" Dr. Whimsley asked.

"I think that cowboys are silly," Chris repeated with another nod.

"I heard you the first time," Dr. Whimsley said. "Why is that?"

"Why do I think that cowboys are silly, or why did you hear me the first time?" Chris asked.

"Don't play stupid with me!" Dr. Whimsley yelled. He was about to bang his fist on his desk, and his face was very red. He took a deep, calming breath and leaned back into his chair. "I apologize for that, Chris."

"No problem, Doc," Chris smiled. That smile annoyed Dr. Whimsley. He thought that Chris was either being very stupid, very smug, or a combination of the both. There was definitely something that the boy was hiding from him.

"I meant the former," Dr. Whimsley said, frowning. "Why do you think that cowboys are silly?"

"I don't know," Chris said. "They're just like nobody I've ever seen in my life. They seem a bit too concerned about being manly, and other things like that. I guess you were right earlier, I have my own little insecurities and stuff; everyone else does, too, because they act a lot like me. I can't imagine that if a cowboy really existed here today that he'd be very much different."

"Interesting," Dr. Whimsley said. "And what, pray tell, is your theory on the woman in your dream? If she is not someone that you are very fond of, who is she?"

"You got me," Chris said. "Girls in the cowboy movies are kind of silly, too, like they can't protect themselves or anything. I can't imagine that I saw anything like that on TV."

"Fair enough," Dr. Whimsley said, eager to move on. "How about we discuss your second dream, Chris?"

"Sure thing, Doc," Chris said. Dr. Whimsley scowled.

---

The morning was very cold. Chris tossed and turned in his bed, smothering himself in his covers. He shivered slightly. His arms and legs were covered in goosebumps. He turned over onto mhis right side, and shut his eyes tightly, trying to drift off into sleep. A shrill noise sounded off in front of him, and he sat up quickly. He looked around frantically, trying to determine the direction that the noise was coming from. He looked down to his right side. He squinted down at the alarm clock, which was making all of the noise.

"Piece of shit," Chris muttered to himself. He clenched his fist, and brought it crashing down upon the alarm clock. It did not bend even a little bit, and he received a very sore fist, for his troubles.

"Please enter the passcode," a smooth, feminine voice said.

"What?" Chris replied, eyebrows raised.

"Please enter the passcode." The voice was coming from the alarm clock.

"Passcode?" Chris asked. "Passcode for [i]what[/i]?"

"Please enter the passcode."

"Damn machine," Chris growled. He looked down at the alarm clock, trying to block the noise out of his ears. There were nine buttons on top of the alarm clock. He pressed random buttons in an attempt to get the correct passcode.

"Incorrect passcode," the voice said. "Please enter the passcode."

"God damn it!" Chris shouted. "Why the hell does an alarm clock need a passcode?!"

"Please enter the passcode."

Chris screamed loudly, pounding his fists into his pillows. He was close to breaking down and weeping. He heard the door open and close. A man walked into the room. He was tall and well-built, with short black hair, and baby blue eyes. He strolled over to the alarm clock, and punched in four numbers: 1077. The alarm turned off.

"Thank you for entering the passcode."

"God," Chris said. "[i]Finally[/i]!"

"Why didn't you enter the passcode?" the man asked.

"I didn't know the stupid passcode," Chris replied.

"Eh?" he asked. "You've lived here for a while now, you should know the passcode."

"Hm?" Chris asked. "Wait, who are you, anyway?" Chris stared at the stranger in confusion.

"Don't be a kidder, Chris," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I'm Jason, your roommate."

"Oh yeah," Chris said. "Uh, sorry about that, early mornings, you know?"

"Yeah," Jason replied. "I know what those are like." Chris threw his covers off of himself.

"Why the hell do alarm clocks need passcodes, anyway?" Chris asked.

"Duh," Jason said. "Hackers. Just about everything needs to be on high security these days. Your personal information is at risk at all times."

"From someone hacking into my [i]alarm clock[/i]?" Chris asked.

"You never know," Jason replied. "I'm going to go make some breakfast. You hungry?"

"Uh, yeah," Chris said. "Yeah, I'm hungry." Chris slid out of his bed. He looked into a mirror standing across from his bed; he was dressed up and down in plain white pajamas. He slipped a pair of slippers onto his cold feet and walked into the kitchen, where Jason was preparing breakfast. Jason was standing in front of a large machine, with lots of buttons, levers, dials, and other assorted things. He pressed several of the buttons in rapid succession, pulled a few levers, turned some dials, and the machine whirred into life, expelling steam from its metallic pores.

Chris thought that the machine looked very unwieldy and confusing.

"So," Chris said. "That thing makes breakfast?"

"Of course it does," Jason replied. "What does it look like, some kind of Doomsday Machine, or something?" Chris didn't think that description was too far off, but decided to keep quiet. Jason shrugged and went about his business once again.

"You got anything to drink?" Chris asked, walking over to the refrigerator.

"Nope," Jason said. "Nothing but some old coffee mix, I'll have to go out and buy something to drink later on today. And why are you going through my icebox like that?"

"Eh?" Chris said, before yelping in surprise. Lined up in little rows on three different shelves in the icebox were racks adorned with test tubes. The test tubes were filled with liquids of different colors; red, blue, green, violet, pink, and so on. "What's all this?"

"Corrosive liquids," Jason said, with a slight shrug.

"[i]Corrosive liquids[/i]?!" Chris shouted. "Why the hell do you have corrosive liquids in an icebox in your house?!"

"Everyone has them," Jason said. "Why shouldn't we have them? As long as you don't abuse them, everyone should have the right to have them."

"Ugh," Chris said, not wanting to press the issue. "Never mind. Where's the coffee machine? And the coffee mix, at that."

"Coffee mix is over in the cabinet," Jason said. "You should be careful, though, it's really old stuff, not sure if it'll taste right."

"And the coffee maker?" Chris asked.

"It's a part of the big machine," Jason replied. "It's not too hard to find." Chris doubted that, but he walked up to the giant machine, nevertheless. The machine was sphere-shaped and silver colored, small openings scattered all along its surface. Chris poked and prodded at it for a few minutes before looking over at Jason.

"Jason," Chris said. "How the hell am I supposed to turn this thing on?"

"Well," Jason said. "First, you pull the lever on the top right, so that it's at a forty-five degree angle. Then you push to blue button on top, the green button on the side above the purple button, and the purple button in between the other purple button and the sort of off-white button, in that order. After that, you turn the dial on the very front to 64, then to 21, and lastly, to 37. You should be able to load up the coffee after you're done with that."

Chris looked over at the machine. He stared at it for about five minutes, while Jason was going about his business. There we so many, many buttons everywhere. Chris didn't know where to start. There were levers on all sides, and three dials near the bottom.

"God damn technology!" Chris yelled. "I'm going out for a while, whoever you are, I'll be back in a while."

"Okay," Jason said. "You wanna borrow my car?" Chris considered this for a moment.

"No thanks," Chris replied. "Who knows what I would have to do to start the stupid thing up? I'm just gonna change my clothes and take a walk."

"Suit yourself," Jason shrugged. Chris walked back into the bedroom he'd been and stood outside the closet. Before he reached over to open it, however, he yelled over to Jason.

"I don't have to push a bunch of crazy buttons to open this stupid thing, do I?" Chris asked.

"Don't be silly," Jason replied. "You just have to pull it open!"

"Of course," Chris muttered, pulling the closet open. He took out a plain white shirt, a pair of blue jeans, a pair of socks and a pair of black sneakers, and put them on. He looked into the mirror, decided that he did not need to comb his hair, and walked back into the kitchen. Jason nodded over to him, and went back to cooking. Chris made no reply, opened the door, and left the apartment.

"God," Chris said. "I'm surprised I was able to open the door without it exploding in my face." Chris walked quickly through the hall and reached the elevator. He pushed a button, and waited for the elevator to arrive. While he was waiting, he was joined by two other people. The elevator opened up, and the trio walked inside, the elevator doors closing behind them.

"First floor, please," one of the people, an old man, said.

"Sure," Chris said, looking over at the elevator buttons. There were a lot of them, and they were labelled in an incomprehensible language that Chris had never seen in his life. Either that, or French. His right index finger floated over the buttons for a few seconds, before he pressed the one on the absolute bottom left.

"Young man," the other person, an old lady, said. "I believe we wanted to go to the [i]first[/i] floor."

"Why don't you push the button if you're so smart?" Chris spat. The old lady hobbled over to the button area, and pushed the first floor button. The elevator descended down to the first floor in the space of a few seconds. The door opened, and the old couple walked slowly out of the elevator, looking at Chris in dismay all the while. Chris rolled his eyes, sighed, and stepped out of the elevator, himself.

"Ugh," Chris said. "This sucks. I don't know where I am, I'm living with some guy I don't know, I don't even know what [i]time[/i] I'm in. And I can't even get a damn cup of coffee. This blows. There had better be a coffee shop around here." Chris looked across the street. Conveniently enough, there was a coffee shop there. Chris waited until the traffic slowed down, and he crossed the street quickly.

Chris was fading slightly when he walked into the coffee shop. His bloodshot eyes were half-closed, his muscles were feeling extremely listless, and he wished he could just curl up in the corner and fall asleep. But he couldn't, he knew that someone would wake him back up eventually, and then he'd be back to square one. No, he needed the intense jolt of caffeine that only a strong dose of deliciously addictive coffee could provide.

Chris actually thought that the taste of coffee was disgusting. It didn't really matter, however, since he was addicted to the stuff.

There was a long line of people waiting to get some coffee. [i]Apparently technology hasn't absolved the Earth of long lines[/i], Chris thought ruefully. He didn't think that he'd have the energy to stand up in a long line for very long. The smell of coffee that wafted through the building told Chris differently. The smell wrapped around him, pervaded his entire being, invigorated him. He now had enough energy to stand in line so that he could buy the drink he needed to get enough energy to make it through the day.

It felt wonderful.

The line moved slowly. Chris didn't mind at first. He knew he would have his hands wrapped around a warm mug of coffee, eventually. It was only a matter of time.

"Next!" the man at the counter yelled. The person at the head of the line went up to the counter to order whatever it was that they wanted. Chris began humming to himself, to pass the time.

"Would you mind not humming?" the man in front of Chris said. "It's annoying." Chris frowned, and stopped humming.

The line moved again with the order of another person to approach the counter. Chris chuckled to himself; he found the whole thing a bit amusing for a moment. There were so many people in line that Chris saw, so many people of different races, creeds, backgrounds, religions, and anything else you were likely to think of. But they all had one thing in common: Coffee. They were all addicted to it, they all craved it, and they all got it, courtesy of the ill-tempered man at the counter.

"Next!" the man shouted. The line trudged slowly forward once again.

It was about a half hour later before Chris made it to the counter. The smell of the freshly brewed coffee was starting to lose its effect on him. He was once again feeling tired, bleary-eyed, and utterly lost. He was the next in line when he regained his focus. The person in the counter was paying their money, and they walked away from the counter with a token in their hand.

"Next!" the man at the counter shouted. Chris walked slowly towards the counter and stood to attention in front of the man. "Whaddya want?" the man asked.

"I'd like some coffee, please," Chris said.

"Well, la de da, your majesty," the man sneered. "How would you like your coffee?"

"I'd like it strong," Chris said. "I really, really need to wake up right now."

"Whatever," the man said. "That'll be $7.50." Chris dug into his pocket, and took out his wallet. He grabbed a $5, two $1's, fifty cents, and handed the money to the man behind the counter, who put the money in his cash register. He turned to a small computer on his left side, and typed in a series of complicated keystrokes. A small, golden token popped out of the side, and the man behind the counter caught it in his palm. He handed it over to Chris.

"Put the token in one of the machines over there," the man pointed over to a set of machines on the left side of the room. "The rest is easy."

"More machines?" Chris moaned. The man wiped his counter a bit before responding.

"The hell you talkin' about, kid?" the man asked.

"Never mind," Chris said, taking the token. He walked over to the machines that the man had pointed him to. They looked just like the one that Jason had in his apartment. Except, Chris reasoned, that these were probably only used to make coffee. Who knew what the hell else Jason could use [i]his[/i] machine for.

Chris decided that he didn't really want to think about it any further.

He stood in front of the machine. It still looked very daunting. He saw a slit on the machine, with a label that read "Insert Token Here" beside it. Chris inserted the token, and the machine whirred to life. Chris smiled.

"At least I was able to get that done," Chris said to himself. He assumed that the machine would automatically take over and make his coffee; he waited for a while. Nothing happened. Chris tapped his foot impatiently. People walked up to the machines beside him, and began getting their coffee. They pushed buttons, pulled levers, and turned dials just as Jason had done back at his apartment.

"Hurry it up!" someone shouted. Chris looked backwards. A small line had formed in back of him. Chris raised his hand to his face, and let his breath out in a low hiss.

"What's the matter?" another person asked. "Don't you know how to get coffee?" This comment roused a chorus of laughter. Chris turned around, laughed in mock sincerity, and looked back at the coffee machine.

"You piece of crap," Chris growled. "Why the hell do you have to be so damned hard to operate? Why can't you just [i]give[/i] me the damn coffee? It has to be hard, doesn't it? It has to be confusing, doesn't it? Why the hell can't I just [i]have[/i] it, and be done with it?!"

"Why don't you just quit your whining and get out of the line if you're not going to get some coffee?" yet another person asked. "Do us all a favor, and get out of here if you're too dumb to operate a simple coffee machine." Chris sighed and walked away from the machine, and out of the coffee shop. The people standing in line gave a little cheer. Chris slammed the door behind him.

"Fantastic," Chris said to himself. "Simply wonderful. I'm almost all asleep, I've got no coffee, I don't know where I am, and nobody gives a rat's ass about me. I guess maybe that narrows it down to a few cities in America where I could possibly be." Chris walked down the sidewalk with his hands in his jean pockets. The morning was very mild, not crisp enough to wake him up, but not warm enough to put him to sleep, either.

Chris found it very tough to walk down the street. The sidewalk was swamped with people, people who bumped into each other at every opportunity. Chris got to the end of the sidewalk, and leaned against a building for a few moments. His shoulders were very sore. He rubbed them gently with his hands. He stole a cursory glance over to the side, and saw an old man pushing the cart. The cart was bright yellow, and painted on it in black letters were the words "Coffee For Sale".

Chris rubbed his eyes. When his vision cleared, he could still see the old man pushing his cart along across the street. He looked both ways quickly, and jogged over to the car, as he didn't have enough energy left in him to break out into a run. A woman walked away from the cart as Chris arrived there, slightly out of breath.

"Please, sir," Chris breathed. "You gotta let me have some coffee!"

"Sorry, kid," the old man said. "I just sold out."

"What?!" Chris yelled. "You're kidding me!"

"Nope," the old man replied. "I'm not pulling your leg at all, I'm fresh outta coffee. You'll just have to find another guy selling some Joe." Chris scowled, and walked off. He couldn't believe his luck when, further down the block, he spotted another man pushing a similar cart down the road. He walked hurriedly up to him, hoping that he was not too late.

"Sorry," the man said, when Chris beseeched him. "Fresh out, I was just heading back to report in. I made a good haul today, though, I'll tell ya what."

Chris didn't care about this one bit, so he walked away before the old man could continue any further. Chris saw another person pushing a cart, this time by the coffee shop where Chris originally went to get some coffee.

By this time, Chris was almost completely sapped of energy. He limped comically over to the man pushing the cart, and had to lean onto the cart to keep his balance. He could barely speak, and his words came out in hurried gasps.

"Please...please..." Chris begged. "You...you gotta have some coffee...on you...don't you...?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the man said, the very words crushing the last of the spirit left in Chris. "No coffee left. I'm fresh out, the stuff's in large demand around here." Chris' knees buckled, and he slid down to the ground, barely keeping a weakened grasp on the cart handle. Soon, his arms and hands gave away, and he fell completely to the ground, and rolled over onto his front side.

"Why the hell do I even care about it?" Chris muttered to himself, his lips pressed against the dirty sidewalk. "What the hell's the point of it? If I'm so doped up on caffeine that I need it to live, why don't I just stop drinking the coffee? Why don't I just get rid of it for good?"

Chris tried to get up, failed. He tried to get up, tried to balance himself with his arms. They wobbled slightly, before he toppled back down to the ground.

"Who the hell am I kidding?" Chris said. "I need coffee! I need a steaming hot cup of coffee! I need the energy, I need the caffeine, I just need to WAKE UP!"

"Did you say that you needed some coffee, sir?" Chris looked up. There was a woman standing over him, a cup of coffee in her hands. She had shoulder-length red hair and bold, black glasses on her face, framing her elegant green eyes. She wore a plain, black t-shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans and non-descript black shoes. On a normal day, she would have looked very pretty.

On this day, Chris thought that she looked positively angelic.

"Um," Chris said. "Yeah, it's been a tough day. I just want a cup of coffee, and I haven't been able to find one anywhere."

"That's too bad," the woman said. "Need a helping hand?" She held her hand out for a moment. Chris stared at it for a moment, before grasping it. She helped him stand up while he balanced on his wobbly knees.

"Thanks," Chris said, finally balancing himself correctly.

"No problem," the woman replied. "Coffee?" Chris looked at her, eternally grateful. Their eyes met for a moment; for that fleeting moment, Chris fell in love with her, harder than he had ever fallen for anyone his life up to that point, or would ever fall for at any point thereafter. He had the coffee mug in his hands. He raised it slowly up to his mouth, and took a drink. The hot liquid slid down his throat, and warmed his entire body, gave him a boost of energy, though he was not completely awake.

It felt wonderful, and terrible, at the same time.

"God, that felt great," Chris sighed. The woman smirked at him. "Thanks a lot...hm, I don't know your name."

"I don't know your name, either," the woman replied. "You may as well be some bum I met on the street."

"Yeah," Chris said. "That sounds like a pretty fair description. This doesn't feel like home."

"Excuse me?" the woman asked.

"Never mind," Chris said. "Say, I'd feel guilty if I didn't pay you back for the coffee. Are you busy?"

"That depends," the woman said with a sly smile. "Where would you like to go?" Chris looked around.

"Anywhere but here," he said. "That would suit me just fine."

He took another sip of coffee and woke up.

[DeadSeraphim]

[COLOR=Indigo][SIZE=1][FONT=Arial]Dude, that was chilling. I don't doubt we'll have to password protect alarm clocks in the future. Though, kinda cheap describing modern day coffee machines instead of futuristic ones. ;P

Besides the prophetic glimpse of the future you have allowed us mere mortals, this was extremely well written and fun. I like the way you have with words, Shin-dude. Oh, and I would've commented when the first story was posted but my comp crashed and vlksndf.

I hate my PC. lol[/FONT][/SIZE][/COLOR]

[Retribution]

Whoa. That was awesome.

I like how you make the story seem interesting, like you want to keep reading. The alarm-clock thing was a little strange, but all of it was great, considering his dream was about not know what to do, being out of control, etc.

Good job, and keep writing.

[Shinmaru]

I'll just respond to the clock stuff right now lol. When I'm finished maybe I'll go into themes, ideas and whatnot, but for now I'll just address the clock stuff lol. Spoilered in case people don't want to read it, or don't care about it :p

[spoiler]As was pointed out by other people, when I wrote the first part I exploited a lot of Western cliches. That's mostly what I was going for here, except with Sci-Fi/future world cliches. With the alarm clock, I was poking fun at the cliche of technologically advanced machinery being confusing (as with the coffee machines, as well), and with even the simplest of machines being used to restrict privacy.

Why would they need a password protected alarm clock? To protect their privacy. I think that they very idea of that is extremely amusing. To think that your privacy would be under so much danger that you would need a password protected alarm clock. It's out there, and it's probably too outrageous to ever come into fruition, but it represents an idea, albeit a very paranoid idea lol. But, hey, it's a cliche, and it's begging to be made fun of.

Cliches can still be very useful to make points if you use them correctly (and hopefully I did :P).[/spoiler]

...man, it's tough to keep myself from launching into a full-on lecture about everything else XD

[Mitch]

Very good stuff, Shin. There were a few hiccups in your writing here and there, but it's nothing to worry about. I'm sure if you ever finalize this short story you'll proofread and all that jazz.

I'm wondering if you've even wrote the third part? I'd like to read it.

Above all, keep writing!

[lea]

Wow, Shin. I really like the way this is going. I'd comment more, but I am currently procrastinating, which...is bad.

I am excited to see what you're going to do next, with this peice. =D

[KarmaOfChaos]

[color=deeppink][size=1]I must say, I enjoyed this chapter/section/whatever far more than the first one. I just found it highly more amusing, and I loved how Dr. Whimsley got SHUT DOWN by Chris with the dream interpretation. XD

I also enjoy how you're developing Chris' character. You make him very loveable and approachable by the reader, but at the same time, there's something very removed about him, like he's almost too cheerful, and that is the exact thing which pisses Dr. W off.

I really want to see where this one goes. Post the rest soon, you lazy bum!

-Karma[/size][/color]

[Shinmaru]

I'm glad to see the renewed interest in the story!

Yeah, I'm sorry for being a lazy bum. School has been catching up with me, but I'm pretty much on Spring Break right now, so I have ample time to finish this off. I'd like to finish it and polish it up by the end of the weekend. :)

I like the second part a lot more than the first, too, Karmi. I think that the writing in the second part was a lot tighter, and that the overall idea that I had in my head came across a lot better in that part than in the first part. Hopefully the third part will be even better.

I'll edit it into this post when I finish it, or maybe I'll even make a new post if another person replies. Right now I'm figuring out where I want to go with the beginning and ending bits of the final part before I get into the heavy writing. I know exactly what I want to do with the dream bit, but I have to get there first. ;)

This chapter was really tough to write, and I still don't know if I have it completely right, but that's what you guys are for, eh? Anyone feel free to toss your opinion in here.

---

?What are you doing?? Chris asked. He sat up on the couch, bending forward slightly on his knees.

?I?m searching for something,? Dr. Whimsley replied. ?Be patient.? Dr. Whimsley?s backside protruded out from underneath the desk and dangled in the air while he scrounged through a few papers that were scattered on the floor. A low grumble escaped from Dr. Whimsley?s mouth, and he began to get out from underneath the desk. As he stood up, he banged his head hard on a small drawer. He let out a yelp of pain as he fell backwards against his chair. He moaned softly as he rubbed his head gingerly.

?Are you okay, Doc?? Chris asked.

?Yes, I?m okay!? Dr. Whimsley snapped. ?And don?t call me Doc!? Chris shrunk back into his seat, and Dr. Whimsley sighed. ?I?m sorry, Chris, I just can?t find what I?m looking for. It?s very frustrating.? Dr. Whimsley looked over at the top of his desk; papers were strewn all about the area. He scoured through the documents for a few moments, and finally procured the paper that he had been looking for the whole time. He scanned it quickly, while Chris swung his legs over to the side of the couch.

?Did you find what you were looking for?? Chris asked. Dr. Whimsley stared at the document for a few seconds longer before placing it back onto his desk.

?Er,? Dr. Whimsley replied, leaning back into his chair. ?Yes and no.?

?What do you mean?? Chris questioned.

?Well, there are some explanations here as to what coffee represents in dreams,? Dr. Whimsley said. ?But?none of them really apply to you.?

?Why not?? Chris asked.

?You?re not married, are you?? Dr. Whimsley asked, picking up the paper again.

?No, sir,? Chris replied.

?And you?re not a woman?? Dr. Whimsley asked.

?No, I?m not,? Chris said.

?Then none of these interpretations apply to you,? Dr. Whimsley stated.

?That sucks,? Chris said.

?Indeed,? Dr. Whimsley mused. He tossed the paper aside and sighed softly. Nothing was going the way that he had envisioned.

?So, what do we do now?? Chris asked.

?Let me think for a moment,? Dr. Whimsley replied. He let his breath out slowly in a low whistle. ?Tell me, Chris, what do you think of your dream??

?I don?t know,? Chris said, twiddling his thumbs. ?I?m not really sure what to think.?

?I?m sure that you must be thinking something,? Dr. Whimsley said gently. ?After all, it?s your dream. Who would know your dreams better than you??

?I don?t really know,? Chris said. ?I don?t drink coffee, so I don?t know why that was there. Coffee doesn?t smell good, and I don?t imagine that it tastes good, either, so I don?t drink it. And that alarm clock stuff was really confusing, too. I don?t have an alarm clock in my room. I usually wake up all on my own. I don?t like depending on something else to wake me up, it?s kind of uncomfortable.? Dr. Whimsley knew enough to see that Chris was trying to steer the conversation into another direction. Whether this was because Chris was trying to hide something, or he was genuinely confused by his dream, Dr. Whimsley did not know. He wasn?t interested in forcing information out of Chris.

?Okay, then,? Dr. Whimsley said, smiling gently. ?We won?t talk about the coffee if it?s something that you would rather not discuss. Perhaps there?s something else that you would feel more comfortable talking about at the moment?? Chris shifted around a bit on the couch. Dr. Whimsley leaned back in his seat. ?How about you tell me how things are at school right now? Or maybe the last movie you saw, or the last thing that you did with your friends??

?School?s going okay, I guess,? Chris said, brightening up a bit. ?I?m not having a hard time with my classes. Those are going along pretty easy right now. I don?t have very hard classes. I haven?t done anything with my friends for a while, though.?

?Oh?? Dr. Whimsley asked. ?Why not? Have you been busy with things??

?A little bit,? Chris replied. ?Schoolwork, chores, regular things. I had a little fight with a couple of friends recently, and we haven?t been speaking to each other very much lately. It?s nothing major, though, just something that happens, I guess. I haven?t worried about it that much.?

?I see,? Dr. Whimsley said. ?Are you sure about that? What was the argument about??

?It wasn?t anything big,? Chris said. ?Just a fight between friends. It?s nothing worth talking about, really.?

?Fair enough,? Dr. Whimsley said. ?How about we move on to something that you?ll be willing to talk about, then??

?Like what?? Chris asked.

?Like your last dream,? Dr. Whimsley said. ?I?m very interested in hearing about it, especially with how your previous dreams turned out.?

?Are you sure?? Chris asked. ?We haven?t really made that much progress with the dreams, I think. I mean, we can?t even figure out what the heck they mean!?

?We?ll ignore that for now,? Dr. Whimsley said impatiently. ?I don?t think that we can make any progress unless we have the whole story. This last dream could potentially shed a lot of light on certain matters. If you don?t mind, I?d like to listen to your account of your final dream.?

?Okay,? Chris said. ?If you really want to hear about it so much, I guess that I can tell you about it??

---

The rain pours down hard as I run towards the mansion on the hill ahead of me. I cover my head with my arms, which turns out to be a futile gesture. My head is soaked before I even get to the long string of stone steps leading up to the manor. I hurry up the steps as quickly and carefully as I possibly can. After a few seconds I make it to the mansion, and step underneath the massive awning that stretches out over the front patio. The rain continues to pour around me, smacking against the ground in a series of eerie splats. I shiver a bit, and try to shake some of the water off of my clothes.

I peer out onto the path where I had come from. There is no sign of any car that I can see. I walk up to the large front door of the mansion, grasp one of the bronze door knockers, and rap against the wooden frame lightly. A couple of minutes pass without anyone coming to the door.

?Hello?? I shout. ?Is anyone in there?? I step over to the window, and look inside. The window is filthy, caked with dust and grime, and the inside of the house seems to be pitch black. I go back to the front door and knock on it again. Still, nobody comes to the door. I figure that the door ([i]oh the door[/i]) is locked, but I also think that it wouldn?t hurt to try and see if that isn?t the case. It is very cold outside, and I just want a nice warm place to shack up for a while.

I twist the dirty doorknob that sticks out of the door, and push open the door with an ear-piercing creak. The dead, musty smell of old, broken furniture forces its way into my nose and burns my lungs as I step into the manor. I cough harshly for a few seconds before I regain my composure. I feel a gust of wind pass by me as I step into the mansion, and the door closes with a boom behind me. I jump slightly, turn around, and stare wide-eyed at the door. After a few seconds, I regain my wits, though my heart is still beating with a very quick pace.

The mansion is like any other spooky mansion that I see in horror movies. However, actually being in a real one is enough to send chills down my spine. The entire front room is cast in a shroud of darkness, tinted fully in black, though there is just enough light for me to make out hazy shapes. I walk further into the room, and the wooden floor of the manor squeaks loudly ([i]squeaking squeaking too much squeaking[/i]) with every step that I take. I stop in the middle of the room. A sharp breeze of wind flows through the room, spreading a chill-inducing whistle that is painful to my ears.

The room is full of odds and ends. Across from me I can barely make out a large mirror on top of a desk drawer. The mirror is clabbered with gunk, and a faint, though acrid, scent permeates from it. I feel something unpleasant rise in my gullet as I step forward to the small corner of the room where the mirror and desk drawer stand guard. Upon closer inspection I see that the drawer is littered with cobwebs, long abandoned by their landlords. I look up at the mirror again. My reflection is hazy. I can barely see it through all of the filth. I can only see bits and pieces of myself through the parts of the mirror that are not obscured. I can see an eye here, an arm there, and a bit of torso.

[i]the mirror is disturbing me so I want to leave but I can?t the door is closed and it won?t open again so I?m stuck here I want out but it?s raining outside the water is falling onto the ground splat splat splat[/i]

There are stairs in the middle of the room. I walk slowly up the stairs, which creak louder than the wooden panels on the floor. Each stair wobbles and groans as I walk upon it, and I tread lightly on them, because I am afraid that if I am not careful, one of the steps will break and I will fall into the stairs. I grab onto the stairwell and pull myself up the stairs. The stairwell is a dark mahogany, but is also coated with a viscous layer of grease. My hands recoil slightly, but I grab hold of the wooden shaft again. I am afraid of falling down.

I make it up to the second floor of the manor. I don?t look back. There is a dead end to the right of me, and a door leading to another room to the left of me. The door is calling out to me, but I don?t want to go to it. A soft hum fills my ears; it grows louder the closer I get to the door. My fingers are trembling. I want to see the source of the hum, but I don?t want to step through the door. It?s calling me, but I don?t want to go.

[i]I don?t want to go I don?t want to go I don?t want to go[/i]

I force myself to turn around. The humming slows down and eventually stops. I look back at the front door. It?s still closed. I can hear the rain outside, louder and more forceful than ever. It?s all that I can hear now. I raise my hand to my temple and rub it gently. I step backwards and bump into the wall behind me. I whirl around and come face to face with the window. I can see the rain falling ([i]falling[/i]), crashing ([i]crashing[/i]) against the window, pounding ([i]pounding[/i]) into the ground. I don?t want to go outside.

The humming calls out to me again. The noise is horrifying and pleasing all at once. I stroll indolently towards the door. I reach out to the doorknob with my right arm. My fingers are tingling lightly. Each finger stretches out in the air, dangling, desperate to open the door and confront whatever is inside. I?m afraid. I am also curious beyond all belief. I can imagine the two feelings squaring off inside of me, battling to the death. My curiosity is victorious. I walk closer to the door, the humming growing louder, stronger, the beat more infectious.

[i]beat beat beat I can feel the beat inside I can feel it coursing through my veins I can feel the rush the insane maddening rush I get from it I want more more more but I don?t know what will come of it what will come of it the rush is addicting but addictions are bad bad bad oh so bad I want more but I don?t want to pay the price too steep too steep too steep[/i]

I grasp the doorknob tightly. My face is caught in a tight wince. I relax a bit, thankful that nothing came of me touching the doorknob. The humming slows down, now nothing more than a soft, graceful tune fluttering about my ears. I turn the doorknob. The lock clicks in, and I pull the door open. I expect something to happen; perhaps a rush of wind will burst out from the room, or maybe I?ll be flooded in a grandiose display of white light. But there is nothing, only darkness. I raise my leg into the air, ready ([i]don?t[/i]) to ([i]do[/i]) step ([i]it[/i]) into ([i]please[/i]) the room.

I walk inside, and the door slams shut behind me, throwing me into complete darkness.

?Hello?? I call out. ?Please, is there anyone around here? Anyone?? My calls are in vain. I grope around the room, finding the walls after a minute or two of searching. The bricks are slimy and wet. I step back from the wall, and as I do so, I slip on a trail of slime left on the floor and I fall onto the ground. A sharp pain runs through my tailbone. I start to breathe a bit faster, my limbs shake, and my eyes dart around the room, though I cannot see anything except blackness. I feel around some more, desperate to come into contact with something ([i]anything[/i]) in the room that I can touch, smell, taste, and identify.

I stand up, and feel something dangling against my head. I grab it quickly, and accidentally pull down on it. A light bulb turns on, casting a dull screen of light around me. The light does not reveal very much about the room. I can see the dark, dirty ground that I am standing on, and can barely make out the walls on either side of me, but I can see nothing more. I sit down on the ground so that I can think ([i]what to do what to do what to do what to do[/i]). I close my eyes and breathe in and out very slowly.

A few seconds later, I hear a small creaking coming from all sides of the room. The sound is barely more than a whisper, at first, but it builds and builds until it becomes a deafening roar, drowning out all other noise in the room. My mouth is agape as my head swivels around, looking all over the room, desperate to find the source of the grinding, irritating noise. I scramble to my feet and run to the darkness of the other side of the room. I run straight into the wall and fall backwards onto the floor. As I lay prostrate on the floor, the wall begins to push against my feet.

I spring up and almost fall over again. My legs are rubbery from fear. I hobble over to the other side of the room, only to find that the other wall is also pushing in. I stumble backwards and fall over again into the small circle of light in the middle of the room. I try to stand up again, but I can?t; it is as if my legs are rooted straight into the ground. Whimpers and cries escape from my lips, but are lost in the grandiose wall of noise pervading the room. I bury my head in my arms and begin speaking softly to myself ([i]I don?t want to die don?t want to die don?t want to die[/i]), hoping, praying, for something to happen, for something to pluck me away from this early demise.

Nothing answers my call. I imagine that nobody can hear my calls, my shrieks, my yells. All that they can hear is the sound of the walls crushing everything in its path, reaching on into infinity. The sound is beautiful in a way, beautiful in its devastation, beautiful in the way that any harbinger of doom is. The sound is beautiful in the same way that death is beautiful.

[i][center]and death is beautiful oh so beautiful[/i][/center]

My heart is beating against my chest like the loudest echo of a bass drum, my blood is coursing through my veins so forcefully that I can feel every drop pass through me at any given moment. An odd feeling spreads through my arms and out my fingers. I do not know how to describe it. I think that it is fear, but I am not sure, because I have never been truly afraid before. But I am afraid right now. The walls continue to move, and I only wish that they would move faster, because I don?t want my death to be a slow, agonizing experience. I don?t want to feel every bone crack in my body, every organ rupture, and every cell cry out in pain.

But it doesn?t look like I have any other choice.

[center][i]I want it to come now why won?t it come now please end it before I get really scared
I don?t want to get really scared it hurts mommy it hurts oh so badly I think I scraped my knee I can see the blood oozing out from the wound it hurts but the blood is
so beautiful I want to touch it and taste it and feel it yes I can feel it the
blood is so warm against my skin against my fingers I wish that
I could feel it forever and ever I don?t want this warm
feeling to ever leave me I think that I really
enjoy it I enjoy it but I wish that it
would end now because I
can?t take it anymore
the wall is closing
in on me it is
closing in
it won?t
stop it
won?t
just
please
stop
now[/i][/center]

I wake up and I am not dead.

I am in a hallway of some sort. I turn around and there is a door behind me. I look down at my body, my hands, my legs, my feet, and it seems that everything is fine. I feel my face, and it is the same as it ever was. I?m feeling perfectly normal, except that I know that everything is not normal anymore. Normal can no longer exist, because I?ve taken the first step and there is no going back. I have to continue.

I stand up carefully. My legs are still wobbly, and it takes me a few seconds for my legs to stop shaking and for me to get enough balance to take a few tentative steps forward. I look ahead. The area immediately ahead of me is lit up by two candles, one on each wall. The walls are decorated with plain brown wallpaper with bold purple bars appearing at varying intervals. There are paintings hanging on the walls as far as the eye can see. I cannot see how far the hallway stretches.

I start walking forward. As I walk, I look at the paintings. Each of the people in the portraits look almost exactly the same, with only a few minor, barely noticeable differences between each person. They all seem to have the same basic model: A large, powerfully built man, with a bald head, a thick black mustache, a large chin, expensive clothing, and brown eyes that pierce directly into your soul.

[i]the eyes are watching beware the eyes those bloodshot eyes[/i]

The eyes unnerve me. Wherever I go they seem to always watch me. As I continue through the hallway, I leave one pair of candlesticks behind and come across a new pair, which light up another small piece of the hallway. The same thing happens once again, and again, and again. I?m not certain that I have made any progress at all in here. But I continue forward because I have no other place to go. This is the path that I have chosen for myself.

Something falls lightly onto my head. I slow to a halt. Something falls onto my head once again. It feels like water. I reach onto my head, ruffling through my hair for a few moments. I bring my hand slowly in front of my face. The tips of my fingers are coated with blood. I look up above me, my breath coming out in slow, trembling gasps. There is a pool of blood spreading on the ceiling. A single drop of blood separates gradually from the pool, and falls onto my forehead. I give a small squeal of fright and wipe the blood hurriedly off of my head. I look up again, and another drop of blood falls. This one falls into my right eye.

I squint with pain, and my fingers rub into my closed eye, vainly attempting to force the blood out. My eye tears up and I wipe the tears away with the bottom half of my shirt. I feel more blood fall from the ceiling onto the back of my neck. The blood is falling faster and faster, each drop thicker than the one that proceeded it. I rub the back of my neck frantically and begin jogging forward. I look wildly about the hallway. The blood is seeping down the walls and onto the floor. Blood pours out from the paintings, oozing from the heads of the powerful beings, dripping from their noses, and trickling from their mouths. I launch into a run. I try not to look around the hall, but I cannot take my eyes away from what I am seeing.

My heart is racing and my lungs are burning. I dash forward as fast as I can, but I do not make any progress. I pass candles that have been lit for hours, paintings that are bleeding fresh blood, and wallpaper that is splattered with red and purple, but I never pass the darkness. The eternal blackness is always a few steps ahead of me. I still cannot see to the end of the hallway no matter how far I run.

I come to a stop and fall over onto my knees. My lungs blaze severely, and I can taste the faint, coppery flavor of blood in my mouth. Wheezing madly, I turn around and try to stand up. Suddenly I see what is behind me and fall back onto the floor. I have been running for what seems like hours, but I have not moved an inch. The door is still behind me. I do not know what to think. My mind and body are paralyzed; all I can do is stare dumbly up at the door. I notice that the doorway is still clean, virtually untouched by the blood still pouring out from the walls. However, as if the room had read my mind, blood begins exuding from the wall above the door. The blood forms itself into words, and spells out a message.

[center]To Those Whom It May Concern, Please Do Not Be Frightened By What You See. This Is All A Game. Everything Is Always A Game. You Started The Game, And Now You Must Finish It. Those Are The Rules. It?s Always Nice To Play By The Rules. Just Don?t Be Scared By The Prize At The End - It?s All Yours, After All![/center]

I try to stand up. My legs are shaking, so I press against the wall for balance. The blood pouring down the wall engulfs my hand, and I pull it away sharply. The momentum carries me into the other wall and I slam against it hard. Some of the blood flowing from that wall drips down onto my shoulders and into my hair. I cry sharply and throw myself back onto the ground. I try to shake all of the blood out of my hair, but the blood that is already on my hand only mixes in with it. On my hands and knees I stare down at the ground. A thin line of saliva escapes from my mouth and drips down to the ground.

I hear a low rumbling noise coming from behind me. I turn my head around, craning my neck so that I can get a better look at things. I can see nothing except the blackness at first. But the rumbling keeps getting louder and louder and louder. The walls shake slowly and bits and pieces of plaster fall onto the floor. Then, all at once, the entire hallway lights up. The light floods into my eyes, and my pupils dilate painfully. I thrust my hands over my eyes until they have adjusted to the light. I remove my hands, and then I let out a low gasp.

At first I think that a wave of water is rushing towards me, splashing and cascading roughly against the wall. But then I realize that it?s not a wave of water, but a thick wave of blood pushing towards me. I can smell it from here; the aroma of death wafts into my nose, and strangles my throat, causing me to gag. I try and scramble to my feet, but I only manage to throw myself against the door behind me. I pound against the door maddeningly, my fists bruising and my knuckles bleeding, but the door does not open. The wave of blood hastens toward me faster and faster. I grab the doorknob and try to twist it, but it refuses to budge.

I try harder and harder to get the door to open, but it simply refuses to comply. ([i]why won?t you open you son of a bitch[/i]) I twist the knob back and forth, over and over again, but still the door does not ([i]please please please[/i]) open. My hands are throbbing with ([i]hurt[/i] pain, and I am about ready to collapse. In a last ditch effort to force open the door, I make myself get up onto my feet [i]no no no I can?t do it[/i]) and I throw myself shoulder-first into the door. [i]did I do it[/i]

The door flies open and I fall through it, hitting the ground hard. The door closes behind me, and I wrap myself up with my arms, waiting for the inevitable pounding of the wave of blood against the door. However, that pounding never comes. I look out reluctantly from underneath my arms. The door has disappeared. In its stead is a wall of smooth, clear mirrors. I stand up and walk over to the wall of mirrors. I can see my reflection in the wall. I am clean again. There is no blood in my hair, on my shirt, or on my skin. I touch the mirror lightly and run my fingers down its cool surface.

Out of the corner of my eye I think I see another person in the room. I whirl around, and I am happy beyond belief that there could actually be another person in this room with me. But my mood is deflated quickly; across from me there is only another wall of mirrors and the person that I saw was only my reflection. I walk around the room, and my footsteps echo loudly, bouncing off of the walls and flying around every which way. I look down at the floor and am not surprised to find that the floor itself is a large set of mirrors, as well. Before I even look up at the ceiling I know that it too will be another set of mirrors. I look around the room and see reflections of myself at every corner; at nearly every possible angle I can see hundreds of different reflections at one time.

I cannot see a way out of the room. Each and every piece of mirror seems to be completely smooth, and I cannot spot a doorway. Though the room is large, I seem to be the only thing taking up any space inside of it, besides the mirrors lining the floor, ceiling, and walls. I pace around a bit, and my footsteps still echo about the room. Minutes fly by while I walk around the room. I begin muttering to myself, maybe hoping in the back of my mind that someone will hear me, but more likely trying to convince myself that there is already someone else here with me. [i]I can hear him he?s talking with me can?t you hear him hello I say[/i]

I knock my head against something hard and fall to the floor. A dull ache pounds through my forehead and I rub it gently. I look up and I don?t see anything immediately in front of me. I get up and try to look forward harder. I concentrate completely on what is front of me, but I still cannot see anything. I blink a couple of times, and I shake my head back and forth. A reflection of myself wavers into view. I press my hands against the mirror and follow along it, hoping to find some sort of doorway or at least a path that I can follow. Eventually I am able to wind my way into a maze of mirrors. Everywhere that I can turn I only see rows and rows of reflections. The reflections always seem to be everywhere except right in front of my face, and I bump into many mirrors at the last second because I am unable to spot very close reflections.

After what seems like hours I am still wandering through this labyrinth of mirrors and false images. Out of the corner of my eye I will sometimes spot what I think is another person walking through this maze, but I can never get more than a cursory glance at anything that isn?t yet another reflection of myself. I decide to stop and rest for a moment. I lean against one of the walls and stare at the other wall. My reflection is very peculiar. At the moment I am frowning and my posture is very slack, yet my reflection is very upbeat and raring to move. I stare bewilderedly at this caricature of myself for a few moments before getting bored and deciding to move on.

I keep walking forward, but then I notice that my reflection changes every time I pass by a new mirror. One moment my reflection will be happy and upbeat, but the next moment the reflection will be incredibly sad and depressed. The reflection?s height and weight also goes through amazing changes from mirror to mirror. As I stare transfixed at my reflection wondering how it will look the next time that I see it, I quickly lose track of exactly where I am and where I have been going. I look around frantically but there are no clues to indicate where exactly in the maze I am. I can no longer spot where I originally came in. I have no choice but to try and continue further.

I still keep spotting people popping in and out of corners in the maze, and disappearing when I try to locate them. All I can see are reflections, never ending masses of reflections. Out of the corner of my eye I spot yet another quick blur of movement. Instead of musing over it, I decide to follow it and try to track down the source of it. I run to the end of the path, and spy another flash of movement reflected in the mirrors. I run faster, chasing with all of my speed, turning from corner to corner, path to path, with only slight glances to go on.

As I?m running I think that I can hear other echoes besides the ones that my footsteps are making. I slow to a halt, and the echoes continue for a couple of seconds longer after I stop. I start running again, and then I stop quickly. The footsteps start up and then they end, just the same. I wait a moment, and then I break out into a run again, turning and twisting between corners, not stopping, only following my instincts. There was someone else in here with me, and I wanted to find them.

At last I come to a dead end. There is nothing there but another reflection. The footsteps have vanished, and I can no longer see any movement out of the corner of my [i]irresponsible little bastards[/i] eyes. I turn around to leave, but the footsteps start up again. I stop, but the footsteps continue. They seem to stepping in place, a rhythmic tapping of feet. I turn back around, and though I should now be used to unusual circumstances, I am still surprised by what I see.

My reflection is grinning wildly at me and tapping his feet to a non-existent rhythm. When he sees that I am watching, his grin grows wider and he stops tapping his feet. He doubles over in what is supposed to be laughter, but no sound comes out of his mouth. The corners of my mouth twitch and I fight back tears. My fists are clenched tightly and my nails dig deep into the palms of my hands. I rush blindly at the mirror in front of me. I do not see what my reflection?s reaction is, but I cannot imagine that it is a pleasant reaction. I break through the mirror [i]who what where why when how[/i] and shards of glass rain down around me [i]fracture a fracture there?s nobody home[/i] as I fall into a dark void. [i]gone gone gone[/i]

I fall roughly into another room. I look behind me and see that I fell out of a small cupboard. I look up and my eyes begin to sting; there is a thick, smoky haze hanging around the top half of the room I am currently in. A sour, decaying stench saturates the room, spreading into my nose, and nearly causing me to vomit in disgust. I force myself to climb to my feet, because it will be easier to combat my nausea if I?m standing upright. I see that I am in a kitchen. Knives, spoons, forks, and other utensils are scattered about a number of tables lining the room. A few cupboards are open, and moldy food dangles halfway out of them, covered with vile insects. Rats poke in and out of holes that seem to be everywhere in the room. The rats? obscene squeaking grates on the final existing nerves in my body.

I hear a chorus of loud humming and moaning, among them being the loud hum that I first heard before I began this pitiful journey. The wall of noise fills the whole room; the tables shake with the pure sonic force of the noise, and the cupboards bend in and out threatening to explode if they have to exert themselves any more. The stench that fills the room is stronger than ever. Goosebumps spread all over my arms and legs. New experiences become mixed in with old ones. Horrifying screams join the ever-present humming and moaning, while the stink of old sweat and fresh blood mix in with the stinging, acrid stench of death and decay.

I look all around me, completely lost in hysteria. A naked couple lay huddled together in one corner of the room, knife wounds distorting their fragile bodies. An old man is sitting upright in another corner of the room, his body now completely unrecognizable. His flesh has been completely eaten away; he is now covered only by a mass of raw, reddened muscle. His teeth are bared in a sinister look that I cannot comprehend. One of his eyes is missing, and the other seems to be very close to dangling out of his eye socket.

Before I [i]moment of[/i] know what is happening [i]truth this is truth[/i] I am holding a long, sharp knife in my hand. I [i]cold[/i] drag the blade across my forearm, leaving a long, deep cut behind. [i]har har har[/i] The cut begins to bleed, slowly at first, and then blood gushes out more and more. The once sickening smell of death and decay now smells sweet [i]not sour[/i] in my nose, and I fill my lungs with its wondrous odor. The corpses scattered around the room get up and walk towards me.

[i]a knife in my hands it feels so good[/i] I am holding the knife [i]yes very very good the cool metal the dark handle it is oh so nice[/i] against my throat [i]my friends are coming yes my friends are here[/i] The corpses amble over towards me [i]we are going to have a party it will be fun why don?t you join us[/i] and grab me on all sides [i]so much fun fun fun fun fun[/i] My eyes roll back into my sockets [i]sock it sock it sock it[/i] and I black out.

[i]I?m awake now. Everything looks so beautiful now. It?s like I?m in a dream, a nice dream where I can go wherever I wish, and there is no penalty for it. I feel as if I?m floating around without a care in the world. Everything around me is in the purest of white that I have ever seen. The light looks down upon me and I am happy, happier than I have ever been in my life.

I do not think that I am dead. I?m having trouble telling just what exactly is a dream, and what is not a dream. I hope that this is not a dream, because I like this feeling very much. I feel like I?m everywhere at once, and yet I?m nowhere at all. If this really is a dream, though, I think that I?ll be able to live with it. It?s not like I have much of a choice about it.

There are so many things that I don?t understand. I don?t know if I can ever understand why things are the way they are. Maybe nobody is ever meant to understand any of it. There is a person that tells me that we can?t even understand ourselves, and if we can?t understand ourselves, how can we hope to understand anything else? There are things out in the world, things inside of ourselves, that we are not meant to come into contact with. And yet we do.

I?ve done many things that I wish that I?d never done. There are too many little things to name, and a few big ones here and there. I think that we all have our little vices, our little sins that we have to work out sooner or later. They all catch up to us in the end. In some ways the little sins are more dangerous than the big ones, because those are the ones that we do without even knowing it. When you kill someone, you know you?re killing someone. When you rape someone, you know that you?re raping someone. But when you wrong a friend, or when you tell a white lie, maybe you?re not doing it on purpose, or you think that nothing will come of it. But these things have a habit of building up on each other in ways that we never see.

I think that it?s my time to leave. I?m ready for what is yet to come.[/i]

I wake up in a shock, and bolt upright. My eyes are wide and darting about the room. My breath is coming out in hurried gasps. I?ve been in this situation before. I am sitting on a long red carpet that is leading up an equally long flight of stairs. The stairs lead up into a dark, empty space. I cannot see what is at the top of the stairs. I stand up, ready to ascend the staircase. My legs are strong and full of life.

I begin the climb. I go up several flights of stairs before I notice the walls beginning to change. Images appear on the walls, images that are at once very familiar to me. There is a group of children playing in a field. They are tossing a rubber ball to each other. The sun is shining overhead, and the children are laughing and having fun. The memory gives me a nostalgic feeling. I pass another image where I am running, and then I trip and break my ankle. I am writhing and screaming in pain as I clutch my broken ankle. I stop for a moment and rub my ankle, which is sometimes still tender from that accident.

I climb further up the stairs. In the next image I am alone in my room, thinking, and staring at the ceiling. My hands are crossed behind my head and I am laying on my pillow. I can hear some kids playing outside. I think that a couple of them might be jumping rope. I?m not very sure. I pass by this image very quickly. I keep climbing up the stairs. I think that I can almost see the top. I come across another image; this one is of me walking under some trees in the autumn. The bright orange leaves fall down around me as I crunch through the dead brown leaves already on the ground.

I am almost at the top. I can feel it. There?s one last image here. It?s an image of me from earlier, as I?m walking into the first room that I walked into in this manor. The door closes behind me, and then the image disappears. I make it to the top of the stairs soon after. There is one last door in front of me. I?m almost afraid to walk inside, but I have to do this. I grasp the handle of the door and pull it open. I step inside of the room and the door slams shut behind me.

There is a large chest in the middle of the room. The chest is very plain, with only a golden lock on it. The lock has been opened, but it appears as if the chest itself has remained unopened. I walk up to the chest and stand in front of it. My hand hangs in the air, unsure of what to do. I want to open the chest, but there is a whisper in the back of my mind telling me that this is not the right thing to do. However, I have come too far to stop now. I reach towards the chest and open it up.

I peer inside and I cannot believe my eyes - the chest is empty! But as I peer closer into the chest, I see that it is not empty. Comprehension dawns on my face, and I am crushed. I try to close the chest, but my will is too weak to do it. I fall across the chest and the upper half of my body falls inside of it. I can see nothing but blackness all around me. My entire being is completely cold, I can?t feel anything else. I know that my legs are struggling to free themselves, but it is no use. They eventually fall inside of the chest, too, and it closes behind them.

I am spiraling in the black void. I cannot feel anything anymore. I can?t think anymore. I don?t know if I can even see anymore. There is nothing but black all around me and inside of me.

[center]Nothing but emptiness.[/center]

---

Chris sat on the couch with his head buried in his arms. Tears streamed slowly down his face. Dr. Whimsley looked down at his papers and then back up at Chris. Dr. Whimsley then swept his papers off of his desk, stood up, and walked over to Chris.

?That?s quite a dream you had there,? Dr. Whimsley said.

?It was a terrible dream!? Chris wailed. ?I don?t even know why I had it! I wish that I?d never dreamed it at all!?

?There are lots of things that happen that we all wish would never have happened,? Dr. Whimsley said. ?But we can?t wish anything away. Nothing is ever that easy.?

?I wish that life were easier,? Chris said, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Dr. Whimsley took out a tissue from his tissue box and he handed it to Chris. Chris took the tissue gratefully and wiped his eyes with it.

?You?re not the only one,? Dr. Whimsley said. ?But there?s no easy way to go about life. I wish I?d realized that sooner.?

?Huh?? Chris asked.

?Nothing,? Dr. Whimsley said, glancing over at his bookshelf. ?I?ve just got a little something to take care of after our session is over.?

?Doc?? Chris asked. He looked up at Dr. Whimsley. He immediately recognized his gaffe, but much to Chris? surprise, Dr. Whimsley merely smiled down at him.

?Yes?? Dr. Whimsley asked in return.

?Do you think that you can help me?? Chris asked.

?I don?t think that I can,? Dr. Whimsley replied.

?Why not?? Chris asked.

?It seems to me that you have the same problems that we all do, Chris,? Dr. Whimsley said.

?What problems are those?? Chris questioned.

?I think you know what they are,? Dr. Whimsley replied. ?I don?t know how many people actually solve their own problems, much less solve the problems of other people. Life can be a real struggle, at times. Sometimes, all we can really do is just struggle back.?

?Struggle back?? Chris asked.

?Yes,? Dr. Whimsley said. ?You won?t always have to struggle, but you have to be ready for it. You always have to be ready, or else you?ll never make it.?

?I think I understand,? Chris said, getting up from the couch.

?I don't know about that,? Dr. Whimsley replied. ?I'm not sure that even I fully understand it yet. I'm still trying just like anyone else.?

?Well, I hope that you don?t have to struggle for too much longer, Doc,? Chris said. ?Struggling is bad for your health.?

?Yes, it can be,? Dr. Whimsley said, smiling. ?You?d better run off now, Chris. I think you?ve got a lot of catching up to do.? Chris nodded at Dr. Whimsley and left the room. Dr. Whimsley walked over to his chair and sat down. He looked out his window and watched the children playing their games outside. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. He wished that he could help other people more, but he was glad that he was at least able to help himself a bit along the way.

[Godelsensei]

It's a neat concept, and enjoyable, in terms of events.

However, try and avoid over-description. We didn't really need to know how glimmery Chris' eyes are or that his clothes are baggy.
That sort of thing--it clutters up the writing and makes it lose continuity. Also, try and blend sentence lengths. If you have a long sentence, don't follow up with another. Try and strike a sort of balance, or else things can get dragged out.

Very intriguing, however. So much emotion! : O

[Shinmaru]

[QUOTE=Godelsensei]It's a neat concept, and enjoyable, in terms of events.

However, try and avoid over-description. We didn't really need to know how glimmery Chris' eyes are or that his clothes are baggy.
That sort of thing--it clutters up the writing and makes it lose continuity. Also, try and blend sentence lengths. If you have a long sentence, don't follow up with another. Try and strike a sort of balance, or else things can get dragged out.

Very intriguing, however. So much emotion! : O[/QUOTE]

Yeah, I think that's one of the kinks that I have to work out in my writing style. I can be a bit long-winded at times. I think that I've gotten better at mixing up sentence length over time, but I'm still working on it. Just more to improve upon, right?

Glad you enjoyed the story.

[DeadSeraphim]

[COLOR=Indigo][SIZE=1][FONT=Arial]It seemed like I was experienceing the nightmare along with him, your description and writing in the last bit was fantastic. I have no idea what crit. I could give (partly cause I suck at crit. and partly cause I'm sinfully lazy, lol), so I'll just say that it was awesome. ^_^[/FONT][/SIZE][/COLOR]

[KarmaOfChaos]

[color=deeppink][size=1]Color me morbid, but this was definitely my favorite chapter. My only problem with it was, as Godel said, you did get a [i]little[/i] carried away with description at times, which would temporarily throw off the flow, but honestly, it barely bothered me.

What I really love was how you drew the reader into the emotions' Chris was feeling, keeping at first a very seperate wall between Chris telling the story (regular font) and how Chris is really feeling (The italicized and parenthesized<---is that even a word? font). It makes the reader stop and equate the visual experience with certain sensations, the ones that Chris is getting. You take the reader on somewhat of an emotional rollercoaster, trying to keep up with the course of the dream and what's going to happen next while still processing how what's happening factors into the actual meaning of the dream, how it relates to Chris' existence in real life, and the other two dreams, etc.

The images you provided were very rich and detailed, and allowed me to get a really good feel for the enviroment of the dream. Random sidenote: I also noted what felt to me like more than one game reference - the haunted mansion reminded me a great deal of the game where Luigi's in the haunted mansion and he has to suck up all the ghosts; and it reminded me of the Forest Temple from OoT. The stairway? Good old Super Mario64, and that staircase that you never get to the end of unless you have so many stars (God I hated that thing). Yea. /end random sidenote.

Anyway, what I finally got from the story was this. All the dreams, in succession, were increasing levels of, quite basically, fear. Fear of not being good enough, and especially, fear of not understanding what's going on around you, being in a situation where you are completely confused and don't know what the future holds, and being afraid of that. That was the key basic thing that tied all three dreams together. Which really worked well.

Oops I have to go I'll finish this later.

- - - -

Okay back now. Anyway, to summarize, I really liked the imagery and the structure of this piece as a whole. I hope to see more pieces written by you, as always. :)

-Karma[/size][/color]

[Shinmaru]

[quote name='KarmaOfChaos][color=deeppink][size=1]Color me morbid, but this was definitely my favorite chapter. My only problem with it was, as Godel said, you did get a [i]little[/i] carried away with description at times, which would temporarily throw off the flow, but honestly, it barely bothered me.[/size'][/color][/quote]

Yeah, I need to figure out what the right amount of description is for me. Sometimes I feel like I'm describing too much, and other times I feel like I'm not describing enough. I rarely feel like I'm describing things just right. It's tough to really get that down, you know?

[quote][color=deeppink][size=1]What I really love was how you drew the reader into the emotions' Chris was feeling, keeping at first a very seperate wall between Chris telling the story (regular font) and how Chris is really feeling (The italicized and parenthesized<---is that even a word? font). It makes the reader stop and equate the visual experience with certain sensations, the ones that Chris is getting. You take the reader on somewhat of an emotional rollercoaster, trying to keep up with the course of the dream and what's going to happen next while still processing how what's happening factors into the actual meaning of the dream, how it relates to Chris' existence in real life, and the other two dreams, etc.[/size][/color][/quote]

Cool, I'm glad I was able to get that feeling across decently enough. I like using punctuation and different appearances of text (bolding, italicizing, etc.) to get certain moods across, because I think that when used right it can work pretty well. I'm no e.e. cummings (whose poetry sort of inspired some of the things I did in the last part of the story - though what cummings does with puncuation and whatnot is obviously leaps and bounds ahead of anything I could probably do at the moment lol), but I hope that I did a solid job with everything.

And now analyzation! I like reading analyzation, more people need to analyze stuff. It's fun. (Side note: I need to analyze more stuff, as well ;)) And I'll spoiler my replies, just in case people would like to analyze the story on their own, without my replies influencing their thinking too much...

[quote][color=deeppink][size=1]The images you provided were very rich and detailed, and allowed me to get a really good feel for the enviroment of the dream. Random sidenote: I also noted what felt to me like more than one game reference - the haunted mansion reminded me a great deal of the game where Luigi's in the haunted mansion and he has to suck up all the ghosts; and it reminded me of the Forest Temple from OoT. The stairway? Good old Super Mario64, and that staircase that you never get to the end of unless you have so many stars (God I hated that thing). Yea. /end random sidenote.[/size][/color][/quote]

[spoiler]That's interesting, I actually didn't think about that too much while I was writing this. I don't think that the mansion from Luigi's Mansion is very scary at all, but the Forest Temple from Ocarina of Time is pretty creepy. For all the crap I give the next-generation Zelda titles for being too easy, they sure as hell get everything right when it comes to the mood of their dungeons. The Forest Temple might be my favorite temple, presentation-wise, in OoT, because the mood was nailed so wonderfully in it - I honestly think it's much creepier than the Shadow Temple lol. I think that the creepy music has something to do with that. If my mansion reminded you of the Forest Temple, then I must have done a good job with it ^_^

I was definitely thinking of Super Mario 64 when I was crafting the bit with the never-ending hallway. Though I'm pretty sure that my hallway doesn't have funny music playing when Chris is running down it lol. For the stairway, I drew inspiration from the last pages of Stephen King's [i]The Dark Tower[/i], where Roland climbs a very similar staircase. What Chris and Roland both come upon is not what they expected, either, so they might be similar in that aspect, as well. :)[/spoiler]

[quote][color=deeppink][size=1]Anyway, what I finally got from the story was this. All the dreams, in succession, were increasing levels of, quite basically, fear. Fear of not being good enough, and especially, fear of not understanding what's going on around you, being in a situation where you are completely confused and don't know what the future holds, and being afraid of that. That was the key basic thing that tied all three dreams together. Which really worked well.[/size][/color][/QUOTE]

[spoiler]I think that you hit it pretty dead on. The first dream was definitely a fear of not being good enough, a fear of not being able to live up to your own expectations. Poor Dr. Whimsley thought it was just girl trouble, haha. And, yes, the second dream was the fear of being in a world where you don't understand what's going on, and you don't have anyone that you can turn to for help. I think that I empathize with that feeling a bit more, which is why I think that the second part came out better than the first lol. I often don't understand exactly what the hell is going on around me. :p

For me, the third dream is all about looking inside of yourself and being afraid of what you'll find. The whole mansion thing is just a metaphor for searching inside of yourself and your own feelings, thoughts, fears, etc. I tried to make the different rooms correspond to different feelings and/or experiences in human life (for example, the first room would be feelings of anxiety - I'd be interested to see people interpret the other rooms). And the box at the end is mostly a person finally looking inside of themselves and one of the ultimate fears that I think a person would have - truly seeing inside of yourself, and finding absolutely nothing. I don't think that would be very reassuring.[/spoiler]

And thank you for the other compliments, Karmi. I always look forward to your replies in my story threads, and in other story threads. :)

[lea]

Actually, the hallway reminded me of the book [i]Alice in Wonderland[/i], untill things progressed a bit more.


One of the things that really sucked me in was when you italicized and parenthesized Chris's feelings at certain points in the story, when things were happening. It made many parts very clamatic, made you feel exactly what Chris was feeling. *grins* You doing that made my heart race and I was completely absorbed and involved in the flow of the story. =D

Overall, I think this peice is wonderful. *claps hands*