This is about self-improvement, Axel, it is not about winning and losing.
(Flushed with success) I know, master, but I won and they lost. (Yen Sid pinches a painful pressure point on Axel's neck) Aah, aah, aah! But, what's really important is that we all did our best. (crying) GOOD JOB, EVERYONE! (Yen Sid lets go) Aah!
Perfect Fried Shoe. Euro Supermarket. Bastard Pharmacy. Bus stop full of tangled limb. Advert for rubber nose. One legged jogger. Weeping trash. Light drizzle at 6am on a Saturday. It tasted of marmite.
The other night I had the weirdest dream. It was extremely vivid and intricate. I remembered every single detail. It was so horrifying that I actually remember thinking, “I want to wake up now, this is getting scary!” I managed to open my eyes, but I was too frightened to move, so I made up my own ending to the dream that involved sugar.
A friend challenged" me to write the dream as a short piece. Flash fiction, if you will. That’s between 500-1000 words. I didn’t want to use the plain narrative style because that flattens the effect of the dream, and the way it flowed in my head. So I wrote them as a series of haikus, connected with short paragraphs of prose.
To give you some context, the dream essentially involved me, my friends, and my parents fighting off a monster. There are portals, magic stew, bleeding kitchen cabinets, and an African American Resistance Hero named Terrence.
The dream, furthermore, is absolutely 100% set in America, because of the landscape and the easy availability of guns. This is weird because I HAVEN’T EVER BEEN TO AMERICA, but whatever. Another really confusing aspect of the dream, that I HAVE to specify, is that while I was in the dream, I was also its narrator, and it wasn’t ME. It was like I was substituting for someone, and this was THEIR life, and THEIR friends, and THEIR parents. I didn’t know ANY of these people.
There’s a lot more to it, but hopefully this should be enough to make sense of what I just wrote.
“Some types of people don’t deserve our forgiveness.” Boiling water. Who?
// This is a dream, this is a dream. Grey wisps snake out from plastic pages. An orange children’s picture book, propped against a stool leg. The woman who does not forgive disappears. The kitchen isn’t mine. Nothing here is me.
This is a narration. A dramatisation. This is not a dream. //