Ariss

He said it wouldn't hurt.

Hello, dreamer. State of states? How fragmented are you today?

It was a tuesday. It's always a tuesday when these things happen, not because tuesdays are special or anything, but simply because that is what tuesdays are for. A man approached the dreamer, as men are sometimes wont to do, but this one said only, "You smell."

"Of course I smell," the dreamer replied. "Doesn't everyone? That is what we have noses for, after all. Silly."

Taken aback, the man frowned. "No, I mean you smell."

The dreamer smiled. None of it mattered anyway. For all she knew, none of it was even real, but if the man would go to the bother of approaching her about this, chances were he was onto something, real or otherwise. So be it; still didn't matter. Instead of replying, she kicked the dirt and looked up, up to the sky, the clouds, the stars, the sun and moons, and cast her arm skyward, as if tossing something invisible to catch the firmament.

"Brilliant."

Bleached suicide bomber

"If it is decided that I may continue to hunt you, I will tell you first." I screamed at the butcher. "The lame-stream media is very lame."

He took the ears off and gave them to me.

I keep them... Petroglyph...

Then came the day the entire thing was delivered to my door... Glycerin... Long truck... Weird things... Driptray... "Sounds like my kind of party," said the drat, and jumped over the edge of the punch-bowl. Round house... I asked him for a pervert and he just said "Sign here asshole" and stomped off.

Percolating as need, frenzied sloths regard their captors with tables turned.

Now it's kind of a thing in my kitchen... Glycerin... Brickbat... I slobber on it sometimes when I put ketchup in my mouth and blow bubbles. Of course this is happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real? Bubblegum, you just have to shape it a little... Steak dinner... Mug... The cat won't even get close enough to lick it off. I take it to the mall and walk up and down with it up and down up and down and before too long security comes to talk to me and that's when I run.

The poodle

The path. It is simple enough, though it branches and curves and comes back to itself. It is outlined and it is distinct and it is there. Simple. It is what the faceless desire. "Go here," they say, gesturing to the worn-down stones and rutted ground. "It is all laid out; go here."

They wear no masks, these faceless entities, for even their very faces have worn off over the many long years of following the paths, straight, squiggly, roundabout, but all paths, and all the same, for they do not wander. They dare not wander, and they do not know what lies beyond the border of trees and darkened shadows, and I feel, sometimes, that they are afraid. I toe the line, press the gather of my tippy-toes into the grassy edge and I wonder. What is there? What are these shrouded giants looming out of the mist, silhouettes of metaphors, trees, ferns... the shadows loom ever closer...

"No," they say. "Don't go there."

And suddenly I find myself stepping back. Always stepping back. Whether they are afraid or not, even if they are indeed, and there is no way to tell without masks, have no idea what they're feeling when they won't put on masks, one thing is certain. I am.

I remain on the path.

Some of this content is randomly generated. Refresh to disunderedtar.