Ariss
A tumbleweed drifts stately across the plain. Charred remains of shrubberies pose little resistance.
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."
When the lumberjack purges
The helicopter operates via helicoptation. Or distracted, or comfortable enough to not notice immediately. Then you move and suddenly... Microscope... Furnace... Or maybe it's just the pain itself bearing down. Every reaction is followed by an equal and opposite action. Xylophone... It can be misery... Pure misery...
On the other hand, sometimes it's a good thing when they do. This is the world I made, a garden of remembering. Saw you few down the stairs while dosed, or something. Hardly even feel it at the time; Half the problem with arrows is the infections- arrow shafts are wood, and most wood soaks up bacteria like nobody's business. Cracked toenail... Hot dog... Gelato... Do not ever think they come easily, these words upon words upon words... I do not know them any more than you do before they come. I just put them together and then they have meaning. That's the funny thing about language. It is never easy until it comes together.
More painkillers will take care of that.
Say what you trick
I could describe a true horror for you, you know. Only that would ruin the horror. Once it settles in, it just fades. Doesn't it? Or does it? Most people fear Nightmares... But what about it is it, really, that they fear? There are nightmares too silly to describe, for upon doing so your listener would descend into helpless laughter, never to hear a serious word you say again. But in the deep unconsciousness of dream, the silliness is easily disregarded, and you are truly afraid, beyond anything the waking world could do to you. Only when you shoot up from your pillow, crashing your head painfully into the low roof, sweating like a pig (assuming that pigs sweat an awful lot) and with your sight blurry due to the pool of painful tears in your eyes (which you will, naturally, blame on the hitting of your head, and since you're so very good at believing your own lies, you almost manage to convince yourself, too), only then - Only then will you realize that all your fear was a rolled-up newspaper, a banana fly and a sad man in a bowler.
If I am a Nightmare, then tell me, what are you? In what dark places do your minds reside, on what horrible secrets do you silently sit, raving, radiant, resilient, resisting an aeon of evolution to devolve into a horror of primordial badness, gleaming, gleaming, as the shadows stir, joy in the hunter, utter, unadulterated fear in the hunted? There is no ending here, no plot closure... no...
- Some of this content is randomly generated. Refresh to disunderedtar.