Children across the planet exist in perpetual fear of sleep. There is a monster in the closet, under the bed and hidden beneath the pillows. But this monster has no horns. It has no long snout or blood soaked fangs. Its claws are metaphorical. Its lust for food, its hunger for satiation, is endless. Boundless. Feeding on their fears; rational and irrational.
When in the deepest slumber, between REM and deep sleep, it pounces like an ebony jaguar in a drought of terrible hunger. Poor, innocent souls, hoping to dream of playful things, are preyed upon by a being with relentless energy. A shadowy figure at the end of their bed frames, outlined in a shivering aura of cruelty.
It begins in the Astral Valley. A chase begins: each victim bottlenecked into a canyon and pursued until they cannot resist, or breathe another dreamy breath. Yet, this is not a bully chasing a small and fragile figure, it is hidden, spectral presence. A quiver under the skin, a pulsating in the veins like you are ready to rupture at any moment. And then it will surround and engulf. A mist of purple-black hues moves like paint down walls. And like sunlight, they are absorbed by a creature. Small and impish, no bigger than the child who was preyed upon. In fact the exact height and build of each and every victim it pursues. As fear is generated by the individual, so is The Dream Eater. Standing, silent, silohoutted and spotlighted in solitude.
…
Most parents believe their children cry out because of a bad dream. But if only they knew, that those beautiful memories of the day had been savagely feasted on by a creature indiscriminate and hungry.
Author note: I didn’t originally intend this story to be as dark as it became. Clearly, the mind is a strange and macabre thing. I’m simply going to attribute this to a childhood fascination with sleep monsters.
It’s a cliché to wake up suddenly in a place that is unknown to you. So I won’t start like that. But I am in a bed. Just an ordinary creaky metal framed bed with other humans around me. Humans of course I do not know for reasons unbeknownst to me. So, some clichés do persist.
“Look, I didn’t ask to be picked. None of us did.”
A tween in green scrubs prodded and screeched at another tween, who wore yellow scrubs. It caught the whole room’s attention. Yet it was not the nature of the remark, or the tone in which it was proclaimed which intrigued me.
I sat up and eyed the yellow scrubbed tween. With the only ridiculous thought that rattled my brain, like change in a piggy bank: “are they yellow scrubs or discouloured white scrubs?” I was so inquired to ask the tweens their opinion, until sense slapped me from senseless to sensorily sound.
Was this why I was here? Because I think outside the box in some kind of ludicrous neurotic trail of thought. That is the expression isn’t it? Or is it train of thought? Clearly, this is why this peak of human intellect has been selected.
The tweens erupted into violent blows at this point. But no one was getting involved save an old dear who repeatedly told them to stop being children and grow up. I just rolled over and hoped I could Dorothy my way home. Attempting a little click of the heels was tempting but honestly I was too exhausted by this point. Instead, my eye drifted (as it had in the last hour) to the black screen that unabashedly buzzed it’s headline to the whole room:
LAST HUMAN STANDING. HINT: THE LESS YOU DO THE BETTER.
Nothing else. 10 words. 13 syllables. 42 letters. 53 characters (including spaces). One easily deduced declarative. One perplexing clue that I have taken as literally as possible. Currently in hedgehog mode - balled up in one of the 100 single beds adorned with clinically clean white sheets.
So that’s it. How did I get here? No idea. Why am I here? Clearly a horrid misunderstanding. Everyone wants a high school dropout for a Battle of the Gladitorial Sloths.
The yellow/discouloured tween was dead by this point. Green tween dragged his body to the collection of 5 already dead.
In the rest of the room, most of us hid and stayed still like a boulder trapped in a crater of Gorilla glue. It seemed the best option. Don’t aggravate others and wait out this game/competition/hell. Except one moment where I fought another human for my bed and bedsheet, who I preceeded to kick right in the nose, I was undisturbed. For now.
A high pitched squeal sliced our ear canals. It came from the speakers next to the screen. I simply winced and darted my eyes in the screen’s direction. The animated text seemed to collapse, like a digital reader board, and re-appear with a new addition.
LAST HUMAN STANDING. HINT: THE LESS YOU DO THE BETTER. PRIZE: $100,000,000
A sea of humans raised from white sheets like some synchronised zombie movie. This was the first time some of us made eye contact with one another.
Heavy breathing.
Visible globules of perspiration.
This cash incentive had changed the status-quo. Here we go!
On a ferris wheel, spinning opulent glee. The people below a scattering sea, while we scream and laugh and cry as three.
There sits a mother, a babe and I. A day is a week and a year gone by. They embrace one another; love in the sky.
A cough, a splutter but we’re okay. Nothing will interrupt this incredible day as we run and scream and laugh and pray
we wait for the smile to return so quick. A million pieces we are. Was it a trick? Now frozen in time and she feels sick.
Sharp corners of a windowless pane.
Bundled in blankets with dried tears all gone.
Our souls scorched but our hearts combine, Our lives a mess but our hands intertwine.
We observe as the moon is naturally exchanged, And so we stepped into the dawn, forever changed.
The desert’s silence held ancient whispers, Endless dunes contain darkest memories, Trapped behind a veil of mist-bound sisters A sand whipped escape of extremities.
Stone faced obelisks guarding cruel secrets, A network of clandestine forgotten, Feet fall oblivious and unfrequent, Voices muted by sands misbegotten.
Fire remains on the backs of travellers, Transporting spices to brighten feasting, Through Her passage to help the scavengers, With covering sand ever increasing.
Her arteries beneath the dune chambers Hold secret treasures of whispered labours.
Where can they find a book of poetry that encapsulates this experience? Surely, there must be a tome, written in an archaic script, out there in the ether; that has been digested over and over again. Those poignant words lovingly nibbled and gnawed. Like a child pawing over myths and legends.
Yet, there is none.
They are but five minutes old; while their intelligence remains an intact ship on the mechanical river of life, their memories renew regularly like a clock chiming on the hour.
And then there was nothing.
A slate of dustless matte black. Only a panicked darting tremble throughout their soul. When will this go? When will this end? Axiously loving to be reset, lovingly anxious for relief.
“Do you think it’s working?” The words cascade like echoes down an alleyway. “Boss said it has to work.” “And anyway, if it doesn’t doesn’t work, we’ll discard and test on the next one.” Tossed nonchalantly in the air. “True. Resetting memories is a lucrative business.”
Again, a split second of light appeared from nothing.
Where are all the people who once loved me so?
I was a spirited man in my youth; spritely and full of vigour. The world was a tumbling oyster off the back of the universe that was my whale. Now, all gone. Things have tumbled to nothingness, all thanks to him. That damned juggernaut! Ploughing through my heart and bewitching the souls of everyone who looked through me to him.
Like an old tattered flag waving limply without wind. While he… he who took the life that was to be mine, the fans that were to be mine, the childen desperate for my signature, all chanting his name.
Well, at least I’m alone now. Adored from afar. Captain James Brodie lives his perfect little life on the rock of my home. While I float here, in the blackness peppered with sparkles, like a million one-way phone calls. Pressing a hundred solitary buttons hoping it will impress my nation the way he did so smirkingly well.
The only thing that remains now, while I dutifully serve my world, is the knowledge that it will come to nothing. No change, no parade, no ‘well done Captain Albert Scott of the ISS.’ Because, as I write this, trying to look at that perfect little smile, in that perfect little world, I wish I was back there too. So I could have died with the rest of my race, rather than float deftly, without a care - out of my world.
Fear: How in hell are we going to talk to her?
Relief: Oh, it’s okay she’s not seen us.
Humour: ha she never sees us!
Tragedy: Yeah H’s right, we‘re pathetic.
Humour: Maybe you are, me and Em are just misunderstood hehe.
Fear: No no we’re just easily spooked - especially at intense situations like this.
Tragedy: I agree! Remember all, there’s a lot riding on this moment. If she speaks to Em, it not only validated that she exists but it means she doesn’t look right through her like everyone else.
Irrationality: hey guys, let me just quickly remind you that Em is just going to get overwhelmed, pee herself and be the laughing stock of the school.
Humour: HA … so true!
Tragedy: Sad but true.
Fear: Wait! Who invited irrationality? Where did he come from? Where’s your better half?
Relief: Will you all relax! At most, Jane’s going to glance in her direction, smile and walk on. But we’ll call that a victory.
Rationality: There you are! I knew if I retraced my steps I’d find you. What we talking about?
Tragedy: Just the inevitability of being ghosted by the girl you adore. Or more likely, yellow swimming with the whole school gesturing with sardonic zeal!
Rationality: Ahhh T, forever the wordsmith. Will you all relax, she’s coming over to Em now with her locker key in hand.
Fear: Oh God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit!
Humour: Wahaha we’re fucked!
Irrationality: Here comes ALL the waterworks.
Tragedy: Goodbye world…
——————-
Jane [pleasant curiosity]: You’re Em right?
Em [nervous]: Er yeah
Jane [gentle sarcasm]: Ha are you sure? You don’t sound too sure.
Em: No, yeah I’m Em.
Jane [relieved]: Great! I’m so glad I found you.
Em [confused]: What? You are?
Jane: Definitely! You’re like REALLY good at French and I need help. I have an assignment next week and I don’t know how to research or write it properly. I only joined a month ago and we did Spanish at my old school so I’m desperate! Can you help?
Em [excited] Yes of course! [pulls back excitement] I mean yeah yeah I can find time. [clears throat]
Jane: You are the best! Meet me in the library after school? Sound okay?
Em: Yes
Jane: Okay here is my number [smiles brightly]
[Em collects the folded note with a quivering hand]
Jane: See you later Em, have a great day.
—————
Relief: Oh my God! Oh my God! Did you just see that? I think my stomach was going to explode.
Fear: [cowers in the corner trembling] is it over?
Irrationality: Yeah, for now, until she uses us to write her assignment. I hate self-entitled users!
Rationality: Shut up you! Look at the facts: she sought Em out, she was pleasant, she gave her lots of compliments and she gave her number out. I’d call that solid evidence she is genuine!
Tragedy: That’s what girls like that do! They lure you in under the guise of genuinely caring and then they pull and pluck your strings to their will.
Humour: [sarcastically] You are all sooooo pessimistic!
Fear: That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You’re always the first to point and laugh just like the rest of the school.
Humour: First off, Em has never been pointed and laughed at, no one barely knows she exists. Secondly, I recognise when people are genuine. I heard it in her giggles and saw it in her smiles. Jane cares and we should give her a chance.
Fear: Do you really think so?
Humour: I know so … and worse case scenario Em’ll just do some homework in the library. [laughs nervously] So, whose with me?
Rationality: This can only end well.
Irrationality: Fine! But I will be the one to say I told you so.
Fear: I’m in, it’s good to do things that scare you.
Tragedy: Okay, at least it can’t be worse than today. Full steam ahead!
Relief: Thankfully we’ll be in our safe space.
Messy papers unstacked against forgotten psychology books, Dust magnets to a buried Id subconsciously subdued. Brown flecked Bonsai tree that barely receives looks, Coffee stained corner-stall with marker pen ne’er removed.
Wonderings adrift through the smog clod furnishings, Oaky aromas still wafting amongst the eagle head bookends Lovingly ensconced in velvet draped flourishings. Dog-eared pages yellow seeking beloved and attentive friends.
Alabaster foot paperweight sun-bleached from the northward rays, Pencil shavings meticulously stored in the eastward corner space, Where western pencils, pens and charcoal align like sunny days, Southern scratches plague it’s drawers with unkempt grace.
Swollen memories now roll around in my skull. Dancing with beautiful blooded daggers on top of a pyramid of scorched cash. Oh it felt so nice to be on top; when we were Tom and Jerry. And I would bring a mallet down on your head and share in a laugh or two. I know you loved them just as much as me.
Remember that time when everyone had those stunning smiles stretched across their plastic faces. So gorgeous! Remember how happy they were and how sad you were. But we had so much fun on our fun run around the city. And then you went and ruined it all by putting me on the silly ol’ naughty step again. Not that they could keep me here very long. I had their sides splitting and left them in so many stitches they gave me a medical license!
Why did you have to throw in the towel? Why did you have to hand over the mantle to those rejects in red? They’re so boring! It’s just not the same. And then you had to go and die on me. Now that’s no fun at all. You really were the ultimate killjoy. And you know how much I like killing for the joy of it.
But anyway (spoil sport), I think a toast is needed for us. To all the times you say you hated me. I hate you too. For all the times we danced in the pale moonlight. For all the times I plucked the birds. For all the times you lovingly kissed my flesh with the sweet caress of your balled up fist and sliced me open like a surgeon. I won’t forget you!
Thanks for the laughs Batsy!
J
Each to and fro And back and forth Propels me skyward true; Through mottled yellow canopies, Into the feather flaked sanctuaries.
The rope is blue-plastic-cankered, And frayed With concrete securely anchored, To that spot behind the antique shed; So far away from where I lay my head.
But my head would soon lay once more Between the gravel and concrete floor.
Quick. Slip. And snap to fall. One huge swing to fly like Icarus soon, A tumble and a cry, and an almighty bawl. A boy weeps winded like a piano out of tune. The concrete swing is no more.
