‘Dreams’ Category

  1. Dream: The Island

    27 March, 2011 by Alexa Chipman

    I must have blacked out, because the first thing I remember is hearing the gentle creaking of an old wooden ship which I knew to be the Balclutha. At first I lay, eyes closed, feeling it rock and sensing the light playing across my face.

    It was the quiet that woke me—oh there were plenty of sounds, but none of them were the usual sort. It is surprising how loud our modern computers, cars, and constant buzz of mobile users can be whenever they are removed and nature returns.

    I stepped out onto the deck, but it was deserted—the same strange silence hung over the area, as if there had not been a human being there in a very long time. I felt an overwhelming urge to reach shore, and since there was no gangway, I lowered myself down to the mooring hawsers and began going hand over hand toward the dock, being careful to time it with the swaying ship.

    The island sloped up into vibrant green fields bending in a dance with the wind. I struggled up the low hill, only to find my shoes sinking. With horror, I realized that what had seemed like a friendly meadow was actually a bog. I whirled round to retrace my steps, but I had apparently taken the only safe route there was. Now that I examined the area closer, it was no field, but a marsh with green tentacles that looked like grass but weren’t. Terrified, I flung myself back down toward the shore. I fell onto my knees into the muck, and nothing I did seemed to free me from the bog. Crying and desperate I pulled myself inch by inch through the difficult mossy muck until I reached hard ground and dragged myself onto it.

    Shaking with fear and exhaustion, I lay on the warm earth until the stillness covered me and I felt compelled to go on. This time I looked more carefully around before walking anywhere. Far off around the bend of a peninsula I spotted a large white building in the Edwardian style—porch, pillars, and way too much decoration.

    The wind whipped through my dress, which I realized for the first time I was wearing. It was long white gauze like a turn-of-the-century summer dress, and had quickly dried in the sea breeze. The door to the building was ajar and I hesitantly opened it. Within was a dark room with slightly flickering orange light revealing a museum of some sort. Some areas were set up in scenes with cut-outs and signs explaining what they were. On one side was a row of glass cases containing artifacts, and somewhere a movie was playing about the 1840s in California.

    The first thing I noticed was that I was no longer alone. There were knots of people looking through the museum—children running about, couples talking about one of the signs, and a few taking pictures with camera-phones. I began wandering through the rooms and found it was the most eclectic museum I’d ever been in, and believe me I’ve been to a lot of strange museums. There were actual scenes set up with still figures from Lord of the Rings, such as an entire Shire market. There were historical shelves full of daguerreotypes and paintings, old computers, and other incongruous objects. Little by little I realized that the museum was about me. It was a heaping random mix of the things that had meaning to me and I felt tears of fear well up. I began running madly through rooms trying to get out, but the museum was endless.

    I had given up and was standing transfixed in one of the darker chambers filled with towering figures, when a man walked up. He was not impressive—thin, quiet, but with a distant air of authority. At first I thought he was a tour guide, because he made a comment about the room we were in, then began walking and discussing the exhibits. I followed him instinctively, and soon found we were making our way through brighter and brighter rooms. Soon there was a door ahead that led the way into a formal garden with a view down to the ocean. He was talking about an obscure story of the original owner’s dog when I realized he was either incredibly old or was a descendant of the owner of the house that had been turned into a museum.

    When he noticed me staring, he smiled and made a comment about how my dress reminded him of the owner. We walked past some bright iceplant, but suddenly he stopped on the path and merely pointed to the harbour down below, “you can catch a ferry back,” he indicated. I began stumbling down the narrow dirt trail, and when I looked back he was on his way into the museum again. I had a sense that somehow he was going to make sure I was alright.

    Down at the ferry dock I expected to have to wait a long time, but just as I arrived, so did the small boat. There were a few other passengers who clambered in with me. A blonde was at the wheel, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

    “Good timing,” I mentioned politely, “I didn’t have to wait at all.”

    “Of course you didn’t,” she snapped back without looking up.

    I looked to her left at a large white sign that showed the schedule—there were only four ferry runs, “short schedule,” I said.

    “Yeah, usually it’s really long, but He sent us a short one this morning.”

    I knew somehow she was talking about the man in the museum.

    “Take over,” she handed me the wheel and went back to gather tickets from the other passengers. For some reason she never asked me, and I was too busy trying to make sure I was in the correct shipping lanes following the right of way to really notice. She took the wheel back for docking and I stepped ashore.

    The ferry roared off for the island again, though all I saw was water. When I looked about for a sign about the ferry schedule and where I had been, there was nothing there. An old sailor type was sitting with his pipe on a bench and I wandered over to ask him.

    “Ferry?” he laughed, “there ain’t no ferry that stops here. Not since the ’20s,” he snorted and got up, clearly disgusted with my ignorance. That was when I knew who the museum curator was. I rushed to the edge of the water, straining for a glimpse of the island, but it was gone. The feeling that He was still looking out for me remained. The man at the museum knew my life in a way even I could not, and he was not about to leave the island any time soon. I only needed to find a way back.

    Note: I think this was the influence of The Prisoner, Pride & Prejudice, and Master & Commander

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  2. Dream: Maenad

    16 December, 2010 by Alexa Chipman

    Mist from fog dripped off the dark evergreen leaves of the forest—deserted save for one creature. For months it had preyed upon animals, and the local lodge was on the point of closing, for people were too frightened to enter the dark eves of the woods. The forest sat alone in wallowing majesty, with a gentle “drip, drip” from the tips of the needles. A lone woman stood poised on the edge of the nearest tree, hesitant to enter, yet longing to do so. She had not fully believed the stories of hikers torn to shreds as they walked. At last the silent beauty of the forest compelled her, and she tip-toed hesitantly into its quickly falling gloom.

    What happened within that tomb of branches no-one knew—rending cries of agony echoed into the noon sun, and the lodge cowered in fear. By night the woman stumbled out—cut, stung, and in shock—her long ginger hair hanging in wet strings. She walked to the fireplace in the center room, as the others clustered around. They dared not come to close, but were longing to hear what had happened.

    “It is dead,” she finally mumbled, not breaking her horrified stare at the grate. She never moved the rest of the night, and with the dawn she walked resolutely out to her car, dragging the garden hose with her. Turning the water on to its height, she closed the door, still clutching the end of the hose. Pressure slowly filled the car up to her feet, swirled round her knees, and slowly climbed. Her lip quivered, but that was all; she was resolute in her decision. The creature she had killed was the last of its kind—a terrifying monster, true, but she had no right to end its life or race, either to save her own life or that of others. That had not been her decision to make.

    Cold water gushed out of the hose clamped in her hands. She slowly rolled the window up, leaving only enough room at the top for the slender soft pipe. Water swirled caressingly about her shoulders, tossing her hair in dancing red-gold. Her eyes stayed fixed open, and she did not even attempt to take a breath as it covered her lips and nose. She felt only the horror of having ended a life.

    The lodge owner found her—the car filled as if a lake, and water still pouring out of the sides. Her face still held a tormented expression as she floated doll-like in her self-made prison. The door was flung open and she landed gently back down on her seat. As the lodge owner bent over, strange blotches appeared on her skin—long red welts drew themselves on her arms and widened. Something pushed its way through, and the man felt ill with revulsion which quickly turned to astonishment. Soft rose petals oozed from her skin, falling gently with the breeze to the soaked seat beside her and out to the dust-covered earth. More petals came, every size, every colour, from her arms, her neck, her hands, and her face.

    She gasped, sitting tauntly up and mouth snapping open—a river of petals flew out to the wind. At length she was quiet, alive, unimpeded, but maple leaves oozed from her arms. Her whole frame glowed like a goddess; and she stood, sending mist into the dewy parking lot. Her hands flung out, sending forth clusters of grapes which filled the area, “dance,” she cried, stepping out as if for a wine-press, and enthralled all who had gathered to watch. They joined in to leap and stomp, sending rivers of grape juice down the narrow dirt road. The creature lived on.

    Note: I think this was an influence of Doctor Who’s Vincent, David Copperfield, and Prince Caspian. I had the dream last night.

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  3. Dream: Middle Town

    12 December, 2010 by Alexa Chipman

    For fun, I thought I’d write up some of the more interesting dreams I’ve had. This one is from last night—enjoy (or not).

    Encircled by desert mountains stood a small rundown town; many of the buildings were falling-down Victorians, and the rest had been hastily constructed in the 1970s—it was difficult to tell which set of buildings was the most hideous. It had once been a thriving mining center, but now, other than a tiny tourist trade, there was not much to do. Not much, that is, save quarreling with neighbors. Due to the steep terrain, the buildings were clustered around three shelved levels above the deep red-gold canyon. On the left side high up Deadbirch Hill was the only newspaper office in town, which religiously published a tiny periodical filled mostly with jabs at inhabitants of the lower town, which sat on the far right. They boasted the large sprawling cemetery, over which trampled wild horses and drifting sagebrush. In the middle snuggled the most modern of the rundown shacks and the only stable construction in town—the cement factory. As the only industry in the area, they middle town families were extremely proud of that factory, and would barely speak to the inhabitants of upper and lower Deadbirch.

    One day the smallest, geekiest worker at the factory—the only member of the town who complained about the lack of wireless internet in the area—took to the streets with a remarkable prophesy (on the weekend of course, he would never shirk work during logged in hours), “this town will be utterly destroyed,” he shouted to the small community, his nerdy voice echoing off cliffs, “save for the factory and centre of town which shall survive!” Since the only other entertainment in the area was getting drunk in the saloon or watching paint dry, the young geek’s voice did not fall on deaf ears. He soon had a huge crowd (for Deadbirch anyway) gathered around; some had even brought wine basket lunches. On and on the passionate worker shouted, then led an enthusiastic procession to the factory. It dwindled as they reached the invisible border of the middle town—no entertainment could convince an upper or lower townmember to venture past that border—but a small group still followed him up to the roof of the comfortable, though ugly, building. By afternoon, his followers grew bored and went home, but he still sat there as the sun dipped down and the sky turned to stars.

    As darkness came, a gurgling began underneath the mountain—the entire area seemed to be moving as if the buildings were on pudding, rather than firm rock. Liquid cement spurted out like geysers from every crack and old mine tunnel, sending the town into a liquid molten grey blob. It swirled round and round, swallowing people, chickens, and laundry right off the lines. When it struck the bottom of the cement factory (which was of course cement itself) the river stopped and slowly seeped back into the ground leaving middle town untouched as promised. The astonished inhabitants looked out to see perfectly a formed cement upper and lower town in grotesque statuettes. When they went to find the prophetic nerd who had warned them, he had vanished.

    Note: I think this was a combination of watching Doctor Who’s Weeping Angels sequel and Eureka back to back combined with the fact I’ll be visiting Virginia City over Christmas.

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