Skip to main content

Seventeen

A distinctly wintery feel with this one. Unusually centred around somewhere other than the city which was both a pleasant surprise and ultimately disturbing. I have found my sleeping patterns have altered noticeably since leaving a job that required a 5am start, and as a result the nocturnal ramblings I have have been allowed some space to mutate more.

'Somewhere in Russia, in a collection of fields and mounds surrounded by barbed wire fences. I assume it is a gulag. Myself and Zoe are investigating a disappearance. At one end the field passes through a rusted gate to a crumbling road. We meet a man on the road who runs a kebab shop from his garage. I ask him some questions as his English is good (I seem to have checked first) but he is reluctant to answer them. He does reveal that the fenced area is not a former gulag but is actually an old zoo. After purchasing a 'chicken burger' we return, only to be chased by a bear through some woodland to the north of the zoo. We force our way under a fence and hide with some journalists, who are there to cover the story. Despite the terror of the bear circling us outside, I am hungry. I tuck into my burger and discover it is made of some kind of cold plastic.'

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Sixty Eight

In some sort of wasteland, possibly Malton from urbandead but in reality. The buildings and general lay out of the space appears to be a grid system, dark green, crisscrossing and bisecting the land; it resembles a giant board game. The sky is muted orange, and I have a feeling there is something lurking in the increasing shadows that dusk has introduced. Someone who I am with shows me around their flat. From the window I see abandoned car parks, and in the distance lakes and mountains, though this view is partially obscured by smoke rising from refineries that seem to encircle the town. The light is falling away. No-one is on the street when I am taken to the next house. The view from the window is the other house. Each subsequent place I am shown around offers a view of the preceding property. I am caught in a loop of property viewing, with some unknown menace responsible for the trap I find myself in.
1 comment
Read more

Forty Five

Last night: 'Something wakes me, and I look out the window to see our garden has been territorialized by an unknown neighbour. A sign is on the lawn saying 'Until June/July 2011' (I am not confused by this). There are dog toys spread about the place and a large looking dog who moves around in his sleep as I inspect the garden. Later, inside, I hear the neighbours and their kid discussion technological purchases. I instantly loathe them. I am up at the front room window when a car pulls up and a number of people jump out and run in to the houses opposite. This is quickly followed by a number of police cars and an armed response unit which attacks a door and promptly falls through in to the cellar of one of the buildings. The flashing lights of the cars are an unusual red and purple. There is a lot of shouting and the sound of small arms fire in the distance. Zoe, woken by the commotion, comes to the window. 'What is going on?' she asks. 'They're looking for m...
Post a Comment
Read more

Sixty Nine

'The undercroft of a castle or cathedral. A female friend – blonde, round face, but unrecognizable on waking – is telling me about an amazing man, a prophet no less, who is going to lead her/us to some unspecified promised land. I am obviously sceptical. The undercroft is arranged with a series of desks, as in a Victorian class room (all tightly packed, high, scarred wood). Everyone is wearing a white gown. The class begins, and the students and my friend are subjected to a baffling array of visuals and noises projected across the entirety of the room. Somewhere in the darkness a man is laughing. I move slowly through the flashing lights to the source of the laughter to find Chris Morris, his hair long and curly, is in fact doing all of this as an elaborate joke. I try to explain this to everyone by I am drowned out by the ‘art work’; I run out of the undercroft, aware now that the practical joke was obviously at my expense.'
Post a Comment
Read more