The Dreaming Begins: September 2009

Chapter 1

The man who lived next door to me practiced scream therapy in his shower. Every morning like clockwork I would hear the water begin to rain down from the shower head, and a few brief moments later the screaming would start. I assumed he had just recently moved in and that this was the norm for him. But what kind of norm could that possibly be? Perhaps he was insane, or perhaps I was the one who was out of place and should start screaming in my shower as well. I didn't remember seeing anything in the brochure about this being an apartment complex for people who scream in their showers. However, I thought that there was still a slight chance that this man was the only one to have read the fine print and seen the "scream in shower" clause. I wonder if they lowered his rent for his trouble. Maybe I should start practicing scream therapy as well.

Having this odd stranger, who I affectionately referred to as Mr. Scream, as a neighbor was a vastly different experience from having old Mr. Crumble as a neighbor. He lived just below me and sometimes it got so quiet in his apartment I wondered if he were dead. I wasn't really sure how old he was, though, as I only saw him occasionally when I happened to cross his path as he went for his daily jog around all the floors of the complex. Surely a man who could get up and do that every morning must be many years from his end. Although, stranger things have happened than a healthy old man expiring before his time. It was because of thoughts like this I still often worried that he lay dead in his apartment. And that thought would lead to another about if he had anyone who would notice he were missing from his daily activities. I would often finish this train of thought by concluding that he was close to death and only performed his athletic jaunt across the floors to speed his impending doom, as he had killed a man and knew that they, whoever they were, were very close to solving whatever mystery surrounded the circumstances. He must've seen slow suicide by jogging as his only escape. Maybe he was afraid of knives and owned no gun. Or maybe he wanted to die in the best shape of his life. After sitting at my desk for hours contemplating Mr. Crumble's murderous deeds, I would realize I had spent my entire day and that it would soon be time for my scream therapy. I often felt I lived in a strange parody of a made for TV movie. Being a writer and drinking gallons of coffee a day does much to affect my perceptions of the world, and often in rather peculiar ways such as this.

Many people have had odd neighbors, especially those of us who lived in small apartments in the middle if the city. All kinds of people ended up here. College students, old folks that can still take care of themselves, young couples with little money, bachelors of all ages, and artists and writers who have to cut down on expenses to be able to continue to practice their craft. I knew which of those categories I belonged to, and I knew which one Mr. Crumble belonged to, but which one best described Mr. Scream? Then and there I made it my mission to discover all I possibly could about this mysterious figure. Writing and, consequently, business, had been uncomfortably slow lately so I entertained the idea that this would help me to jump-start my brain and hopefully allow me to continue my writing in a manner that would be beneficial to my bank account. Really I was just a naturally curious person. I was the kind of curious that, had I been a cat, would've guaranteed I was dead. Luckily I was not a cat, I was a writer, and a writer cannot survive if he is not curious or very good at plagiarism. As my conscience would never allow me to plagiarize, I was glad to be so curious.

I had made up my mind to become a temporary detective and get to the bottom of this mystery. I felt that I needed a deerstalker cap, or a pipe, possibly a fedora, or maybe even a small revolver, but the only thing I was able to find was one of those short somewhat fashionable trench coats. Too bad it was the middle of summer. Every good writer knows that detectives chose image over comfort, and at this time in history I was a detective, so I put on my coat and slipped out my front door. As I stood there in the hallway, searching for clues, I heard Mr. Crumble jogging in my direction. When he came around the corner, I stood, looking rather fashionable in my pajamas and trench coat, in the center of the hallway. Mr. Crumble stopped a few feet from me and stood and stared while I focused all my attention on the floral wallpaper.
"It's hideous isn't it?" The old man casually dipped his hands into his pockets, probably searching for a bit of pocket lint. Maybe that was his murder weapon of choice. A few minutes on the case and I was already on my way to solving one mystery.
Yes, I thought, it was truly hideous how he could get away with such a despicable crime. "No, I like the flowers, they help me think. I come out here sometimes to look at them when I can't write."

"They make me dizzy if I look at them while I jog, sometimes I have to make my rounds with my eyes closed." As he said this he smirked ever so slightly. Most men of his age look sweet and warm when they perform this action, like a grandpa. I guess that he must've never married, as he looked almost sinister when he expressed himself with this particular facial expression. "Nice plaid," he added, glancing down at my pajama pants.

"Yea, I like plaid, helps me think." I wondered if it really did help me think. If there are so many things that help me think, I thought that I should be getting a lot more work done. After all, the deadline for my book is coming up. I stared down at my pants and began to think of all the other things that helped improve my cognitive process. "Coffee, coffee helps me think too." I blinked at Mr. Crumble, then returned my gaze to the floral patterned wall.

"If there are so many things that help you think, you'd think you'd get more work done. Aren't you working on a book or something?" Old Man Crumble laughed under his breath as he said this. He should've done a full-bellied hearty laugh, and he should've smiled when he did it instead of flashing that sinister smirk. A murderer with a hearty laugh would be a bit of a twist, and a twist is exactly the sort of thing this story would need. But I guess those usually come later, having the twist at the beginning of the story makes writing the rest a great deal more difficult.

Had he just read my mind? It took me a second to fully comprehend what he had said, his laugh distracted me. Maybe the laugh was meant to distract me so that I would not notice he was reading my mind. An old man who kills people with pocket lint and reads minds, this was an interesting read already and I hadn't even gotten to Mr. Scream yet. "The roses are a strange color red, they don't look real."

"Well that wallpaper has been on that wall far longer than it should be." The first normal observation he had made during our entire conversation. What kind of strange man would remark on my pajamas, I wondered. "I need to finish my morning exercise so I can get to the store at my usual time, good day." I watched Mr. Crumble jog out of sight around the corner and pondered his last words. I bet he's going to buy a Twix, that's the sort of thing a murderer would buy.

I realized that the roses would tell me nothing of Mr. Scream or Mr. Crumble and decided that perhaps a pot of coffee might be more agreeable. I quickly returned to my room to find my coffee pot waiting patiently for my mental questioning. I wasn't entirely sure what mental questioning was, but I liked the way it sounded and thought that it would look good on paper. Frequent readers often excuse nonsense phrases as long as they seem to be interesting or eccentric. I made a mental note to use the phrase in my writing, and at once decided that I was just partial to the word "mental".

Chapter 2

As I poured my coffee I heard a muffled yawn that was ever so slightly reminiscent of the sound small kittens make when yearning to be stroked or just noticed. Making my way into my bedroom, coffee cup in each hand, I made another mental note. This time it was about what a strangely accurate metaphor I had just accidently thought up.

She was beautiful, laying in my bed, all wrapped up in the sheets from her habit of stretching and rolling around just after waking up. I don’t smile much due to being self-conscious about my teeth, but this gorgeous being who lay nestled in my bed always knew, by way of some curious instinct, when I meant to smile, and she expressed this knowledge by lighting up her face and flashing her perfect teeth at me. I was quite sure there were many people who would revolve their lives around the fact that such a wonderful creature not only existed, but took up residence in their bed. In fact, many of my characters were those sorts of people. I, on the other hand, took a more indirect approach to not taking her for granted.

Everyone was something, and at a certain point in my life a few years back, I had established that what I was, was a writer. Writers and other creative types can often be overheard referencing their inspirations or their “muses”. I think I remember something about muses in Greek legend being a group of beautiful women who inspired all in their creative endeavors. While other modern authors identify their muses as anything from coffee to their cat, I leaned more towards the Greek’s way of making up ridiculous reasons for completely explainable occurrences, like using your brain to come up with ideas. By “leaned more towards the Greek way” I mean to say, though I was aided in my writing by lilac wallpaper and plaid pajamas and coffee, my true muse really was a beautiful woman, and for all I know she really could’ve been some sort of Greek goddess. She certainly had the beauty of a goddess, and she most assuredly made love like one. I was a lucky down-on-my-luck writer with what most would refer to as “not a single successful piece of work”. Those who felt comfortable enough in their knowledge of my person commonly referred to me as a slacker, a fuck up, or, more optimistically, a work in progress.

But my muse, who’s name I did not know, believed in me and all my wild ideas. At least, she seemed to. In the two weeks since she showed up at my door, I had hardly heard her speak a handful of sentences. She seemed content, and quite able, to convey whatever she might be thinking in looks and caresses. When she did speak, they were words of passion, the sort of which I had never before had the pleasure of hearing. I often spoke of her to others, or rather, I would have if I often spoke to others. When I did, however, I left out intimate and specific details and only referred to her as “my muse” or simply, Muse. Most seemed to accept this as the kind of eccentric quirk often associated with writers like myself.

Muse sipped the coffee I handed her and flashed that radiant smile again. She finished the coffee in only a couple of minutes, and after setting it down on my nightstand, reached her hand out to me and gave me a pleading look. Unsure what she wanted, my face twisted to become a silent question. Muse responded by trying to push her hand even further towards me, but she succeeded only in wriggling her fingers. I reached out to grab her hand and was rewarded by being jerked towards her and met with a passionate kiss. I managed to not spill any of my coffee by extending my arm and holding it as far away from myself as I could. After a minute of this passionate encouragement she pushed me back and gave me the look that I had come to interpret as, “Time to get back to your writing.”

I finished my coffee at my desk which was quite devoid of any unorganized mess, only the most organized clutter was permitted to partition my valuable desk space. It was inhabited by various writing related objects such as unwashed coffee mugs, various novels and books of poetry from which I drew inspiration, and short stacks of my many failed beginnings to “my next big novel”, next here meaning first.

Sitting at my desk, staring at my reflection in the screen of my Macbook, I realized I wasn’t sure what to write, and that I had neglected my shaving for the past few days. I stood up and took my coffee mug on a quick journey to the coffee pot containing a depressingly dwindling amount of coffee. A mug of coffee, some flavored creamer, a lot of sugar, and a few seconds of stirring later, I had returned to analyzing the growth of hair that now covered a decent amount of the surface area of my face via the reflection in my mirror/screen.

I sat and imagined myself shaving in an effort to help me decide if getting up and making the five-second walk to the bathroom was worth expenditure of energy it would require. Then another imaginary situation entered my brain that quite rapidly returned me to reality. Before I examined this thought, though, I made a mental note of the of my mental alliteration. Because of this short distraction I forgot my previous thought entirely and decided it was probably about time that I began my writing, so I stood up from my chair and made my way to my room.

I stood in my doorway and marveled at the beauty of my muse. She was still in my bed, though Muse was now quite awake and sitting upright with her legs crossed. From the way her body loosened up when she saw me, I knew what was going to come next. It wasn’t hard for her to get me into bed. She was simultaneously the most innocent being I could imagine existing and the most incredibly alluring one. Making love with her always felt as if it were the first time, yet with lifetimes of experience. It was indescribably beautiful.

We concluded our morning foray into romantic bliss with a shower, after which I was finally able to complete an acceptable number of words and pages. Though I often turned to other sources, Muse was certainly the only inspiration I would ever need. She had showed up out of nowhere, and I sometimes wondered if I would awake to find she had returned to that place. I thought on this, trying to grasp the queerness of it all, then I realized I had used queerness in it’s correct and original meaning. My confidence in my skill with the English language rose ever so slightly, and I resolved that I should use the word more often so that the world might be reminded of it’s true meaning. I made a mental note.

Chapter 3

My short trench coat, a fedora, a dress shirt, a pair of dress pants, and a tie comprised my outfit for the day. I hoped it would aid me in my detecting of the truth. As I exited my room, though, I felt as if I had forgotten an essential detail. I entered my room and exited it again, this time with a cigarette hanging from my mouth. It was unlit and purely for appearances as there was no smoking allowed in the hallways. As per usual I stood in the center of the hallway, focused my eyes on the floral wallpaper, and stared intensely for a short time. All manner of ideas and thoughts flew through my head before one lone idea stood out. It was not the typical sort of idea I was prone to have after this ritual, but it was an idea nonetheless. Perhaps it was my manner of dress having some effect on my subconscious. Maybe it was the bountiful quantities of coffee I had consumed this morning, or possibly the ample amount of sex I had partaken in. Since I was unsure as to which of these had allowed me to conjure up this new and unusual idea, I rationalized that I should forgo attempting to deduce which was truly responsible and instead continue with all three of the potentially beneficial activities.

Hands in coat pockets, I began patrolling the hallways, listening and looking for the sorts of clues I imagined a private eye might. In the manner that I suspected a detective might, I examined every inch of the hallway. The carpet and doorknobs resisted my questioning, as did the baseboards and decorative plants. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of the elusive Mr. Scream, but he was exceptionally absent from the area surrounding my apartment. I wondered if perhaps he had been told of my coming, but who could possibly have known what I had intended to do? This revelation prompted the thought that it may be he had an accomplice, a third player in the game whom I had not yet discovered. The more I considered this possibility the more it struck me as particularly plausible.

After what felt like a few more hours of immensely unsuccessful detective work, but was later revealed in spite by my contentious wristwatch to be but forty minutes, I made up my mind that next time I played detective I would replace my cigarette with a pipe. Having had this genius idea before I began my detecting, I now regretted deciding to put it off till after, but it was now “after” and I could make my way to the nearest tobacco store to purchase this seemingly essential element.

Exploring the outside world in my present attire would be foolish, so I left my coat with Muse, who then proceeded to parade around my apartment dressed in nothing else and with a magnifying glass, entertaining herself with fantasies of living out some of my unpublished stories right there in my living room. I entertained the idea of staying to watch this exclusive vignette being performed in my honor, but instead, loosened up my tie and took the stairwell to the lobby. I thought it good exercise for the substantial amount of trekking I assumed to be in my near future. I laughed aloud at my word choice all the way down the stairs and out into the lobby. It humored me so much that as I passed a stranger on the way out the door I flashed him the Vulcan salute and left him to ponder the words “Live long and prosper”. It felt good to embrace the nerd inside me and I made a mental note to do it more often.

Chapter 4

The pipe was a singularly exquisite artifact. Not to say it was old, but it gave the feeling of something that had history, or that people would believe had history. I could go about recounting how my grandfather had purchased it in his days in London and lounged about with members of Scotland Yard while puffing smoke rings from the finest tobaccos in all of Europe, and the standard man would hardly imagine to suspect that the truth might be otherwise. Even as I developed this make believe history and knew that is what it was, I found myself slipping into belief as small clouds of smoke began to fill the living room of my apartment.

Muse sat on the floor in a casual summer dress, she seemed to delight in deeply inhaling my attempts at smoke rings, which basically included every misshapen cloud. In time, my pipe puffing became yet another activity I engaged in because I so adored watching her reveal her innocent side. I also found that I considerably preferred this newfound custom to my previous one of smoking a cigarette when I found myself with nothing else to fill my time. I wondered what other brilliant habits I might acquire from Mr. Holmes.

After finishing with the pipe, I remained seated on the couch and attempted to speculate further on the peculiar moods and activities of my neighbors, and though I knew of only two, I suspected the rest of my neighbors must be equally as queer to share this place with them. I suppose this must mean that I too am a queer kind of neighbor, and after considering this thought I came to realize that I was indeed a queer kind of neighbor.

While I meditated on these thoughts, Muse came to sit on the couch next to me. She pushed her arms around me and attempted to move me into a more comfortable position. Realizing what it is she wanted, I stretched out on the couch, leaving her room to lay beside me. Following a quick peck on my lips, Muse laid her head on my chest and we were promptly in the arms of Morpheus.

I was awakened when my lungs were abruptly emptied of their contents by what I initially believed to be a large jungle cat with human hands. Once slightly more awake, I realized the thing perched on my chest was not some mutated feline predator who wished to feast upon my flesh, but my beautiful Muse who wished for me to feast upon the dinner she had prepared while I had been silently observing the inside of my eyelids. Muse didn’t often cook, but I eagerly anticipated those nights when she did. Seeing as I knew next to nothing about her, I wasn’t sure where she had learned to prepare food and combine ingredients with such aptitude, but Muse fashioned the most memorable meals I had ever had the pleasure of consuming.

The main course this evening was a sort of fried rice with bits of red pepper and kale and eggs, though from the taste I concluded it must have been made of a thousand different spices and flavorings. Till this point I had never tasted anything more exquisite. We dined on the floor, as was our routine. I often had to clean the one area of the carpet that served as our dinner table, but the unusualness of it pleased me so much that I did not mind any slight inconveniences it caused.

As we dined, I thought I might restart my attempts at conversing with my inexplicably mute muse. “What did you do while I was out earlier?” I picked this question from the myriad of inquiries floating around in my head because I sometimes had the absurd idea that Muse might not exist when I am not about.

I busied myself with finishing my third plate of rice while I anticipated her answer, but her answer came in the form of that beautiful smile. I momentarily toyed with the idea of being frustrated, but that smile could bring me back from the point of sheer madness. I had the feeling she was well aware of this fact, but it was difficult to read someone who was as unceasingly mum as she was radiant.

“I would tell you about mine, but you were here for the whole thing, except when I went to buy that pipe, but that wasn’t much of a thing, the store is just across the street,” I paused to take in the expression that spread across her face, which could only be described as adoration, “what about your day? I know you spent it with me, but I’d quite like to hear you tell about it.”

As soon as the words had left my mouth, her face revealed an expression I had never before seen it express and had been convinced her features could not shape. Despite being I writer I could summon no words to describe it, none that would do justice to its intricacies. She made a vain effort to conceal this unfamiliar show of emotion.

“Muse, what is it? Is something wrong?” I was genuinely worried that I might have committed some emotional injustice to this pristine being who had never so much as stared in my direction without looking overjoyed that I happened to be in her field of vision.

Muse laid there on the carpet, propped up on one elbow, looking at me, and I couldn’t remember ever seeing her so fragile and innocent. She often emanated with childlike innocence, but what she unveiled now was more akin to the innocence shown in the face and actions of someone who has sincerely fallen in love for the first time.

We had both polished off our plates long ago. Muse began to collect the dishes, but I stayed her hand by gently taking ahold of it and assuring her I would take care of them. I stacked the plates, perched the silverware and cups atop them, took them into the kitchen, and rinsed them mostly clean of small leftover bits of food. Moving to the dishwasher, plates balanced on one hand, I was extending my other towards the dishwasher with intent to open it when I felt her arms slip around my waste. Muse often expressed herself in such affectionate ways, but for the first time in our lengthy companionship I felt as if it were something other than an excessively friendly gesture of encouragement. I set the plates on the counter and rotated within her arms so that I might face her. No sooner had I completed my rotation than she tenderly embraced me. I wholeheartedly returned her warm gesture, and we remained locked together till our legs began to tire of use and seize up.

Unsure of why I decided on this certain action I led her by her hand to the bed. A substantial assortment of thoughts and emotions concerning Muse had often plagued me, but the ones which invaded my mind at this time were previously unfamiliar to me. They pushed their way through the crowd and to the forefront. I dared not name them for fear that they might be frightened away if they came to realize that I knew them for what they were. It felt as if I were being born again with new eyes and ears with which to experience and understand this world which had lain hidden just underneath the blanket of reality.

Muse and I lay pressed against each other, fingers intertwined, and faces just close enough so that we didn’t appear to each other to only have a single eye placed in the middle of our faces. Muse had let her dress fall to the floor when we entered the room and I had complied with her silent request for me to act in similar fashion. As an effect of these actions, we shared our warmth and heartbeats while we lie together.

Though we often had sex, and I titled it as “making love” in my mind, on this night I realized the error in my word choice, and as an author I was somewhat appalled at my own incompetence with the complexities of English. Until now, Muse and I had only engaged in the physical act of having sex. Be that as it may, in this moment, we made love. Words failed me, as they often had on this auspicious night. I could evoke no other words to describe what took place. Muse and I had made love, and I made a mental note to never forget how simple and complete my existence felt as we fell into each other.

Chapter 5

I found myself in a kind of medical facility, not quite like a hospital but not unlike one either. There were faces familiar to me, though these incarnations of my acquaintances and old friends were all strangers. A few minutes into my exploration of this new environment, one of the familiar strangers, who I distinguished as a patient here, attempted to make conversation with me and, when I did not return the favor, began to follow me around. He spoke of all manner of things that were bizarre to me. Occasionally, words would leave his mouth and enter my ear that were comprehensible and made some sort of sense.

“Even numbers taste better than odd numbers, don’t you agree?”

While I listened to him say this I assured myself I would continue to dismiss him and his ridiculous statements, but even as I thought this I could feel my mouth, tongue, and throat all conspiring against me.

“Yeah, I like the way even numbers taste,” I was forced to pause my speech for a moment as a result of unexpectedly feeling entirely out of breath, “have you ever noticed how ‘bitch’ is half the dialogue on Jerry Springer?”

My dream friend didn’t answer seeing as how he had spontaneously combusted upon hearing the word “bitch”. I was, at first, unaware of this fact since I had to dedicate most of my mental faculties to pushing my body up the acutely steep staircase which I now found myself on, but his internal organs now cluttered the steps, causing me to slip and alerting me to his current situation.

It was at this point that two entirely different sounds penetrated my mind, sending a chill down my spine and imbuing me with the desire to dance in unison. The first was a popular rap song saying something about kissing a phone. The second was a loud, unnerving scream that seemed to shake this whole realm in which I presently inhabited.

I awoke standing rigidly upright in the center of my room. Somewhere in the distance I could hear an alarm clock radio playing that song which was the first sound I had heard in my dream.

“My dreams are weird dreams.”

Unsure why I would voice this thought, I looked around to make sure I was in actuality the source of the rather accurate observation. As it turns out, I was not alone, Muse was asleep in our bed, laying on her back, arms draped across her, but it was quite obvious she was not the source of my spoken thought. That left only myself as the origin, which would be the obvious answer I suppose. Unless there was someone hiding in the room, maybe it was that mysterious “third party” who I had deduced must exist during my hallway detective work the day before. My bedroom was a small one, not an ideal place to avoid detection. I tried to stay perfectly quiet as I turned in place and examined everywhere a mysterious third party could potentially hide themselves.

I spun around for a few minutes before I realized that my room contained only a bed, a dresser, and an antique mirror I’d got at a yard sale, none of which were ideal hiding spots. It was at the point that I heard that same scream that had unnerved me so in my dream. I had the same effect on me in the land of the waking, making me wonder if I wasn’t still in the land of Nod. The scream came again, this time louder, and I recognized it as my neighbor’s daily scream therapy. Mr. Scream performed his namesake a few more times, and as I listened I could tell, even in my sleepy stupor, that this was unlike his usual morning routine.

Not waiting for him to confirm my suspicions with another scream, though he did repeatedly in the length of time it took me to find some pants and pull them on. As I neared the door of my apartment I became conscious of the fact that I had forgotten a shirt or shoes. Nothing could be done about it at the present time, however, and I made do by grabbing my coat from the hook by the door. Once outside I noticed my fedora was perched on my head. I was unsure how it had come to be there, but now was hardly the time for such inconsequential worries.

Approaching Mr. Scream’s door, I saw that it was ajar. By now his screaming had become unbearable and sounded as if it were getting louder and nearer with every shrieking howl. I stretched my arm towards the door, but stopped midway when I heard a loud thumping that gradually accompanied the screaming. Still being somewhat sleepy, my mind took a split second too long to determine the possible meaning of this new knowledge, and I was punished for my inaction.

The door swung towards me with great velocity and met my forehead in an unpleasant manner, knocking me backwards and off balance. I plummeted towards the ground as a small, fully dressed, yet dripping wet, man loped down the hall as if he were some inhuman beast. From the corner of my eye, I saw him fling the stairway door open. The rude awakening I had received from the door had slightly dazed me, but allowed me to regain the kind of proficiency with my senses and thoughts as a conscious man should have. I could tell from the sound that came echoing out of the open doorway, Mr. Scream was on his way down.

Acting on instinct, I gave chase. In my long period of curiousness about Mr. Scream, nothing had shown so much promise as this of shedding light on his queer activity. Due to my inclination to imagine chase scenes I had seen in movies or read in books as I went through my daily proceedings, I was somewhat adept at descending the stairs with an uncommon quickness. I leapt over rails and down as many as six or seven steps at a time, coming to the bottom mere moments after my target.

Mr. Scream made a mad dash for the emergency door that led to an alleyway. He left my field of vision, but I could hear him slam through the door. I often wondered if those warnings about alarms going off were true or if they had gone out of service long ago, apparently the latter was true for this one. I followed the animal of a man through the door, treating it as he had.

Quickly looking around, I spotted him barreling through a group of people on the sidewalk, knocking some over and causing others to lose grip on their belongings. BlackBerrys, fake Gucci purses, and Macy’s bags went flying as he made his way down the sidewalk before attempting to cut across the street. I dogged him down the sidewalk, leaping over scattered belongings and dodging pedestrians as I did my best not to bowl anyone over. My carefulness inhibited my speed somewhat, but I still managed to keep up.

My quarry was able to make it across the street in a split second when it wasn’t congested with moving cars. I was not so lucky. I saw him dart across the street and meant to follow him, but Mr. Scream barely made it across before a torrent of automobiles filled the street. I was left stranded across the asphalt river for a few precious seconds that might as well have been an eternity.

I was able to cross the street once the lights went to red, but by this time he was far ahead of me. Though he left a trail of downed pedestrians and I could see him off in the distance, Mr. Scream seemed to only become more invigorated as he ran. I may have had adrenaline pumping through my blood, but this man seemed to be more animal than human and I could not hope to keep up with him. I did my best to pursue him for a few more blocks, but he inevitably managed to give me the slip. I made a mental note to watch more movies with chase scenes and maybe work some exercise into my schedule, especially if I was going to get to the bottom of this ever evolving mystery.

The Dreaming Begins

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Monday, September 7, 2009

[The Novel, 101 Mental Notes] 6,203 words down...43,797 left to go [101 Mental Notes]

Saturday, September 5, 2009

black and blue and broken bones [you left me here, i'm all alone]

Friday, September 4, 2009

Martian Child [rethought]

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

i've been walkin down these streets searchin...

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