You were driving the motorcycle while I sat in the sidecar.1 We raced across the wind-swept, dusty plains of Mars, zipping past the burnt out wrecks of vehicles scattered along the roadside. We couldn't understand why they had sent only the two of us to fight the entire Chinese military. Nor could we understand the goals of the Chinese, which seemed not to be conquest or capture of resources, but simple indiscriminate destruction.2 Settlements, individual vehicles out on the road, vast empty stretches of landscape: there was no obvious pattern to the targets of their bombing.
The motorcycle puttered to a halt: we were out of fuel. We both turned a glance to the west, where we could hear the distant hum of Chinese dropships. I checked over my rifle while you tried to get the motorcycle started again: we might still be able to get another mile or two out of it. We had plenty of ammo—we'd salvaged everything we could find from the wrecks we passed along the road—but it really doesn't manner how many rifle shots you fire at an armored dropship.
While checking the rifle, I noticed two small red bumps on my wrist. My heart sank. I pulled up my sleeve and found another one near my elbow. There was no fauna on Mars save for a species of winged stinging insect that had been brought to the planet accidentally in the early days of colonization, and which had continued to evolve under Martian conditions. The insect's venom operated in a curious manner: the first few stings were harmless, but once a person had been stung five times, some sort of saturation point was reached and the person would die within seconds.
I already had three stings that I could see. The fact that I wasn't dead meant that I hadn't reached the deadly fifth sting yet, but for all I knew the damned thing had gotten into my suit and I could go down at any moment.
The sound of the dropships, now louder, snapped me out of my thoughts. Was that a dark blur now visible on the horizon? I looked at my wrist again, climbed out of the sidecar and began unloading half of the ammo cases. You glanced up from fiddling with the motorcycle and asked me what I was doing. I pointed at the canyon to the north. "You can hole up in there and ride this out. I'll stay here and draw their attention."
A bang, a puff, and the motorcycle suddenly sprang back to life. You tried to coax me back into the sidecar, but I waved you to silence. You needed to get as close to the canyon as you could, and every second you spent arguing with me added to the distance you'd have to run.
I carried my half of the ammo behind a cluster of rocks and laid it out for easy access and reloading. I sat down with my back to the rocks and listened: to the fading hum of the motorcycle as it carried you to the north, to the growing rumble of the dropships, to the unceasing Martian wind.
---
Notes:
1It sounds odd, but the other character in this dream was not a specific person. Rather, I just somehow knew that it was "you," the person to whom I would later recount this dream, whoever you may be.
2I honestly have nothing but positive feelings towards the Chinese, but I guess this doesn't prevent my subconscious from casting them as our most likely rival in a future intrasolar war.
The Bed of Shirts
I was standing at the foot of a glass-faced skyscraper with three other people, comrades in some completed endeavor which I can no longer recall other than that it involved wandering around a semi-ruined building which looked like a cross between the interiors of a greenhouse and a submarine.
There was a sudden, loud crack. I looked up to see a massive piece of broken glass falling from the side of the building. Twice more this happened, the giant pieces of glass slamming into the concrete around us. A fourth and final piece broke loose from the building, and with it came a bed, tumbling through the air to smash into a heap before us. We stared at the bed in stunned confusion. As we did so, three pads of sticky notes were tossed from the hole in the building and landed on the bed—"pif... pif... pif" they went.
The first note said "See second note." I skipped the second note and instead picked up the third note, which was some sort of angry rant about the lack of towels in the room, raging at the fact that the writer had been forced to make his bed out of towels. I looked at the bed and noticed that it was indeed covered in towels rather than sheets, and that the mattress itself was made out of white men's dress shirts.1
More importantly, I noticed the large fresh blood stain on the bed, and the body that lay in the middle of it. I was horrified to see that it was Paige, a former coworker.2 Knowing that there was nothing I could do for her, I rushed into the building and up the stairs, vowing to take revenge on the murderer.
---
Notes:
1What's really weird is that later in the day following the dream, I saw that this was posted to Everything Is Terrible. Synchronicity out the wazoo. The video probably just seems goofy and weird to most viewers; for me, it now seems sinister and disturbing.
2I occasionally run into her at random places (Renaissance Faire, voting booth, mall), but she isn't really much more than an acquaintance. Although I guess I'll admit I always liked her and was sad to see her leave the museum.
There was a sudden, loud crack. I looked up to see a massive piece of broken glass falling from the side of the building. Twice more this happened, the giant pieces of glass slamming into the concrete around us. A fourth and final piece broke loose from the building, and with it came a bed, tumbling through the air to smash into a heap before us. We stared at the bed in stunned confusion. As we did so, three pads of sticky notes were tossed from the hole in the building and landed on the bed—"pif... pif... pif" they went.
The first note said "See second note." I skipped the second note and instead picked up the third note, which was some sort of angry rant about the lack of towels in the room, raging at the fact that the writer had been forced to make his bed out of towels. I looked at the bed and noticed that it was indeed covered in towels rather than sheets, and that the mattress itself was made out of white men's dress shirts.1
More importantly, I noticed the large fresh blood stain on the bed, and the body that lay in the middle of it. I was horrified to see that it was Paige, a former coworker.2 Knowing that there was nothing I could do for her, I rushed into the building and up the stairs, vowing to take revenge on the murderer.
---
Notes:
1What's really weird is that later in the day following the dream, I saw that this was posted to Everything Is Terrible. Synchronicity out the wazoo. The video probably just seems goofy and weird to most viewers; for me, it now seems sinister and disturbing.
2I occasionally run into her at random places (Renaissance Faire, voting booth, mall), but she isn't really much more than an acquaintance. Although I guess I'll admit I always liked her and was sad to see her leave the museum.
The Eye of Optio
I was a page in the palace of King Henry VIII, about 11 or 12 years old. I was following a woman who looked something like Madame de Pompadour through the halls of the palace. She was attempting to apprehend a spy known as "the Eye of Optio,"1 and had pulled me away from my duties and browbeaten me into assisting her.
We approached a large door at the end of the hall just in time to see Henry and his retinue pass through into the room beyond. A conquistador stood guard before the door, dragging the tip of a large sword back and forth across the floor in sweeping arcs.2 He stared blankly and unblinkingly as he did this, ahead and slightly downward, though his eyes did not appear to be focused on anything and his pupils were narrowed to tiny dots.
Believing the Eye of Optio was likely eavesdropping on Henry in the room beyond, the lady told me to go through a smaller side door, which led to a balcony overlooking the room. However, as I attempted to enter the door, the conquistador suddenly rushed forward—apparently, this door too was under his protection. He did not swing the blade, but rather pushed it against me to force me away, perhaps as a non-lethal first warning. His gaze remained fixed, unblinking, and unfocused as he did this; he uttered not a sound, but he sent his message clearly enough.
As I retreated with the lady, I felt a stinging sensation, and looked down to see that I had suffered a shallow but painful cut down the entire length of my left leg where the sword had been pressed against me. "Stop your whining; it's just a scratch," the lady ordered as she dragged me out of the palace and into a courtyard.
~
I stood on the crest of a hill, looking down on the ruined city to which the search had finally brought us. I was older now, and did not look like myself: I was a thin, lanky fellow with an odd mop of dark hair. The lady had also changed: she was now younger, pale, with blue eyes and black hair cut in a boyish style.3 Our clothing had likewise changed, and was now decidedly modern.
We started down the hill. The streets through which we walked were pulled straight out of those photos of Chernobyl. I led the way towards a partially ruined apartment building at the the end of the street, and the lady followed with a gun pointed at my back. It had become known to her that I had been involved in a prior search of my own for the Eye of Optio, and I had essentially been taken hostage and forced to retrace my steps.
We entered the building. It was mostly dark, except for a pair of vending machines which were curiously still powered. A plastic trash bin sat on the floor between the machines; I moved this aside to reveal the name "Mitch S." written on the floor. "That's him," I told the lady, not telling her that upon seeing the name I suddenly recalled that it was my own, or at least one of my own.4
We found a book behind a counter which listed the tenants of the building, and looked up the apartment number for Mitch S. As we climbed the stairs to the appropriate floor, I again had a recollection: that I knew this building well, that the apartment we were going to was my own; but again I said nothing, although the lady also seemed to be confused, darting quick glances at things half-remembered.
We found the apartment. The door hung awkwardly by one hinge, and came off completely as we pushed our way past. The apartment was pitch black, so we brought out flashlights. The lady's agitation had increased as we approached the apartment, and she now shouted "Where is he? Go check the other room!" I could hear her continuing to shout as we searched, as if she were trying to drown out the thoughts racing through her mind.
Wrapped up in the search, it took me a moment to notice that the shouting had stopped. I turned around and shone my flashlight through the door of the room I had been searching. Straight across in the adjoining room, the tattered remnants of a one seater sofa rested against the wall, and the lady sat in this with her head in her hands. She had realized the same thing that I had: that this was her apartment, and that she was me.
I broke out in a grin and jumped into her lap, and suddenly I was the page boy again. I told her: "Do you see now? It's you! You're the Eye of Optio!"
She said nothing, and her face showed no emotion, but her hands shook as she raised the gun to my head and shot me.5
---
Notes:
1The name "Optio" most immediately calls to mind the root of such words as "optical," thereby giving something like "The Eye of the Eye," which sounds appropriate for a mysterious super spy. "Optio" was also a rank in the Roman army, perhaps alternatively giving a sense of being the agent of some sinister rival empire fraught with Byzantine political maneuvering.
2As I reflected on the conquistador, the image of the cherubim with the revolving sword of fire guarding the gate to Eden immediately came to mind. I suspect the conflation of the two images has something to do with having seen the movie The Fountain, which likewise combined this Biblical/Conquistador imagery. Also getting a hint of a Kakfaesque "Before the Law" vibe.
3This woman has previously appeared in my dreams in various roles, the first time probably being nearly a decade ago. She doesn't look like anyone I know, nor like some famous person from TV/movies/history/whatever, so I have no idea where she comes from.
4My name is not Mitch S., nor do I know anyone named Mitch.
5It seems like a lot of my dreams end with me getting shot. It does not actually startle me awake like the sensation of falling does, nor does any sense of fear or panic accompany it. Rather, getting shot seems to simply indicate that the dream is over, and it is now time to wake up. Like drawing the curtain on a stage, if you will.
We approached a large door at the end of the hall just in time to see Henry and his retinue pass through into the room beyond. A conquistador stood guard before the door, dragging the tip of a large sword back and forth across the floor in sweeping arcs.2 He stared blankly and unblinkingly as he did this, ahead and slightly downward, though his eyes did not appear to be focused on anything and his pupils were narrowed to tiny dots.
Believing the Eye of Optio was likely eavesdropping on Henry in the room beyond, the lady told me to go through a smaller side door, which led to a balcony overlooking the room. However, as I attempted to enter the door, the conquistador suddenly rushed forward—apparently, this door too was under his protection. He did not swing the blade, but rather pushed it against me to force me away, perhaps as a non-lethal first warning. His gaze remained fixed, unblinking, and unfocused as he did this; he uttered not a sound, but he sent his message clearly enough.
As I retreated with the lady, I felt a stinging sensation, and looked down to see that I had suffered a shallow but painful cut down the entire length of my left leg where the sword had been pressed against me. "Stop your whining; it's just a scratch," the lady ordered as she dragged me out of the palace and into a courtyard.
~
I stood on the crest of a hill, looking down on the ruined city to which the search had finally brought us. I was older now, and did not look like myself: I was a thin, lanky fellow with an odd mop of dark hair. The lady had also changed: she was now younger, pale, with blue eyes and black hair cut in a boyish style.3 Our clothing had likewise changed, and was now decidedly modern.
We started down the hill. The streets through which we walked were pulled straight out of those photos of Chernobyl. I led the way towards a partially ruined apartment building at the the end of the street, and the lady followed with a gun pointed at my back. It had become known to her that I had been involved in a prior search of my own for the Eye of Optio, and I had essentially been taken hostage and forced to retrace my steps.
We entered the building. It was mostly dark, except for a pair of vending machines which were curiously still powered. A plastic trash bin sat on the floor between the machines; I moved this aside to reveal the name "Mitch S." written on the floor. "That's him," I told the lady, not telling her that upon seeing the name I suddenly recalled that it was my own, or at least one of my own.4
We found a book behind a counter which listed the tenants of the building, and looked up the apartment number for Mitch S. As we climbed the stairs to the appropriate floor, I again had a recollection: that I knew this building well, that the apartment we were going to was my own; but again I said nothing, although the lady also seemed to be confused, darting quick glances at things half-remembered.
We found the apartment. The door hung awkwardly by one hinge, and came off completely as we pushed our way past. The apartment was pitch black, so we brought out flashlights. The lady's agitation had increased as we approached the apartment, and she now shouted "Where is he? Go check the other room!" I could hear her continuing to shout as we searched, as if she were trying to drown out the thoughts racing through her mind.
Wrapped up in the search, it took me a moment to notice that the shouting had stopped. I turned around and shone my flashlight through the door of the room I had been searching. Straight across in the adjoining room, the tattered remnants of a one seater sofa rested against the wall, and the lady sat in this with her head in her hands. She had realized the same thing that I had: that this was her apartment, and that she was me.
I broke out in a grin and jumped into her lap, and suddenly I was the page boy again. I told her: "Do you see now? It's you! You're the Eye of Optio!"
She said nothing, and her face showed no emotion, but her hands shook as she raised the gun to my head and shot me.5
---
Notes:
1The name "Optio" most immediately calls to mind the root of such words as "optical," thereby giving something like "The Eye of the Eye," which sounds appropriate for a mysterious super spy. "Optio" was also a rank in the Roman army, perhaps alternatively giving a sense of being the agent of some sinister rival empire fraught with Byzantine political maneuvering.
2As I reflected on the conquistador, the image of the cherubim with the revolving sword of fire guarding the gate to Eden immediately came to mind. I suspect the conflation of the two images has something to do with having seen the movie The Fountain, which likewise combined this Biblical/Conquistador imagery. Also getting a hint of a Kakfaesque "Before the Law" vibe.
3This woman has previously appeared in my dreams in various roles, the first time probably being nearly a decade ago. She doesn't look like anyone I know, nor like some famous person from TV/movies/history/whatever, so I have no idea where she comes from.
4My name is not Mitch S., nor do I know anyone named Mitch.
5It seems like a lot of my dreams end with me getting shot. It does not actually startle me awake like the sensation of falling does, nor does any sense of fear or panic accompany it. Rather, getting shot seems to simply indicate that the dream is over, and it is now time to wake up. Like drawing the curtain on a stage, if you will.
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