I don’t even know.
October 10th, 2008 by Jenny Crimp; one comment
I am in a hurry to get up the Ave, because I am going to visit Kris. He has just moved in to a new place, which is located on the third or fourth floor of a building, but it is only accessible by climbing up the fire escape. The fire escape is semi-enclosed, more like a multi-leveled play structure or tree house, and there are multiple people living in it. This is not strange at all. On the way down I run into one of Kris’ room mates, or former room mate, and I tell her I am looking for Kris. She begins to tell me something unrelated that is of little importance. Kris comes part way down the fire escape to meet me. We climb the rest of the way into the apartment. This is the first time I’ve seen it, and it’s quite fancy and spacious, with nice views from its floor-to-ceiling windows. It is dark and wintery outside. Kris goes behind the bar to retrieve something, I greet the new cats and small color-changing dog. Someone’s father is there, and I ask him about what his child is up to, but it turns out he is not that person’s father, and he asks me a question I probably shouldn’t answer honestly.
We have to leave because some oppressive force has become aware of some holes in the universe we’ve been using to move about from one dimension to another. We have to go protect our people. Oddly, we still feel residual happiness and confidence from our world; we don’t feel as terrified and threatened as you would expect. This may be because we are now very small and have the power to become invisible as we wish- I think we may be rabbits and the oppressive force in the other dimension is a pack of highly intelligent, vicious dogs. We slip back and forth between worlds easily because we are so small and know where the holes are located. The holes are actually cuts, made with a knife, and I think of trying to ziplock them closed behind us, though that isn’t very likely to work. It’s regrettable that we won’t have access to both worlds anymore, but it’s too dangerous to leave them open.
My Mother’s Wedding
October 9th, 2008 by Jenny Crimp; no comments
Several friends and I are hanging out on a boardwalk with a huge roller rink/dance floor in the center. I really want to go join the dance party going on in the middle, but out of everyone present, including Rebecca and Rod, Nate is extremely timid and lacking in positive social exposure. I decide this has to change, and pull him out onto the dance floor. Soon another girl joins us, who may be a friend of a friend of Nate’s or a complete stranger. They dance together and get really into it just as the entire dance floor empties out. Though they are the only ones left, they still make requests to the DJ and dance by themselves. Rebecca and I briefly debate if we should tell them they look silly, but quickly decide that they are having too much fun to care. Besides, I am late for my mother’s wedding, which is way over on the Peninsula.
I am one of the bridesmaids, along with Laura and her friend Michelle. I wear black and they wear white. My mother is wearing a red satin gown and a white shawl. It is extremely cold out, and we are in a hurry to get started, because our permit only gives us a time slot of one hour. The permit turns out to be for the 8 foot-wide space between a nice old chapel and a brick wall. Laura, Michelle and I squeeze our way through the crowd to the front, where my Mother is standing, waiting for my Dad to walk down the aisle. (Just for the record, my mom and dad are still married, never divorced). It’s not that they are renewing their vows, they’re just getting married again. Before we begin, I have to take off several un-matching sweaters that are layered between the clothes I need to be wearing. I end up with one side still stuck in the sweaters and one side completely disentangled from all clothes and freezing. Just then, a police officer pushes his way to the front of the crowd and says, “So before we begin, just so we’re all clear, you guys are registered voters of Kitsap County, right?” My mom tells him that they aren’t, and he tells them that the law will not permit them to get married until they register to vote in Kitsap County. This also includes gaining your Kitsap County citizenship, which requires an application and a three month waiting period. My mom isn’t that angry, but apparently we are still in a hurry because we all jog down the street to the town’s post office, which doubles as the sheriff’s department and has a notary. It is in a trailer home, with wainscoting on the walls.
hang gliding, continued:
October 6th, 2008 by Kris Skotheim; no comments
I am at a hang glider/pilot training school. A man walks up screaming continuously in monotone. He says something like, “I WAS A NAVY PILOT A LONG TIME AGO AND I USED TO FLY LOTS OF PLANES AND I WE WOULD FLY AROUND FOR HOURS AND HOURS AND I WANT TO FLY A PLANE I WOULD LIKE INSTRUCTION AND TO RENT A PLANE”, as he walks, determined, straight towards the small instructional plane. He is wearing an astronaut suit. As soon as he reaches the plane he starts to take off, and the instructor only barely has time to get in.
For some reason I am clinging to the top of the plane in my hang glider as it takes off. He flies around for a while doing loops, figure-8s, and spirals. The instructor is apologizing the whole time, “I’m sorry, they usually perform better than this!”. At the top of one of the loop-de-loops I finally let go. A woman screams. I have nearly no airspeed, but soon am plummeting towards the ground very fast. I recover from the stall and pull up just in time to feel the ground scrape against my toes, but am too ambitions in my attempt to gain altitude. A gust of wind from behind reduces my airspeed and again I find myself quickly approaching the ground. I don’t have enough room to recover, and fall the 30 feet directly onto the pavement below.
Batman is within us all
October 6th, 2008 by Kris Skotheim; no comments
I have acquired what turns out to be a few extremely valuable books at the rotary auction without realizing it. Their worth is brought to my attention to a distant family friend during a party we are having at our Victorian mansion. He tries to buy them for a few dollars, then tries to sexually molest some party guests when that fails. I know I must get the books to our other mansion, across the city, so I dash up to the hang-glider launching pad on our roof. He realizes my intentions and chases me. As I grab a hang glider and hurl myself over the precariously over-hung launching pad into the midnight air, I can see him behind me fumbling with a more complicated flying device.
The glider is unnecessarily long, pitch-black, and shaped like a bat wing. I am almost invisible in the night as long as I stay away from street lights and tall buildings. Behind me, my nemesis has finally figured out how to work his jet-powered hang glider and is quickly gaining on me. As he approaches my glider, he turns around for a second to adjust the jets and loses sight of me. Panicking, he pulls up suddenly to get a wider view of the area. I am invisible clinging to the top of a speeding bus. As I let go my momentum carries me up to the roof of my second mansion. Figuring it out, my nemesis begins his rapid, over-powered descent and the glider explodes a few meters from the landing pad, throwing me against the floor skidding towards the opposite edge of the roof. I catch a railing just in time and slip off the roof so that I am dangling by just a few fingers; the flaming wreckage of the jet-powered glider tumbles off the precipice over my head.
I pull myself up and, brushing off some dust and dirt that had accumulated on my suit-vest, wonder why the roof hadn’t been swept that evening. I step over the charred, shapeless corpse of my adversary and descend into my mansion.
Ghosts that bleed and humans that don’t
September 10th, 2008 by Jenny Crimp; no comments
Laura and I sneak into the home of a family we know in order to search for something and investigate some suspicious circumstances we have noticed. The people who live in the house may be related to us.
It is a really beautiful old house with brick pillars and reddish wood floors. We look in each of the rooms, making a circle quickly through the house, but too scared of getting caught to be very thorough. Then as we turn to leave from the kitchen the big gray cat that in reality lives next to Kris but in this dream lives in this house runs in from outside and through a crack where two walls are supposed to meet. I turn around and push one open…
There is a room in the exact center of the house that we missed because all of the chimneys from the surrounding rooms back up to its walls. This is what we expected to find, but it’s much worse now that we’ve seen it. There is a bed in the center of the room with restraining straps. This is where the missing child was kept.
Something happens then, there is a fight with a ghost and when I cut it with a knife it bleeds, but it is okay because it was already dead. Then as we try to leave, the people we really fear come in through the wall. They are two girls roughly my age. The kind that are really into being pretty. They come at me with an axe. I grab it, but my limbs are moving through water, I’m so weak that I have to swing it several times before I make contact with the girl as she just stands there looking amused. I slice through her shoulder a few times, agonizingly slowly, but where she should be spurting blood there is just gray underneath her skin.
“You’re not human anymore?” I ask.
“Did you think we would still be?” She replies, still coldly amused.
It’s all plastic underneath.
In the end Laura and I just walked out. Once we figured out we couldn’t beat them they just gave up.
this is a dream about airplanes
September 6th, 2008 by Kris Skotheim; no comments
I am with my uncle Brent. He promised that we could go flying in one of his airplanes sometime, so we head out to his hanger one afternoon. He has two planes: one is a tiny, single-engine two-seater dwarfed by his second, a gigantic, twin jet engine luxury corporate/military fighter beast. I point at the bigger of the two, “So … can we fly that one?” He looks kind of stressed out, but agrees.
On the runway we are joined by a large group of airport tourists who want to learn about flying. They climb in, filling every spare inch in the cabin. The tour guide is flying the plane. We take off and do some gentle turns, then he demonstrates what it is like to crash by pointing the nose straight towards the ground. We careen helplessly for a few minutes, the ground rushing at us at hundreds of miles per hour. When the nose is only a few inches above the ground he pulls back on the controls and guides us safely back into the air.
I worry that, with so many passengers and such a large plane, Brent will have a very large fuel bill before the end of the day.
this is a dream about Lizzie
September 6th, 2008 by Kris Skotheim; no comments
I am with Lizzie. “I’m sorry that I’ve been dreaming about you so much,” I apologize, “I really don’t know why that is. I guess it’s kind of weird.”
“Yeah. It is.” She looks really weirded out.
Sketchy Explosion
September 2nd, 2008 by Jenny Crimp; no comments
My dad, Rebecca, Roderick, and a few other friends and acquaintances are gathered in a large fancy building that is perhaps a showroom for space ships, but apparently there are also scientific experiments going on, because one goes wrong, and without warning we are all caught in an explosion of something like time and space. After being knocked to the ground in a cartwheel, and a few moments of disarray, I find myself intact, and look around to see everyone else standing up and brushing themselves off. I ask each person of they are all right, but when I turn to Rod he just swings around in confusion. We shout at him and wave our arms, but he can neither see nor hear us. He can shout though. We all stand there wondering what to do, and finally I grab his hand. He asks questions, and I answer by squeezing his hand once for “yes” and twice for “no”. He knows which number corresponds to which response because he has also seen The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It’s incredibly frustrating to have such a one-sided conversation, because we need to tell him the explosion may have been contaminated, and he may never recover, or possibly develop some strange disease. For the time being we take turns leading him around with little or no explanation as to what is going on.
Apparently Rebecca, Rod and I had plans to go para sailing, and we have decided not to cancel even with Rod’s condition, so I run around my parents’ house frantically packing everything I could possibly need for a six-month trek through a temperate rain forest (even though we are just getting a ride down to the Seattle waterfront). I almost forget to put on my bathing suit, but Rod reminds me at the last minute (apparently he is regaining his vision or something).
Down at the dock, I decide to abandon all of my unnecessary luggage, ever though I might actually need it because it’s freezing cold and dangerously windy.
Instead of actually going para sailing, we end up looking for something in a rather empty hospital with faded posters on the walls. Rod has recovered completely.
It could have been such a great nightmare
August 23rd, 2008 by Jenny Crimp; one comment
My family has just arrived at our new home, which is located somewhere near the ocean, probably on the Isle of Wight. We pull up in the gravel driveway and stretch our legs after the long journey, and bring the first of our luggage in the door. None of us have ever been to the house before, and as soon as we walk in, I have the urge to turn around and walk right back out. It is obviously been remodeled very nicely, has tall windows and high ceilings, but nobody else seems to notice that it was a church before. Or at least, our living room was the chapel, probably built for some rich lord who didn’t want to have to go all the way to the church and worship with the common folk. I get sort of flashbacks of the old chapel, before the other parts of the house were built, when the walls were either halfway built, or, I get the sense that it’s a glimpse of the future when the walls have collapsed from a fire. To put it simply, I’m getting some serious bad vibes in this place, either from Jesus because we’re sinners living in the house of the Lord, or from the evil spirit of the old priest.
I don’t have to stay in the living room because I’m sure that’s where all the horrific events will happen, so I go upstairs to the loft of the new part of the house where we’ll be sleeping. That’s when the walls start bending in. Apparently I’m also the only one who notices this, or my siblings, in their dream haze mind states are only slightly disturbed and brush it off.
I decide it’s time to go outside and check out the yard. I go into the back garden, which is quite beautiful and recently landscaped. I can’t help but notice how enclosed the yard is, completely surrounded by forests with no neighbors for miles. The groundsman is even old and creepy, just like in all those haunted house movies. Then it strikes me that our yard is probably the old graveyard.
This scenario just set itself up to be the best scary dream ever, but somehow I got sidetracked and ended up in Sylvester Middle School’s band room. I’ve gotten my class schedule for fall, and got placed back into Mr. Fosberg’s band. I haven’t played in three years, and Devin and I are the only trombones, so I feel especially terrible as I stumble my way through a march, but actually enjoy myself quite a bit.
It’s not until I go to the locker room to get changed for P.E. and get really frustrated trying to put clothes on (always impossible for me in dreams) that I realize I have way too much stuff going on in my life to go back to middle/high school, so I go to break the news to Mr. Fosberg. I run into him in the hallway making excited comments to Devin about the future of the band, and when I he turns to me I start out, “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this but…” I pause for some tactful words but nothing comes. “-I just don’t have time for this right now. I am waay overcommitted this fall, I’ve got a full class load-” The look on Mr. Fosberg’s face is so pitiful you’d think I’d just broken up with him, but I am merciless. “I just don’t have time, I’m sorry.” And I leave
for Nordstrom. I am on a mission to find a warm sweater, but as I browse through the winter coats I become aware that I have a stalker. It’s a girl, and when I notice her she immediately offers to sew a missing button onto my shorts. I look around and my mom nearby shrugs why not. However, I know she is dangerous, and I can’ let her do anymore favors for me or she’ll try to take possession of all my attention. I try to lose her in the shoe department, where they are holding a silent auction on sandals. Unfortunately, all of the shoes are really hideous, and I realize I’m not wearing pants, so I wander around decisively, so that none of the sales associates are tempted to talk to me because they can’t tell I’m not wearing pants until we speak.
it seemed like an alright thing to do at the time
August 22nd, 2008 by Kris Skotheim; no comments
My cousins and I kill a bunch of people in their house because it seemed sort of appropriate at the time, like they would go to a better place, or maybe just because we didn’t really know if we could and wanted to find out. We later realize that it was a really bad idea and that we’ll all be thrown in jail for life if we are caught.
We try to clean up the blood, but it takes a really long time. I am wiping off their porch with a rag soaked in alcohol, and keep coming across fingerprints of mine made in blood. I don’t remember getting my hands particularly bloody or making lots of fingerprints on their porch, but I am really worried that I’ll miss one in my attempt to hide all the evidence.
We realize that everything is covered in fingerprints, and the only thing we really could do is to just burn the whole house down to get rid of them. None of us really want to be arrested for arson, though, either. We decide to deal with the fingerprints on our own bodies by covering ourselves in a waxy, flammable substance and burning it, and any lingering fingerprints, off of our skin. Somebody I don’t know lies down in a cast of wax and lets us cement him in. We promise to put out the fire once all the fingerprints are gone. We light the fire, and he starts to scream. It is out of control, the wax is much more flammable than we had planned. He tries to get out, but he is stuck. I try to smother the flames, but they are too hot to get close to. There isn’t really anything we can do anymore, so we walk away. The man screams in agony for a little while longer.