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Christmas/Halloween Dream?
Jan. 13th, 2013 08:15 amI dreamt it was Christmas, but it was a haunted Christmas. I headed to a friend's house (reference point, Nelsons), and I got them a new X-Box or whatnot because I felt that they deserved it for their hard work. Their family's friends were there and I hung out there for a while as I watched them play for a bit. One of their friends, Jason, said he wanted to play since he was so good at it anyway. Then I went downstairs and the room was empty. A couch in a heavily decorated room lit with the endless strings of Christmas lights adorned above them and an old style TV showing an episode of Smurfs. I think at one point, Gargamel tried to talk to me, but I wanted nothing to do with him. I stepped away back upstairs and noticed one of the boys get captured by a white long haired spirit, but as it smiled trying to eat it, it stopped and startled out, "You're- you're one of us!" His face was confused for a moment, but understood quickly. I don't remember what happened after that: I was already stepping outside of the house to a sky filled with dreadfully dark gray weather.
From there I walked into a municipal building, a rather dreary industrial thing that may have been turned into a school but was choked up with rust despite it being clean inside. From the third floor I could see there was a hurricane coming, and that it was one so wild that it sparkled with lightning.
I stepped out, which led to a garden, where hedges were neatly trimmed into a Victorian maze. An alderly lady in khaki ensemble and librarian glasses slowly led a group of people through the history of the person who had owned this place. I saw my parents and tried to warn them that there was a hurricane, but they smiled and did not seem to understand, so I tried again. Nothing.
The garden reached over into a yawning blackness that was a bridge. I could barely see how far it ran into the distance over the smooth land, and it was wider than anything I could fathom, as though it could hold houses if need be. I gave up on trying to encourage my parents to be careful since I figured that at least the bridge would offer some protection. The guide looked with surprise when she announced that there was a twister. I turned and, sure enough, guiding around the coming hurricane was a twister. Worse still, it was coming faster than I anticipated. I yelled to everyone to brace for impact and then the endless pounding of million metal beads punching into cloth, given an emphasis of tenfold more in the darkening sky. I noticed how the wooden deck that we stood on changed colors and someone yelled, "Why don't you take a photo already?!" I realized they were right, and I went to my bag, opened it, and found myself unade to pull out my camera. It was stuck in a flap on my bag's opening and I tried to jerk it out. By the time I managed to figure out how to undo it, it was too late though and the terror of the hurricane and twister had mulled into nothingness.
I decided to follow the group, who traveled past the wooden deck into another structure where it was the home of someone famous: an artist of sorts, as paintings and the like hung, one even rested propped against a chair. Some of the things here looked to be made of wire metal and I found the entire thing curious, almost creepy. Sure enough, the flicker of spirits began to show through here. The crowd was fascinated, and I was ready to be careful, but then realized it was the same spirits I dealt with before: everyone will be fine. If anything, the dreary weather and the spiritual presence brought out a beauty to what I saw. A peal of lightning turned everything outside the windows monochromatic for half a minute and mirrors glinted with spiritual activity. And then the rain stopped and cleared away to a bright sky and the spiritual presence was no more.
Outside of the window was a street that was wet with rain but quickly drying away. I stepped out and walked the street. A 7-Eleven rested around the corner and I realized I was hungry for something, so I walked in. Inside was a pair of silent indian dudes who exuded all the rudeness expected of a pretentious french restaurant. I said hi, offered greetings, mentioned the weather, and they seemed to pay it little more attention than a slow, judging, gaze on me.
I gave up on it and figured to just get some food and leave. The hot dog machine and its condiments had been wrapped in foil, and I pulled it free to get what I wanted. Behind the foil of one was the rolling cooker that revealed several frankfurters that seemed smooshed against the rollers like they were pink sticks of dough. A tiny metal tub held a dollop of mustard and shreds of hot dog buns cut in half and left that way. The entire experience confused me and I asked one of them if there was a way I could get a bun since what's here is torn up.
When I mention this, one of them turns and immediately rushes over to inspect what happened. He then proceeds to chew me out and blame me for everything that has happened here and asks me why I would do something like this. I get more confused and try to correct him, but he does not listen and then tells me to get out or he'll call the cops. The exchange continues enough for me to lose my temper and snap back at him that it was his fault and that I wasn't running this store and that someone had decided to pack these things this way, all at the top of my lungs.
This finally shuts them up. I threaten them to call the police so I can show them how this is their mistake and how they're treating me like this. In my pure anger, I tell them about how I would never eat here, how I just wanted something to eat, how their service is terrible, and how they shouldn't even be running a store... the list goes on and I finally leave, but not before I think one of them breaks a window.
After that, I wake up.
From there I walked into a municipal building, a rather dreary industrial thing that may have been turned into a school but was choked up with rust despite it being clean inside. From the third floor I could see there was a hurricane coming, and that it was one so wild that it sparkled with lightning.
I stepped out, which led to a garden, where hedges were neatly trimmed into a Victorian maze. An alderly lady in khaki ensemble and librarian glasses slowly led a group of people through the history of the person who had owned this place. I saw my parents and tried to warn them that there was a hurricane, but they smiled and did not seem to understand, so I tried again. Nothing.
The garden reached over into a yawning blackness that was a bridge. I could barely see how far it ran into the distance over the smooth land, and it was wider than anything I could fathom, as though it could hold houses if need be. I gave up on trying to encourage my parents to be careful since I figured that at least the bridge would offer some protection. The guide looked with surprise when she announced that there was a twister. I turned and, sure enough, guiding around the coming hurricane was a twister. Worse still, it was coming faster than I anticipated. I yelled to everyone to brace for impact and then the endless pounding of million metal beads punching into cloth, given an emphasis of tenfold more in the darkening sky. I noticed how the wooden deck that we stood on changed colors and someone yelled, "Why don't you take a photo already?!" I realized they were right, and I went to my bag, opened it, and found myself unade to pull out my camera. It was stuck in a flap on my bag's opening and I tried to jerk it out. By the time I managed to figure out how to undo it, it was too late though and the terror of the hurricane and twister had mulled into nothingness.
I decided to follow the group, who traveled past the wooden deck into another structure where it was the home of someone famous: an artist of sorts, as paintings and the like hung, one even rested propped against a chair. Some of the things here looked to be made of wire metal and I found the entire thing curious, almost creepy. Sure enough, the flicker of spirits began to show through here. The crowd was fascinated, and I was ready to be careful, but then realized it was the same spirits I dealt with before: everyone will be fine. If anything, the dreary weather and the spiritual presence brought out a beauty to what I saw. A peal of lightning turned everything outside the windows monochromatic for half a minute and mirrors glinted with spiritual activity. And then the rain stopped and cleared away to a bright sky and the spiritual presence was no more.
Outside of the window was a street that was wet with rain but quickly drying away. I stepped out and walked the street. A 7-Eleven rested around the corner and I realized I was hungry for something, so I walked in. Inside was a pair of silent indian dudes who exuded all the rudeness expected of a pretentious french restaurant. I said hi, offered greetings, mentioned the weather, and they seemed to pay it little more attention than a slow, judging, gaze on me.
I gave up on it and figured to just get some food and leave. The hot dog machine and its condiments had been wrapped in foil, and I pulled it free to get what I wanted. Behind the foil of one was the rolling cooker that revealed several frankfurters that seemed smooshed against the rollers like they were pink sticks of dough. A tiny metal tub held a dollop of mustard and shreds of hot dog buns cut in half and left that way. The entire experience confused me and I asked one of them if there was a way I could get a bun since what's here is torn up.
When I mention this, one of them turns and immediately rushes over to inspect what happened. He then proceeds to chew me out and blame me for everything that has happened here and asks me why I would do something like this. I get more confused and try to correct him, but he does not listen and then tells me to get out or he'll call the cops. The exchange continues enough for me to lose my temper and snap back at him that it was his fault and that I wasn't running this store and that someone had decided to pack these things this way, all at the top of my lungs.
This finally shuts them up. I threaten them to call the police so I can show them how this is their mistake and how they're treating me like this. In my pure anger, I tell them about how I would never eat here, how I just wanted something to eat, how their service is terrible, and how they shouldn't even be running a store... the list goes on and I finally leave, but not before I think one of them breaks a window.
After that, I wake up.
