The Dream

A dream crept out of my skull, through my ear, staining my white pillow case. I awoke in the morning, after a heavy, black sleep, to find the corpse of a dream, bleeding on my pillow. The blood had crusted and blackened, and there was just the heart of the dream itself, a glass-like shard, made of shadows and rainbows, embedded in the bloody, black mess.

Carefully, I pried the shard loose. It glittered, full of colours, in the morning sun. In the shard, I saw faces trapped and frozen - a princess, with tears cascading down burning cheeks, an ogre, with a mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth, a witch, black locks rioting through the air, as she sped through the skies. These things and more, I spied, frozen in the glass corpse of the dream.

I pounded the shard into a fine powder, which I corked in a blue glass bottle. I kept it there, on a shelf in my kitchen. Perhaps, someday, I would have some need of it - perhaps someday, when my craft and skill ran out, I could turn to the powder in the bottle. Or when pain and illness overcame me, I could turn and find release in the magical dreams the powder could bestow.

But one night, I awoke, to hear the sound of a scuffle in my kitchen. I donned my dressing gown, and quietly crept down the stairs. In the dark kitchen, I saw the shadow of a cat against the wall, pulling the bottle out with it's paws. The bottle fell off the sledge, splintered on the floor, the powder spilling out. The cat leapt through the air, and landed on it's paws, to lick the floor of the powder.

Horrified, I watched, as the shadow of the cat blurred and shifted. A sabre-toothed tiger stood in place of the cat, and then, a moment later, a lazy-eyed chameleon, colours shifting across it's skin, slumbered on the floor. A mammooth rose up, tusks piercing the ceiling, and then a snake - with a blue, sinuous tongue, slithered across the floor. But then, the snake shook, a shudder ran through the length of it's body, and it's skin changed into gold, red, blue and green. And finally, the cat, lay again, sprawled across the floor of my kitchen, tongue hanging out.

Minutes passed, and the cat didn't move. I ventured, tentatively across, to touch the cat. It was dead, frozen stiff.

When morning came, I buried the cat in the graveyard.

Days later, I found a hole in the ground, where I had buried the cat. Now, the children of my village claim that a cat visits them in their dreams, a furry, shadow-less creature, with a long blue tongue. There are also reports, of giant footprints in the forest - footprints that belong to an elephant. In my garden, I see the sliding tracks of a snake, and once, the postman found a long, pointed tooth, embedded in my post box.

The dream lives on.

HIGHWAY TO HELL

The strangest thing happened to me the other day. I had just entered a coffee shop, and ordered myself a cappuccino, when i noticed a cellphone lying on the table in front of me. When summoned, the buxom waitress looked askance. "Look," she said, fixing me with a stern look, "you found it." And with that, she flounced away, no doubt to hassle some other equally nonplussed and well meaning customer.
I stared at the cell phone lying on the table. It was the latest razr sleek model, in a gold covering. Very bling-bling. And even as I watched, the phone began to vibrate and ring. The display flashed, bright red. The ring-tone was Highway to Hell.
Interesting choice.
The phone kept ringing, and the other customers in the coffee-shop began to dart suspicious, evil glances at me. One pious-looking woman, accompanied by her five-year old son, placed her well-manicured hands over her son's ears, as his head started bobbing in beat to the refrain.
The song got louder and louder, till it filled the whole shop.
Soon all the customers in the shop had turned towards me, steely anger glinting in their eyes. One portly man, a regular mafioso-looker, approached my table and stabbed a stubby finger in the phone's direction. "Pick it up," he said, "Pick it up, or else..." He clenched his hand into a fist.
Suffice it to say I took the call.
"Hello?" I murmured, tentatively.
""Where are you?" A shrill voice shrieked. "All the junior demons are on strike! And you know what that means - no torments for all the wicked sinners! Tantalus is happily munching on fruit and drinking. Sisyphus is taking a break from rolling that stone uphill. And no one is prodding Adolf's butt with a fiery pitchfork! Can you imagine? He's actually smiling! And Stalin has sneaked across to talk to Chegniz Khan!" Here the voice dropped to whisper. "You better come home quick, I think a rebellion might be in the offing..."
"But..." I finally managed, after a stunned moment. "Who is this?"
"Huh?" The shrill voice was taken back. "Isn't this Lucifer?"
"I found this phone..."
"Christ!" The voice cursed and hung up.
I stared at the phone, perturbed. After a moment, I ventured to examine the phone, and called the last number dialed, hoping to discover who the cellphone owner was and return his bizarre instrument to him.
It was an American number. A girl with a southern accent picked up the phone on the first ring.
"Hello?" She drawled, shyly. "Is-Is that God? Sorry, I'm just an intern, the President didn't expect your call and he's just in the loo." She giggled now, a little embarrassed. "This is my first day in the Oval Office. God, if you have a moment, I was wonderin', if you heard my last prayer-"
I ended the call.
This phone was truly evil.
The phone rang again, and before the customers could gather and lynch me, I answered it. A germanic voice spoke. "Mephistopheles? This is Dr Faustus here. You haven't been..."
I snapped the phone shut. The phone rang again, and I stuffed it into my handbag, and ran into the street. No matter how many times I pressed the end call button, the phone would soon start to ring. Kim Il Jong, the editor of the New York Times, a leader of an obscure californian cult, Richard Branson's personal assistant, all called, in quick succession.
The devil was clearly a busy man.
I tried everything. I tried to lose the phone - but it wouldn't get lost. (which made we wonder - how had the devil lost the phone in the first place?) I tried to burn it - it proved immune to fire. I tried to drown it, to bury it, to convince a dog to eat, to give it away at blind beggar - but nothing worked. The phone remained, stubbornly, with me.
Finally, the devil called himself. "I need my phone back," he said.
"I've been trying to get rid of it," I told him. "Really, I don't want it. It's horrible. I've been getting a horrible perspective into how things really work - and it's really sinking me into depression-"
The devil cut me off. "Let's cut to the chase. Give me back my phone. What do you want? Helen of Troy - the most beautiful woman? Hugh Grant? Prince?"
"No!" I screamed horrified.
The devil sighed. "So what do you want then? Quick, I'm a busy man. What will it be? You're a writer, I see. The pulitzer? The booker?" When I failed to respond, he continued. "You drive a hard bargain. The nobel it is."
"Look," I finally managed to stammer. "I don't want those things, at least, not this way. It wouldn't be real. You can have your cell phone back."
The devil grunted, disgusted. "Nothing in life is for free, baby, that's my motto, and it's the only thing I stick by. So, if you aren't going to accept something in return, we'll have to work something else out." He paused. "Let me ask the Big Guy. Hold on."
I was put on hold for a few minutes, to the tune of Madonna's "Like a Prayer." Finally, the devil came back on.
"That was funny," I said.
"What was?" He replied, his voice suspicious.
I told him about the hold tune. He cursed. 'That Gabriel again! Always playing practical jokes on me! huh!" He paused, and then his tone changed. "I spoke to the Man Upstairs. He'll manage the exchange, but this way, you'll have to give up something."
"What?"
"Frankly, if I were in your shoes, I don't think I'd do it." The devil sighed. "But here it is. It's your choice." He told me how to get rid of the phone.
I couldn't believe it. "Are you sure that will work? It sounds so simple."
"Of course it will work," The devil replied, irritated. "A deal's a deal. You'll just have to stick to the terms. He ended the call.
I contemplated the phone for a couple of minutes. It began to ring. Then, I made a decision.
I did it.
Minutes later, I checked my bag. My prayers had been answered. The phone had gone.
Since that day, I've had to attend church regularly, even though I had been a confirmed agnostic for most of my adult life. As the devil says, a deal is a deal.
But one day, a thought crossed my mind.
A moment later, my landline began to ring.
It was the devil. "Yeah," he replied sheepishly. "I've been thinking that too. The Big Guy is the one that's gotten the most out of the whole affair - so it stands to reason...But there isn't anyway out of it. I'm mean, even if the Big Guy did set it up that way, you're bound to the terms, unless there's a loophole."
"Is there?"
"Well," the devil drawled, "I may be able to work something out."
And that's how I ended up in Hell Pit number 3, with a pair of horns surgically attached to my forehead, prodding Adolf's butt with a pitchfork.
Hell. It ain't so bad. The company's interesting - I got to give it that. Atilla and Rasputin are more entertaining company that Reverend Francis and Mervin, the church organist could ever be.
And Oscar Wilde, in Hell Pitt number 4, says the most hilarious things.

Red Rain

Light a fire. Light a fire that spreads fast. Light a fire that spirals into the sky, red tongues of flame licking the clouds, flames ascending the heavens. Watch the sky turn red, blood-red, watch the sky bleed red drops of rain onto the ground. The rain comes fast, red and full of fire, scorching skin, burning earth.

A god is dying, and his blood rains down upon us.

There is blood on our hands - on your hands and mine, and as we reach towards each other. My palms are slick with blood, my hands slide across your face, marking your face with blood. You reach, with your red fingers, inside of me.

And there under a red sky, under a bleeding, dying God, we make love.

His eyes are full of sadness, as he watches me climb onto your lap, watches you grasp my hips and heave, watches us beat a tattoo, faster and faster, against the red, bloody earth.

His eyes drip tears, crimson tears that drop upon my head and yours, tears that writhe down our bodies, sneak into our crevices, snake along the insides of our innards, worm through our veins, and pierce our hearts.

We shudder then, together, at the same time, we shudder. You pull my head down, onto your chest, and I rake my fingernails across your back. My screams are muffled by your skin, and your moans are silenced by my hand across your mouth.

Red rain still falls, as we wriggle apart, as I claw my way through red, bleeding mud away from you, as you struggle upright, zipping your fly, buttoning your wet, torn shirt.

The god above us breathes his last, his dying breath, forcing the clouds together, and thunder sounds across the sky.

I look up into the sky, full of horrible sound and noise. I am scared, and I pull my skirt down, wipe the mud and blood off my face.

In the distance, through the falling rain I see your back, as you walk between the trees. There is fury in me, and I clench my fist so hard, that blood spurts as my nails dig into my palm.

And you - you feel the heat of my glance on your back, you feel my burning anger sear your skin, charr your clothes. You pause, and you reach a hand across your back, fingering the marks of my nails, tracing a trail of love bites that lead towards your neck.

And then your eyes fill with fire, fill with venom, a poison that blackens your eyes. Your eyes spit black poison, and earth shrivels under that black, deadly glance.

Under the gaze of a dying god, Hatred is born.

The Future Is Coming

The city of the future, on Planet X, is filled with towering high-rises, like gigantic phalluses, thrusting out of the ground, ramming into an orange, smog filled sky.

In one yellow taxi, coasting a few metres above ground, three passengers are engaged in an act that defies description. The driver, a West Indian with a strong accent, nonchalantly whistles as he raises the partition between the driver and the rear seats. He's used to this.

A few meters away, a lone alien stares forlornly at the setting sun. She is unused to nighttime, coming from a rare planet, that boasts of five suns, and thus never experiences night. The sight of stars are a strange, bewildering experience for this poor alien, and the idea of darkness awakens dormant, primal fears. She shuts the window, pulls the curtains across to seal out every glimpse of the darkening sky, and turns on all the lights at full intensity. She gets into bed, and falls asleep.

In the next room, a blue-skinned, orange haired songstress unscrews a bottle of whisky. She sighs, and views the communicator in her room, contemplatively. She taps her fingers, lightly, on the bottle, and then summoning her courage, places a call. A few minutes later, tears running down her blue cheeks, she ends the call and takes a large swig of whisky. The bottle is finished, over the next hour, and the songstress falls asleep, lying on the carpeted floor, trapped in the throes of a nightmare.

In her dream, a young orange-haired boy falls down a never-ending hole.

In a hole in the ground, a rat burrows through a strange, alien soil. The rat bears little resemblance to his relatives back on earth; he has been bred specifically for this colonized planet, by a black-market trader, who deals in exotic, live goods. This rat, is one of many, bred for a new, off-planet cult, who sacrifice rats to their patron deity - a God with the body of a woman, and the head of saber-toothed cat, with a taste for genetically-modified rodents. This cult has grown in size and influence, ever since a rogue scientist advanced a hypothesis that the planet was originally inhabited by a race of intelligent feline-like creatures.

In party in a mansion in the Upper Reaches of the city, the rogue scientist is toasted by the elite of this city. A woman, with a strange tattoo of a snake that shifts and swirls across her skin, whispers seductively in the ears of the rogue scientist. He laughs, flattered by this woman's interest, and follows her into private, curtained alcove. There, he is startled when she bites him, vampire-like, on the neck, with two artfully concealed fangs, that retract into her skull. There is a powerful poison in her fangs, and the scientist falls, twitching, to the floor. Within seconds, he is dead.

The woman with the snake-tattoo, briskly exits the mansion, her job done. Within seconds, the rival cult that she belongs to, posts a notice on the planet-wide intranet, claiming responsibility for the scientist's death. This cult maintains the scientist is a blasphemous heretic, for they believe that a race of snake-like creatures, who live in the core of the planet, will rise, one-day, to the surface, when they will devour all heathens and unbelievers. Only the followers of the snake-cult will survive this apocalypse, and will live to see the dawn of a golden age, under the governance of these intelligent, alien snakes.

When the black-market trader sees the news on the intranet, he places a call to Earth, to inform his colleagues to cancel the last order for rats, and instead to work on developing a new breed of snakes, that can survive on Planet X.

Five years later, both rats and snakes are rife on the streets of Planet X, and most citizens have undergone state-sponsered genetic modifications that make them immune to rat and snake bites. The black-market trader is now making brisk business by importing mongooses, for wealthy citizens, who favour what they term an 'eco-friendly' approach.

In an artificial garden, a mongoose ferrets through a clump of imitation roses, as his owner, concludes a business deal with a client. He summons a boy from his mansion, and hands him over. He has discovered a loophole in Planet X's laws, that allows him to trade in livestock, which is not human. He has exploited this by breeding slaves who are not technically human. The boy, who has been summoned, has gills grafted onto his neck, that allow him to breathe underwater. His eyes flash, in anger, as is handed over, perfunctorily.

Three years later, the boy has reached manhood, and he swims in a distant lake, towards freedom, to a rebel slave colony. He is accompanied by a snake, one of the descendants of the snakes the black market trader brought to Planet X. In a short while, due to the radiation underneath the surface, the snakes have evolved a a rudimentary intelligence. This snake is a prophet, and he preaches, that a Day of the Snakes will come, when the snakes will rise up, with the slaves, and dispossess the humans of Planet X, a prophecy that ironically, bears much resemblance with the beliefs of the long-dead snake-cult.

And elsewhere, on Planet X, a baby is born, a mutant, with a third eye.

This is the future.

The Bridegroom

A shriek, followed by a scream, and then a furious clawing. Teeth biting into skin, nails raking through soft flesh, droplets of blood, streaking a rose path. The slither of sweat-stained bodies, fingers wriggling into soft, wet crevices. His face, pressed against her, her legs, splayed over him. A shudder, that ran up the length of their bodies, a cry and then - release.

They fell apart, panting. And there, sprawled across the gleaming white ceramic tiles, legs tangled near the porcelain basin, fingers clutching the towel rail, they watched each other warily.

She was the first to get up, pushing back the sweaty, strands of hair. She viewed herself in the mirror, hanging over the sink, straightening her dress, pain-stakingly wiping away the errant smears of lipstick and mascara. And then, carefully stepping over him, she left.

He watched her leave, hips sashaying under her tight dress, stilletoes click-clacking across the tiles. Then slowly, he rose, tucked in his shirt, pulled up his trousers, smoothened his hair.

Outside, the party was at it's peak - a crescendo of noise - gossip, flirtation, music blaring through the odd silences in the midst of loud, raucous conversations. A fat man, with heavy jowls, passed him as he entered the garden, clapping him loudly on the back. "Great party isn't it?"

He nodded, caught a whiff of alcohol from the man's breath, and made his way across. He saw her, by the pool, next to a elderly grey-haired old man, her head bent to catch his words. He saw her elderly companion look up, notice him, watched the old, grey eyes narrow in disdain, long, elegant fingers grip her arm in a possessive way. And even from where he stood, he saw the gleam of gold between her fingers, a marriage band.

His cellphone rang, he reached for it. A girl's voice poured out - soft and seductive, slightly accusing.

"Where are you?"

"At the party of course." He laughed.

"Really? I've been looking for you all over!"

"I'm right here, by the pool."

There was a short silence. "Stay right there. I'll be over in a second."

He smiled, put the phone away, and grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, as a beautiful young girl made her way to him, her black halter-neck dress swirling as she reached up to kiss him.

She frowned though, smelling an unfamiliar scent about him. Something was amiss; a slight crease formed between her delicate, arched eyebrows, her eyes watchful. But a moment later, they were overwhelmed in a press of people - uncles, aunts, cousins.

"Congratulations, both of you!" An elderly aunt reached up, to pat his cheek, and pressed a gift into her hands. "Such a lovely couple."

When they were free, he noticed the other woman, still by the pool, watching them. "Who is she?" He asked his bride-to-be.

"My sister." She smiled, and pulled him along. "Come, meet her."

She dropped from a height of forty storeys. And as she spun down, through the air, past glittering windows and flowerpots - she thought, This isn't the way it happens it movies. It should be quicker.

She had thought that she would ram head first into the pavement, and her body - would be smeared across the pavement, bones and flesh turned into jam. She had imagined, with meticulous detail, the startled faces of the pedestrians, stunned to find a body hurtling towards them. She had imagined a young child, bursting into tears, hiding her face in her mother's skirts, while the mother turned deadly pale.

She had enjoyed it.

But now, she was worried - the normally busy intersection was bereft of people. No one would witness her self-slaughter.

Maybe I should have waited, she thought, until more people came out onto the street.

She sighed.

It was a bit too late.

Random Bad Story I wrote

A few days ago, as I walked home, I noticed a child in the playground. Nowadays, even during the day it is dark - as if some enormous beast has swallowed the sun, and I only dare venture out during the hour of noon, when the darkness fades into a grey haze. But yesterday, as I neared the playground, I could see that the swings have rusted, and the slides have crumbled to the ground. But there was a little girl, forlornly staring at a broken see-saw. She started to scratch the paint with her fingers, and even as I watched, a black shape hurried across the street, to the playground, a torch in hand.

It was a young woman. I could see relief break across her face, as she spotted the little girl. "Come," she cried out to the child, "I've been worried about you. You shouldn't be out, not when it's this dark."

"But it's always dark, mummy," the child asserted. "Where have all the other children gone, mummy?" The child asked, her voice plaintive now. "Where do they play?"

The woman gathered the child into her arms. They sat together, huddled on the platform of a rusted merry-go-round.

"Once upon a time," the woman crooned, the ritual words that began a story, "there was a sun and a moon. The sun was a bright, beautiful, shining thing. The moon was weaker - just a delicate, wan, fragile light. And, so what do you think happened?"

"The moon was jealous of the sun, because the sun was so much brighter," the girl exclaimed.

I stopped to listen, even though it was growing dark. The woman went on, her voice soft and crooning, and she told the child that the moon plotted with the stars to steal the sun's light, and the conspiracy of stars approached the Grand Sorcerer, the most powerful magician in the world. In his lab, he developed a darkness injection, which a comet, the brave child of another star, bore on his back and flew into the sun. The sun, felt a prick, just like a mosquito bite, and watched with horror as darkness began to spread across his bright, shining body.

"But how do we make the sun better?" The child asked.

The woman shook her head and drew her child closer. I walked away, feeling a slight tinge of disappointment. What could I have expected, I asked myself, a reason, an answer? But the truth is - no one knows why these strange black clouds rolled across the sky, and blotted out the sun.

But that was days ago. The power stations have stopped working, bereft of sun light, and our cities have begun a slow, unstoppable, descent into anarchy. Batteries are prized now, and so are matches and lighters - but in a few days, perhaps even a few hours, they will run out.

I reached my apartment and paused. At the end of the street, I can see a few youth, knives flashing in the light of a dying noonday sun, surrounding an old, aged woman. She reaches into her pockets and hand a few things over. There's a quick flash, and the youth move swiftly away, black shadows racing through the dark. The woman, crumples to the ground. I watch, horrified, and run over. Blood spills through her sari. In a matter of seconds, she grows cold.

Another casuality.

It is dark now, and I am safely sequestered in my apartment. The darkness is too much to bear. It is maddening. I stumble over a pile of books in my living room. Sitting on the floor, I finger pages and spines in the darkness. But it is too dark to read.

Once, there were many of us in htis building. Now, there are fewer left. My neighbour has disappeared in the last two days.

It has been what - five, six days - since the darkness came. At first, it was a time of companionship, we all drew closer together. We had lit all our candles the first evening, to banish the darkness. I shudder to think of that waste - now that I savour each match, each candle, each battery. But on the second day, depression has begin to set in. I remember some one saying that - "It is a great step for humanity, this darkness. It is a great gift. It frees. It resets civilization - makes us begin once again." He had laughed then, a manic laugh.

I hear the same laugh now. And I wonder if it is my imagination. But no, I hear it a second time, and - I also hear a rhythmic thump, comming from above, as if some one is dancing in the flat above me.

I am curious now, and I grope my way upstairs. The door to the apartment above me is open, and I push through. I hear the thumping, louder now. A light burns in the distance - a strange, jumping, dancing light. I come closer, and I see a man, a mad grin twisting his face. A lamp burns still, and as he dances around it - it throws macabre, shifting shadows on the walls. The man holds something in his arms, and as I come closer - I see it is a dead body, the body of a woman.

He begins to dance faster and faster, oblivious to my presence, spinning around the light. Shadows and light leap across the wall, and the strangeness of it all clutches at my heart. I feel scared. And then, I leave, creep back downstairs.

Later that night - or is it day? - there is a bright gleam in the horizon. It spreads quickly, and I realize that the eastern part of the city is in flames. It is horrible - but it is also beautiful. In the fire, I can make out tiny black figures darting about. I wonder if they are sane or mad. Does it matter?

Today, it is darker still. I know it is dangerous, but I must go out. I can barely make anything out, and at the end of my street - I see a strange squatting shadow. I come closer, and I see two men, hunched over the body of a wounded dog. The dog is alive, his eyes watch me, but he is bleeding. And even as I watch, the men reach into his torn body, and pull his intestines. They begin to eat. The dog tries to stir, but he is wounded, and the light fades from his eyes.

I run back, towards home, and retch. Nothing comes out, just saliva, and for hte first time in days - I realize that I am hungry. I look back at the men, eating a live dog, and for a second - I am tempted.

I count my matches - here are just three left now. The batteries are dead. In the kitchen, there is a can of kerosene - and for a moment, madness tempts me - to see everything, the whole room, go up in a flash of light. To have light. I start to cry.

I sit in the darkness. I feel like I am waiting - but what am I waiting for?

Sometimes in the dark, I see phantoms. People from my past, long dead, rising from the floor, reaching their hands - dead hands, with grotesquely elongated fingers, like the hands of figures in El Greco paintings. The fingers reach towards me, wrap around my neck. I feel cold, clammy, a sweat breaks out on my forehead. And suddenly they disappear. Pinpoints of heat explode across my body.

It is cold now. I go upstairs, to the terrace - and watch the dark sky. I have not talked to anyone in two days, I have not heard a human voice - except for the queer laugh of my mad neighbour. I stack my books in a pile, and douse the pile with kerosene. i use my last match to set it alight. Brightness explodes, and the brightness fills my eyes, banishes the dark. At least, the darkness is gone.

It is beautiful. And it is then that I know what i must do, before the fire dies. I walk into the fire, and my body explodes in pain. THe flames dance over my skin. The pain is immense.

But there is light.