Posts Tagged ‘blood’

The whining, rumbling echoes of several motorcycles rebounded off the cavern walls around me.  I was in a mine shaft, cold and dark except for small pools of light spilling from lanterns sporadically spaced along the walls.  The biker gang had been chasing me for what seemed like hours, and they were catching up.  With no choice left, I stood to the side and hid behind a wooden support column.

The sound of a throttled engine grew louder from down the tunnel, and I crouched in anticipation.  As the biker came into view around a corner I leaped, thrusting my foot out in a vicious ninja kick that launched him from his seat and into the wall with a crunch.  Barely pausing as I landed, I picked up the bike and jumped on, twisting the accelerator hard for more speed.  The rest of the gang was in close pursuit.

Lanterns on the tunnel walls blurred past as I accelerated to extreme speed.  The motorcycle began to shake violently.  The wheels suddenly flew off and the handlebars came apart in my hands.  I cringed, awaiting the brutal crash, but it didn’t come.  I continued flying down the dark tunnels, the now silent and dead engine the only thing beneath me.  I realized I didn’t need the motorcycle at all, I could fly!  The  concentration required to stay aloft was intense.

There were no more lanterns now, but I could still barely make out my course through the mostly straight tunnel via the glowing veins of amethyst minerals in the walls. Soon I caught a faint glimpse of daylight ahead.  The tunnel was ending.  As I blasted out of the end of the tunnel, I rescued an old friend sitting stranded on the mountainside.  She clung to my feet and we flew off, now at a much slower pace with the added passenger.

With a jolt of inspiration, I realized I could collect water from clouds around myself, forming a water bullet that propelled me at super speeds.  My friend and I could still breathe easily in the water, and we used my new water bullet flying technique to scream over the countryside at supersonic velocity.

In short time I was flying over the ocean alongside an African port.  I skimmed just above the water and reveled in the exhilaration.  I whipped up over a large cargo ship, its deck covered in many different colored containers.  Descending once more to fly just above the water’s surface I noticed some large fishing nets in the water. Seabirds took to the air as we approached. With growing concern I watched the birds begin to lift the nets out of the water directly in our path.

There was no way to avoid the nets, and they enveloped us as we flew into them.  My friend somehow managed to escape their grasp, but my hands became knotted in tough nylon strands and I was dragged down into the water.  A nearby fishing boat began hauling in the nets.

We were caught.  These weren’t fishermen, they were pirates, and they were intent on chopping up our body parts for sale on the black market. They hauled me into the boat and looked down at me with malevolence.  I lay huddled, soaking wet with a hole in my shirt. They thought I was poor.

At this point the dream inexplicably changed to third person, with me observing everything like it was a movie.  I was no longer “me”.  Instead a late teens/early-20’s kid replaced me.

The pirate captain raised his machete and asked one of his several prisoners who would be missed the most.  Snatching the young man’s arm, the corsair slammed him up against a shipping container. Whatever answer to the pirate’s query that may have been coming was interrupted by the violent descent of the machete into the cringing man’s head. A fountain of blood cascaded down the victim’s face, nearly as terrifying as the scream that issued from his lips. The captain savagely ripped the machete back out and struck again.

Instead of spraying yet more blood from a grievous wound, the kid’s head began to turn black as soot. What had so recently been a smug look on the captain’s face turned to one of utter confusion. The kid no longer screamed, but seethed with anger. He grabbed the pirate’s wrist and squeezed. Acrid smoke curled up where the fingers grasped and before the captain could speak his skin was graying to ash and flaking away.  Without a sound, the captain’s charred body collapsed to the ground.

Now fully healed of the machete wound, the enraged youth calmly walked from one shocked captor to another, briefly touching them. With each  touch a pirate burst into flame and was reduced to ash. Buildings joined in the inferno and struggled to reach a heat as intense as the young man’s rage. Turning, the kid noticed a battalion of soldiers drilling on a parade ground beyond a nearby chain link fence. Their feet struck the pavement in perfect unison as they marched, clapping hands to rifles.

The fury boiling within the man reached a point beyond heat. It chilled with a cold to freeze magma. A raging blizzard picked up around him and somewhere in a distant corner of his mind he realized the very weather was his to command.

He extended his arms to the sky and black roiling clouds simply appeared. With a violent thrust of his hand, columns of lightning erupted from the heavens, plummeting down into the soldiers. White hot death split the air as thunder threatened to crush everything near. When the lightning finally cleared nothing remained of the soldiers, only a scorched patch of barren earth.

His revenge sated, the young man lowered his arms. “This is a fishing town, they should have no problem,” he said.

And with a blast of wind he took to the skies.


I just returned yesterday from a near week long whitewater rafting trip down the Snake River in Idaho/Oregon.  I take one or two rafting trips a year (sometimes three if I’m lucky) and it is one of my main hobbies.  It is strange then, that it does not pop up in my dreams more often; just once since I started this blog in fact.

Due to the technologically isolated nature of floating on an inflatable raft for several days down a rushing river in the wilderness, I was unable to promptly record my dreams upon waking as I have been.  All I have of those memories of things that didn’t happen are fragments, a few of which I shall share with you now.

One instance was pretty much the worst dream ever.  It involved alien slugs taking over people’s brains and controlling them as they started  bashing people’s skulls in with rocks.  There was an orgy of blood and sex that resulted in a woman painfully and willfully giving birth to an alien slug by ripping it out of herself.  That one certainly woke me up screaming to an imagined image of my brother’s silhouette standing in a doorway staring at me.

That was not the only nightmarish dream I had on the trip.  This is interesting, because I very rarely have scary dreams.  Perhaps the looming stress of my employment (or lack thereof) situation is affecting my psyche.  The second nightmare had some positive aspects to it though.  It started with a grayed-out corpse of a woman crawling towards me with severed stumps for arms.  After the initial shock of that sight, I realized I was dreaming and had a brief flash of lucidity where I was able to clamp down on the dream.  These are the best words I can use to describe the feeling.  It just felt like my brain got a firm grip on a situation it did not like happening and turned the woman’s arms into hammers instead of bloody stumps.  It was an improvement for sure, but why hammers I cannot say.

I lead a caravan through the parched desert.  A steam of people carrying their belongings followed me across the dunes.  Men, women, children, all huddled together in a line, fearing another attack by one of the local tribes.  They had already attacked us several times.  They were fierce, muscled warriors with pale, albino skin that braved the wastes in nothing but loincloths.  We soon spotted a group of them heading towards us on the rise of a nearby dune.

I raised my hands to bring my mini-gun to bear.  That would slow them down.  I fired, but the tribe kept coming towards us at a slow, steady pace.  I looked down to realize I wasn’t firing a gun at them.  I was just pointing my finger.  In fact, I didn’t even have a gun.  “I’ll stop them,” I said.  “I have Fists of Steel.”

To my surprise, the tribe did not attack us, but veered off to the side to pass.  They eyed us warily but kept their spears and swords lowered.  One particularly large warrior walked passed me and I bumped him in the shoulder.  He growled and raised his sword, but did not attack.  I looked back to see their group passing our caravan.  I realized they must be circling around the back to attack us from the rear!

I turned and charged back towards the retreating warrior, tackling him around the waist and bringing him to the ground with a thud.  He did not fight back.  I turned him over and straddled his chest, pinning him down.  “Why aren’t you attacking?!”  His grim face simply stared back at me with contempt.  “Tell me!” I screamed.  I gripped his throat in my hands and began to squeeze.  He only sneered.  Tighter and tighter I squeezed, until I could feel his tendons straining to keep my hands from crushing the life out of him.  Finally, with a slight grimace, he managed to whisper, “The Blood Snow.”

I immediately released him and got up.  Of course, the Blood Snow!  They were seeking shelter from it.  Anybody caught exposed in the freezing storm would surely perish.  We had to find some place to take cover.  I stopped the caravan at the top of the next dune.  Down the other side the dune ended along the shores of a small lake bordered by tall palm trees.  A direlect houseboat lay crashed at an odd angle on the shore.

I decided our best bet to stay warm would be to dig a cave in the side of a dune.  We could line the roof with brush, cover the brush with a nearby blue tarp, and then cover that with sand.  That would provide plenty of insulation against the Blood Snow.  As I sat beneath a wind beaten tree on top of the dune, working out the details, Kevin returned from a visit to the old houseboat.

“We can use this guy’s body heat to help us,” he said.  Trailing behind him was a monkey the size of a man.  He had a broad black-furred face fringed with white and golden hair and leaned on a staff as he walked.  He wore two mismatched black boots, with the boot on the right foot rotated around backwards.  He extended his hand toward me.

“Theodore Winchester.  Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

I shook his hand.  “Earl.”

His eyes lit up.  “Ah, Earl, as in the the English title and 16th King of the Britons?”

“Yeah, sure I guess,” I replied.

“You know you were murdered back then, don’t you?”

My shoulders slumped a little.  “Well that wasn’t in the brochure.”