first post in a long while...sorry folks.

Just some nonsense i've been workin on...and with my cynical habits, probably strictly nowhere draft material. Enjoy.

Charles Has A Dream With Predictable Consequences
Charles hustles his way through the crowded subway station towards to men’s room. Shutting himself in a cubicle he lights a cigarette and washes down a couple of StayAwake™ caffeine pills with a can of coca-cola and a cigarette. Sitting back, exhaling peacefully in the slime, he studies the writing on the walls around him.

Life on earth is an intricate dice game where you reach the finish line across the death of your mind to find out you only had one chance to play.

Satan, delivering lectures in underground bunkers, promised: armies of fallen angels; bankers of bound change; and electronic dice viruses to the control machine and built the stock market with his bare hands. Meetings were convened, appointments made and performance monitored. Pre-recorded memory shortages were tuned in and filed away safely, buried deep within the control brain’s hardwired terrestrial furnace.

The second piece, on the wall to the left, looked like it had been born freed out of the word hordes very recently; the smell of the thick black paint was still evident in the cavernous neon bunker. Impressed, Charles reached into his pocket for a paint pencil.

Question: What does Little Miss Muppet have in common with Saddam Hussein?
Answer: They both had Kurds in their way!

On the subway home, the conversation he had had earlier that morning with Audrey began to disturb him.

“Tell me about your dreams Charlie-you write your visions down don’t you-its important that you do you know…don’t you remember what we talked about last night at the beach?”

“There’s a lot I don’t remember about last night mate. In fact, I don’t really recall much of anything that happened between the last drink from the first bottle of vodka that I bought and the headache I woke up with this morning. I didn’t even realise that I was responsible for all of the cans of absinthe that I found empty in the back seat of my car until I saw my credit statement this morning.

“Kicked the mood stabilizer habit and hitting the stupid juice eh? You were very raw. Watch you don’t rot your brain out Charlie, I don’t wanna see anymore of my brothers turning into fucking lush-freaks you hear. You were talking about going to a brothel when you flew out of the club this morning. Did that show up on your credit statement?”

“It did actually.”

Charles reacted bitterly to his friends somewhat overbearing probing. He confessed defensively that he couldn’t remember his dreams, didn’t really pay much attention and saw sleep more as physical necessity than an exploration and, as such, had not bothered to take the time to record anything out of any of them.

Too vague, too personal and intimately unpredictable he said.

Publishing his dreams would be amount a masochistic and commercially suicidal act. Worthless nonsense fit only for an invisible magazine without a name.

Strictly nowhere. Randomly distorted products of a biological redneck wonderland of an otherwise useful psyche.

Audrey stormed out of the café and disappeared into the crowds, the grey dust following him like smoke. The conversation remained and kept him in unsettled companionship for the rest of the day

Why had he never taken the time to write down his dreams? He wondered if maybe this time his friend’s enthusiasm was the infectious element of the equation. Dreams are probably just semi-conscious junk aren’t they? Personalised dramatisation of unconscious desires? Over saturation of exhausted translucent amber nervous instinct visions? He bought a pad and a new black pencil from a newsstand on the way back to his apartment, determined to make a recording in the morning.

He woke up at sunrise hot and drenched in sweat gasping for water and air. Coming to his senses, he changed the sheets and reached for the writing pad, having decided before going to sleep to transcribe his experience in the third person, so that it would more easily resemble a film script he could analyse at his convenience. His journal entry ran as follows:

Charles thought about that briefcase all night every night it reached out from under his bed – the door flew open under the vulture’s stolen entrails lost in the deep dark invisible lake – the semi-permanent inhabitants arrived on the comets that baptised the lizard kings in holy fire – under his bed all night every night the earth shook again under the vulture’s stolen earthquake – the deep dark semi-permanent lake flew open invisible holy fire – lizard kings baptised by thought vultures on circling stolen comets lost in earth – all night every night the lizard kings in the stolen briefcase thought about the semi-permanent Charles – people are frozen to death on the road in Scotland when the comet reached out from under the bed – a spaceship reached out from above the bed to photocopy the pyramids under the invisible lake – a crown of thorns floats to the surface in the darkness around the bed – Charles stole the briefcase back from under the spaceship and slept in the frozen earthquake all night until the violent weather shook the bed – Charles reached out in the deep dark for the pyramids frozen entrails and was baptised by invisible photocopy spaceship fire – Charles froze to death and reached out from the invisible lake to a spaceship above the vultures earthquake in the photocopy pyramids.

Question: What is in the briefcase?

Answer: Nothing is in the briefcase…