Altered Prose at Pif’s Corner

The man sitting at the bar motions for me to give him another drink. He is drinking whiskey and water. He has been here since my shift began two hours ago. Every once in a while he looks up from his glass to watch the people coming in or to look at the television.

Alex Trabeck is introducing the contestants. Before Alex it was the news about a murder and an accident on the interstate and a battle somewhere over there where apparently a lot of people died. The newswoman, the one who wears too much make-up, said the fighting was the worst since it all started. I guess that makes sense. The only good news was that the rain was going to end tonight.

Every once in a while the man at the bar would look up, but mostly he would stare into his glass, which I just now replaced with another whiskey and water, and mumble. I think he was talking to himself but to me it sounded like mumbling.

I try to talk to all of my customers ever since John told me that he never saw any people walk into a bar, just problems. He said that he likes to talk about his problems, and so don’t people in bars, at least always after they have drunk a little. John told me that problems walk in, but people walk out. John minored in philosophy so he gets like that sometimes.

I asked the man at the bar where he was from and he said “away.” Just like that too. He didn’t look up when he answered, so I guess he was expecting me to ask him. I didn’t say anything else immediately, and soon he raised his head to stare at me. He had a far away look in his eyes, as if he was already a long distance away from the bar.

“Thanks.”

“Uh, sure.” I started to wipe down the dry counter. “So, you need anything else?”

“Time.”

I gave a little laugh, trying to be non-committal without the rudeness. “Yeah, don’t we all, huh?” The man sighed. Slowly he stood, wobbled a bit and steadied himself by grabbing the seat of the bar stool.

“You don’t get it.” He then walked, three steps-pause, three steps-pause, and left the bar.

“Who was that?” John asked coming behind the counter carrying a rack of mostly clean glasses.

“Just some man who left with a problem.”

I looked up from my newspaper and glanced upon a dark man in a dark overcoat. Our eyes met and we stared at each other for a few seconds. I looked away self-consciously, but I still gave several furtive glances at him as I pretended to read my newspaper. He lit a cigarette and peered into the bank’s window. For an instant our eyes caught again in the window reflection, and I turned immediately back to the newspaper.

Finally, he flicked his half-spent cigarette onto the sidewalk and faced the doors. A woman exited the bank and joined him. Comfortable at last, I began to read my newspaper in earnest.

Night Dream is a bit of experimental writing I’m doing. I’m trying out a few ideas and basically throwing them up in story format. There is no pre-defined outline, so don’t expect anything special. In fact, expect to get confused. Feel free to take each entry on it’s own, or to run them all together. I will be using a numbering system (1.0, 1.1, …, 5.6, 5.7 etc) to keep these in “order” but again, expect no well-formed plotting.

Comments are always welcomed. As with everything on this site, content is covered under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Despite all the treatments, Devon always dreamed. And now, in the weightless hull of the ship, Devon knew that he would soon be dreaming again.

“Set?” crackled the voice over Devon’s mic implant; inaudibly bounding along his skull.

“Set. Roll now,” he spoke unfocused in the air.

“Rolling…hey Devon?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t dream.”

“Right…” Then an audible sigh.

Devon always thought about the darkness. Capital D in his mind. It wasn’t a metaphysical state, Devon knew, despite what every technician told him. It wasn’t some plane of physics the Scientific Authority recently discovered. It was an entity, a place, a consciousness all at once. So Devon gave it a Capital D.

He first felt the darkness on the slumber jump to Rembrance. Back when everything was ordered. Back when authority had control. Back when everything had a place, and stayed in that place. He was tunneling through space with his mom; a vacation for her to escape monotony of life and for him to escape the rigors of childhood.

Devon didn’t know what it was at first. He still doesn’t know for sure, but he feels it. It crept up on him, so slow he didn’t realize anything was there until it already started.

And then the nothing was everything. He thought he knew he was asleep; he thought he was in a bad dream. Suddenly he realized he was a different person, thinking different, like he knew more than he should. Details were all in his grasp, but if he tried to focus on any one thing he felt a pressure of agony build inside his head. From a spot in his brain he knew no person should ever know is there.

It freaked him out. Freaked him out so bad he couldn’t move. Couldn’t open his eyes. Move his arms. Hear. But he could shut off all his senses, slowly.

One by one he focused on them, and they stopped. He heard the blood rushing through his body. Knew the exact amount of liquid and the amount of pressure with each frantic gush, heard the mushy remains of the flight food squeeze into his intestines, and he thought “no” and then silence dropped over him.