(Another short story I wrote at work.  Yes, I really am this weird.)

Lilly stood in the middle of a field and chewed on a leaf she found hanging from a large tree.  Her mouth moved almost to the speed of sound.  At least that is what she tells her friends in school when they are standing beside the dumpster eating lunch and chatting about the boys.  Her friends always kid with her saying she’s very ‘boy crazy’ falling head over heels for every guy she meets.  Her eyes lately have been set on Michael, a taller boy with bright green eyes that sparkled and danced when he laughed.

She met Michael during physical education in second period when she tripped herself in the volley ball net and went tumbling up bleachers.  Her face was red as she told her it’s nothing to worry about, he’s done it too.  Lilly felt a little better until she realized he was lying just to see her smile.  Most girls, however, would love that; for her, it was an abomination.  She always dreamed of being told the truth all the time not just when it seems like a good idea.  So when she met Michael she thought he was going to be different.  Her other half.

Lilly reached up into the tree and pulled down another leaf from the tree and began chewing.  Her teeth loudly chomping on the leaf as it sways back and forth in her jaws.  Leaning against the tree she heard whistling from the bottom of the hill she sat on.   Glancing down she saw a beautiful unicorn galloping up the hill.  Her heart rate sped as she realized that it was Michael that was galloping toward her.  Lilly quickly fixed her hair as he got closer.  Her giraffe body posed deliciously as she waited for him to get to the top.

Michael stopped, standing in front of her, holding a large white pail.  He smiled his heart stopping teeth showing grin as Lilly forgot how to stand.  Her knees began to wobble as she fell – hard – on the ground.  Michael flew toward her dropping his pail on the ground, tiny lima beans landing everywhere around the two of them.

“Lima beans?”  Lilly asked as Michael wrapped his arms around her.

“I remember you said you liked them more than leaves.”  He embraced her tighter.

She smiled.  “Oh, Michael, You’re so sweet.”

“I aim to please, Miss.”

(I have been promising a short story for a while now.  So Saturday night at work as I was supposed to be working I wrote a ‘story’.  Around three o’clock in the morning I was bored out of my mind & began writing.  This is what I came up with.  I just want to stretch – this was three o’clock in the morning & I get very loopy.  This isn’t what all my writing is like, I just thought this was cute & funny.  Enjoy!)

Hello, I’m Short Mort wearing Morty Pants.

They are referred to “Morty pants’ because they are Mort’s pants.

You see… when bought there was a tag in the pocket.. “Dear Consumer.. Please take these Morty pants to Mort.  Address (censored because of stalkers)”

So the dear, nice, awesome person who bought them dropped them off on Mort’s porch with a note “Dear ‘mort’, I bought these pants and they spoke to me.  Scared me poopless.  You keep them.”

Mort picked up the pants and dropped them as soon as they began to wiggle in her palms.  As if being aired up by an air tank, they grew & grew until they were a full grown pair of pants.  It’s pockets blinked.

Mort flew backwards skidding across the wooden floor slamming her head into the bottom of the leather couch.  She stared at this pair of pants, now dancing across the porch, with her jaw on the floor.  Every single piece of sanity was sucked out of her face and escaped into thin air.

She drooled.

The pants began to move toward her.  A small gap between the bottom of the pants & the floor, as if someone was in them.  They approached her slowly.  Stalker-like.  Mort’s eyes grew wide; fearful.

They stopped abruptly at her feet and dropped to the floor.  Mort heard a small whisper and watched as the waist band moved up and down, “Mort.  Put me on.  You’ll love me.”

Mort thought about this for a moment but ended up undressing and slipping on the talking pants.  They button themselves and squeezed her tightly.  She gasped for air.

Just as they began to squeeze they released leaving Mort feeling comfortable and relaxed.  The pockets blinked and a small whisper began to speak, “see Mort.  Don’t you love me.  You know you love me.  LOVE ME MORT! LOVE ME!”

Mort shook her head.  The pants seeming unsatisfied squeezed her again taking with it all of her breath.  Mort felt a little disturbed at these pants.

The Morty Pants released her. The button flew off and slid to the ground.  “Step out.”  The pants were dominant in their request.  Mort stepped out and to the side.  The pants blew up slowly, turned its back to Mort and smoothly exited the room.

They stood on the porch looking out across the lawn.  “Mort, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.  We were supposed to be together.”

“We can still be together.”  Mort sadly replies.  Tears growing slowly in her eyes staring at the pants.

The pants walked down the steps and into the grass.  “No Mort, we cannot.  You’ve hurt me.  HURT ME!  And now…”  It’s small voice trailed off into the wind.

“Pants…. no!”  Mort screamed dropping to her knees.

The pants stopped for just a minute.  “Don’t act like this bothers you.  You don’t love me, Mort.”

Mort stood and dusted off her knees.  Tears sliding down her cheeks and blowing off into the wind.  She extended her hand out in front of her toward the pants.  “Come back…”

Morty Pants took a deep breath, it’s pockets blinking back lint, a small sniffle escaped it’s waistband.

 

A small breeze blew across Mort’s face.  “Oh crap!  It’s cold.”  She turns quickly and runs back into her living room shutting the door behind her.  She leaned her back against the door and flicked her shoes off.  realizing she still didn’t have pants on, she rushed to her bedroom and slipped on a small pair of shorts.

She drags herself away from her bedroom with thoughts of sleep sounding like such a great idea.  She shut the bedroom door behind her and leaned her back against it and sighed thinking of her lovely Morty pants.

“Oh how I love thee…”  She said out loud to a large tree sitting in front of her.  She blinks rapidly.  “Wait.. a tree?”

Mort stood there staring at this tree that looked like it literally grew through the floor, but never broke the floor as its roots penetrated the ground.

She walked around in circles looking up and down the trees trunk.  She blinked.  The tree was gone.

She blinked her eyes again.  Morty Pants stood in front of her.  She squealed.  She blinked again.  Gone.  She pouted feeling confused she blinked again.

Morty Pants showed themselves again.  This time she held her eyes open.  “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You know how to keep me here.  For good.”  Morty Pants sounded cryptic.

“How?  Oh, please Morty Pants tell me!”  She pleaded.

“Just admit you love me.”  The pocket eyes blinked.

“Oh Morty Pants… I do love you.”  She jumped toward the pants and hugged them.  Quickly removed her shorts and slipped herself inside of Morty Pants.  The button fastened and hugged around her hips.

I have made a decision.  What is this decision?  Chapter three will be the DEATH of me!

I wonder if all authors go through this.  Is author a proper word to describe me?  Eh.  Probably not.  I’m still going to use it.  Live.  With.  It.

I have been trying to write chapter three for nearly three weeks & I have gotten no where.  I am up to a page and a half, when after twelve hours of writing the previous chapters, I’m done.  As soon as I begin to tackle chapter three, even if I have notes & the knowledge that I need for the chapter, I cannot write it.  Three is the chapter I always seem to stop writing.  I’ll put the story aside & tell myself I’ll go back to that later.  I just need a break.  Three hundred years later, it’s still collecting dust in the corner of my bedroom because I haven’t picked it up.

When I was still in college, English Composition 2, I wrote a short story.  (I italicize ‘short story’ because a lost of people couldn’t consider it a short story because it was over twenty chapters, as we speak.)  I have been working off & on with that story for the last few years attempting to finish it.  I’ve been working hard on getting it to the point that I like it.  There were a few, when it was still a short story, that liked it.  As I have looked at it the last few years with a large clip on the top I feel like there should be more to it.  So I have been adding and taking away.  But I think – THINK – think I am going to take it back down to a short story and be done with it.  Just end it.  And be done with it.  But who actually still reads short stories?  What exactly is a short story?

When I was nineteen I began writing something called Ctrl. Alt. Delete.  Third chapter – stumped me.  I never finished it.  That work is still in a shed at a house that we own in a whole different town.

Frost.  The work I’m attempting to write right now.  Chapter three.  A page and a half.  I know the details & I know what I want to happen.  But putting the words on the paper is beginning to give me a hernia.  Is that even possible?

I write the best at work.  That’s where I wrote chapters one & two.  I tried all weekend to write chapter three & nothing.  A few words.  But nothing worth keeping.

I still keep wondering if I am able to do this or not.  Writing, that is.

No one notices.  Shouldn’t they?  Of all things, shouldn’t they notice?  Or have they noticed?  Am I oblivious?

Everything seems to be going in slow motion.  I’m not sure if it’s supposed to do that.  My hand hasn’t moved from my side since the noise ran through the building.  For some reason, I knew working in security wasn’t a good idea.   I just knew something weird was going to happen.  But I was honestly just hoping to ‘accidentally get tased’.  That would be fun.  Hilarious even.  But this?  Really?

My head is hurting.  That doesn’t seem right.  My head shouldn’t hurt.  It should be my side.  That I am still holding.  I wiggle my fingers.  Pain.  Ow.  I shrug to myself.  At least I was right.  It is hurting.

I hear mumblings to my left.  I cannot tell what they are saying, though.  That saddens me.  I wish I make it out.  It sounds like they have towels in their mouths.

I’m sure that’s not a good sign.

It’s beginning to get hot.  I chuckle to myself.  That could be a good sign.  Right?  They say when you begin to die you get cold.  The sweat rolling down my forehead shows that I am not cold.  Oh, no.  What if.. can a person get so cold they sweat?  That is a really unnerving thought and I don’t want to think about that.

I should have called in today.  I thought about it.  Sitting up in bed staring at the alarm clock.  It played through my mind.  Today is not a good day.  Stay home.  But I figured that thought was only because I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.  Or that I had a hangover from getting drunk last night.  It was fun, though.

The mumbled talking is closer.  Are they talking to me? About me.   I turn my head.  Concern etched the supervisors face.  I can’t make out what he’s saying.  Did I put head phones on?  If I just stare blankly at him nodding every now and then, I wonder if he’d go away.

Oh.  He noticed the spot.  My hand.  He moved it.  Ow.  I close my eyes and shake my head.  No. No. No.  Don’t touch.  It hurts.  Ow.  Like really bad.

My hands are shaking.  I glare at my hand.  It’s covered.  Blood?  Sticky.  I flip my hand over a couple times.  My stomach feels weird.  Like something is pushing.  Flip flops.

I pinch myself.  Hard.  Twice.  Three times.  Please wake up.  Please wake up.  I think I’ll make that my mantra.  Wake up.  Wake up.

The supervisor wants me to sit.  I can’t seem to make my legs move.  I need help.  I look at him.  Pleading.  Help!  I scream in my head.

My stomach convulses.  Everything comes out.  All over his shoe.  Oh no.  No.  His poor shoe.  It was so pretty too.  He’ll never get it cleaned properly.  He’ll have to throw it away.  I feel so bad.  But I feel it again.  My stomach.  Once again.  Everything out on the floor.  I squint my eyes.  Is that blood?  That’s not good.

The supervisor helps me to a chair.  It rolls.  I fall.  Hitting the floor I sit there.  I don’t want to move.  The pain is too bad.

A part of me has always wondered what it would feel like.  Slipping through the skin.  Lodging itself tightly inside.  I knew it would hurt.  Like this?

I blink quickly.  Leaning against the wall I try to breathe.  Ow.  That hurts too.  It’s not smart to stop breathing though.

I am trying so hard to remember what happened.  My mind is blank.  Is that a bad sign?  Amnesia?  It that possible?  No, that’s stupid.

If I cry I wonder if anybody would care.  I really want to.  So much pain.  So much blood.  So much vomit.  My stomach heaves again.  NO!  I will not do that again.  The tears begin streaming down my face.  I want it stop.  Too many people in here.  Too many pretty people.  Can’t they go back to work?  Why worry about me?  I’m nothing.

I feel my eyes getting heavy.  Sleepy.  Oh, so sleepy.  I wonder if they’ll let me nap.  My lips part and I inhale air.  Slowly.  Feeling my lungs completely.  My eyes close.  I drift.

I’m sitting on a large white table, the walls are blank.  The floor is covered in dirt.  That seems weird.  I hear screaming.  Frantic screaming.  I ignore it.

I jump off the table and walk around.  I feel better.  I dance around the room.  Dirt flinging everywhere.  I smile playfully; giggling.

“Do you even realize what happened?”

The voice scared me.  I tripped over myself and I fall.  Hitting the ground hard.  I glance up at the figure standing in front of me.  They look familiar.  I tilt my head to the left.  I chew on my thumb nail.  Staring.  Where do I know this person from?

“Am I dead?”  I sigh at the thought.  I wasn’t ready to die.  Nowhere near.  I’m only twenty-five.  Oh.  Died at work.  That’s a horrible thought.  I slouch in the dirt.

The figured laughed.  “Would your heaven really be dirt and white empty walls?”

My heart drops.  “Oh.  No.  I’m in hell?”  The word sounds contorted.  Was I really that bad growing up.  That I deserve to be in hell.  Oh no.

The figure sits down on the ground.  In the dirt.  “Hell?  Really?  You’re not dead.”

Oh.  “Oh.”

Waving it’s hand around in the air it stares at me.  “You’re…. dreaming.”

“Dreaming.”  Hm.  That sounds strange.  Why would I go to sleep.  “What happened?”

“You were shot.”

My eyes widened.  Alarmed.    “Shot.”  My voice isn’t there anymore.  It ran.  Hiding.  I don’t blame it.  I wish I was with it.  Gone.  Somewhere else.  Hiding.

“You shouldn’t have went to sleep.”

The figure was staring at me.  Not moving.  I vaguely remember going to sleep.  It feels like a dream.  Maybe it is a dream.  Maybe I’m dreaming a dream inside of a dream.  It wouldn’t be the first time.  But that wouldn’t make sense.  Would it?  Maybe it would.

What is wrong with me going to sleep?  I was tired.  That is what you do when you’re tired.  You sleep.  Horrible thoughts go through my mind.  Coma.  My head spins.  Am I in a coma?

“Am I in a coma?”  I stare at the figure.

A creepy laugh emerges from the pits of the figure.  “A coma?”

Shivers.  Why did that laugh just make me get shivers?  Why is the figure being creepy?  Too many questions.  My head feels like it’s about to explode.  I wonder if that’s possible in a dream.  One minute your head is intact.  The next.. a million pieces.  Splattered all over the dream wall leaving a nasty stain.  Ugh!  Stupid head explosion.

The figure tilts its head to the side.  “A penny for your thoughts.”

“Do you even have a penny?”  Why would a dream figure have a penny.  To play a dream penny machine in a dream casino in dream Las Vegas.  That’s stupid.

“No.  I guess I don’t.  I don’t have pockets.”

I should have dreamed up a pocket in their pants.  Had I known I was going to dream up a creepy figure I might have.  And a penny.

I wish I was at home watching television.  Should I be thinking about this sitting in front of my dream figure that is still staring creepily at me?  But I do wish I was.  Television sounds nice.  I wonder what I would be watching.  What times is it?  “What time is it?”

My dream figure contorts their face.  “That’s a strange question.”

“What time is it?”  I feel my eye brow lift.

“Fifteen after seven.”

What’s on television now?  I look around the room.  What day is it?  “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”  My dream figure looks confused.

Oh!  Vampire Diaries.  I love that show.  I could be at home watching television.  In my bed.  With a soda pop.  But no.  No.  I’m having a strange dream about a figure who keeps staring at me and laughing with a creepy giggle as I wonder whether I’m actually dead or not.

I pinch myself again.

This is stupid.  “This is stupid.”  I stand up and cross my arms across my chest.

The figure stands up with me.

I wonder what the figure is thinking.  How long am I going to be stuck here?  Will I ever wake up?  Should I pinch myself?  Would that help?  Why am I asking myself so many questions?

I’m hungry.  “I’m hungry.”  Well this isn’t good.  I can’t dream up dream food.  I’m sure it wouldn’t do me any good.  Hm.  I wonder what I would dream up.  Hamburger.  Pizza.  Eh.  Oh.  Chinese food.  I laugh to myself.  Of all things.

“You should really stop over thinking this.”  The dream figure seems bored.  Why are they bored?  I’m the one who cannot go home because I don’t know how.

“What else am I supposed to do?  Exercise.”  Why is this figure looking at me like this?  I didn’t drag them here.  Oh wait.  Heh.  I guess I did.

“You’re supposed to learn something.”  The figure is dancing.  Why are they dancing?

“Am I supposed to learn to dance?”  I don’t need some dream figure teaching me some weird dream dance.  I know how to dance.  Or at least I can fake it well.  Annoyed I stare blankly at the dream figure.

The dream figure huffed.  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

The dream figure just screamed at me.  Why did it scream at me?  The sound was strange.  It was deep.  Loud.  The urge to cry came back.  “Why did you yell at me?”  That didn’t even sound like my voice.  It was loud.  Squeaky.

The dream figure dropped its head.  “I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t help myself.  The laugh escaped my lips quickly.

My eyes flickered open.  A bright light searing into them.  I lay motionless on the floor.  The ceiling is dark.  Dirty.  This is my job.  Why am I still here?

I try to move but I’m shackled to the floor.  Why am I shackled?  At work.  This doesn’t make any sense.

My ankles are hurting.  I try to move them.  Get the blood moving.  Nothing.  They’re shackled too?  This is weird.

There are things hanging from the ceiling.  I squint my eyes.  Ties.  Grey ties.  My lips part making an O.  I try to sit up.  I don’t want to be here anymore.

I wish I could pinch myself.  I’m sure this is a dream.

I hear something.  What is that?  Boots.  Oh I wish I was better at this.  It’s getting closer.  What IS that?

The noise stops.  Close.  Right beside me?  I turned my head toward a tall guy.  I swallow hard.  He is tall.  Very tall.  Built.  Half naked.  Holy crap.  My friends aren’t going to believe this!

He is holding a whip.  Why is he holding a whip?  He cracks it on the table.  It was loud.  Echoing through the room.  I feel my eyes widen.

His hair is shaggy.  Dark.  Oh his eyes.  I bite my lower lip.  With the whip he flicks my lip.  He shakes his head as if to say no.  My lips part.  His lips part enough for me to see the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

Should I be thinking about something?  Was I thinking about something?  I think my mind was erased.  I wonder if he did it.  Maybe he’s an alien.  Was I abducted?  Does that sound weird?  It does to me.  If an alien was to abduct someone it sure wouldn’t be me.

He is moving.  What is he fixing to do?  He lays the whip on the large wooden table.  He pulls something out of his pants pocket.  What is that?  He lifts his hands up in the air.  Oh, it’s a remote.  He hits a button.  Music fills the room.  Loud music.  I know this song.  I’ve heard this before.  It’s on my phone.  Isn’t it?  Asking Alexandria.  Yeah.  This song.  It’s a cover.  I close my eyes and let the music move through me.  He has it on repeat.  I lick my lips as the voice echoes through the room.  Louder.  …I miss you much.  Cause you are the apple of my eye.  I hum to myself.

When I open my eyes he is standing above me.  I wonder what he did with his shirt.  Shouldn’t he have it on?  We’re in public for Pete’s sake.  He should be dressed.  Although.  I don’t mind it.  His pecks well defined.  Reminds me of Jay Ryan shirtless.  My mouth waters.  His eyes are dark behind his thick rimmed glasses.  Brown, perhaps.  So entrapping.  Dark bushy eyebrows.  Oh, just like Ian Somerhalder’s.

Yeah.  This is most defiantly a dream.

I close my eyes.  Tightly.  If I open them again I’ll be awake.  Yes.  That will do.  I open them slowly.  I turn my head.  I growl.  It didn’t work.  My jaw drops.  What the hell?

I stare at the guy.  I didn’t wake up.  But oh wow.  This isn’t true.  Why can’t I wake up?  I want to wake up now.  This is freaky.  His grin slowly grows across his face.  He looks different though.  His eyes are even darker.  Is that eyeliner?  His facial hair dark.  His beard braided in two long lines with beads on the ends.  A small patch of hair covering where a labret piercing would go.  A small version of a handle bar mustache.  If I was to squint my eyes I’d swear I was looking at Johnny Depp.

I shake my head violently.  This is unreal.  Wake up.  Wake up.  Wake up.  I try to pinch myself, without thinking, and I realize I’m still shackled to the floor.  He is standing above me.  His left leg on my right side, and his right leg on my left side.  Staring down at me.  Grinning.

He grabs the whip he had placed on the table.  He slowly licks his lips.  My heart expands.  Everything below my belt convulses.  What the hell?  This dude, I don’t know, has me tied up and I’m turned on.  This cannot be happening.  I really need to wake up.  NOW!  I scream at myself.

Pointing the tip of the whip at my face.  He slides it in between my lips.

“Open.”  His voice is deep.  Deeper than Michael Clarke Duncan was.  Goose pimples form.  Without even thinking about it.  I part my lips.

He slips the tip of the whip into my mouth.  It touched my tongue.  “Close.”

I snap my mouth shut.

His eyes flashed black.  “Suck.”

Wait.  I spit the whip out.  “What is this?  Some fucked up version of 50 Shades of Grey?”

The man stops.  “What?”

I don’t want to play this game anymore.  I want to wake up.  I want to watch television for fuck’s sake.  I wish this guy would leave me alone.  He’s hot and all, but I am not in the mood to play whatever game he has in mind.

The guy drops to his knees.  Straddling me.  He stares at me.  His look unreadable.  He leans back onto his heels.  All of his weight.  I can feel him growing.

I sigh.

“Will you please tell me how to wake up.”  I pull on the shackles.

“Wait.”  He looks at me.  “You don’t want to play with me?”

“No.  No I do not.  I would like to wake up.  Go home.  And watch television.  I don’t want to be here anymore.”

He pouts.  “I’m bummed.  I really thought we’d have fun.”

“I do have a question though.”  Curiosity spewing out of every pore of my body.  I can’t keep on living this dream life if I don’t ask.

“Shoot.”  He smiles.  Oh yeah, now he smiles.  Ugh!  Guys.

I squint my eyes at him.  “Did you just read 50 Shades of Grey?”

He laughed.  “Yes.  Yes I did.”

“Should have known.”

I yawn.  A deep yawn that starts in my toes and ends in my fingertips.  I’m so tired.  I lay flat in a playground.  In the dirt.  I stare at the clouds floating by in the darkening sky.  It must be around eight in the evening.

My head is pounding.  I’m so tired of this.  Why can’t I just wake up?  Stay awake.  I really want to watch television.  Eat some popcorn.  Oh.  Popcorn.  My stomach growls.  Extra butter, please.

Am I in a coma?  I wonder if everyone does this during coma’s.  That would explain why people love coming out of them.  I shrug.  But then again.  This really is kind of interesting.

A small breeze blows across my body.  I look down.  What the hell?  I’m naked.  Why am I naked?  What happened to my clothes?  Jumping up quickly I try to hide myself.  I fail miserably, of course.

I glance around the playground.  Nobody is around.  I remember this playground.  Why do I remember this?  I feel as if I’ve been here before.  Have I?  Sometimes I wish I could remember my childhood.  Because then I’d know.  And possibly how to get home and put on some clothes.

I walk around.  Looking for clues, possibly.  I’m not sure.  My mind is blank.  Except for the obvious thoughts.  Television and popcorn.  I shake the thoughts from my mind.

I reach the road.  Laying in the middle I spot my shirt.  Why is my shirt in the middle of the road?  That doesn’t make any sense.  I look both ways before I bolt out to the street to pick it up.  I quickly slip on my shirt hoping no one has noticed me.  Naked.  I hate to be naked.

I walk down the side walk looking side to side.  Hoping to see something that I recognize.  Nothing.  What the point is this?  If I’m going to be sucked into a dream at least give me something to contain my amusement.  Another naked guy would do great.  I laugh.

The next thing I know I am lying flat on the side walk.  The fall was quick.  I had always imagined that kind of fall would take forever.  Slow motion fall.  But no.  No!  Why would that happen.  That would be worth something.  Slow motion would be hilarious.

I lay flat.  My nose touching the side walk.  What happened?  Why did I fall?  I reposition myself so I’m sitting up.  My face falls.  Really?  Really?  Really?  Really?  Ugh!  Of all things to freaking trip over.  I trip over my own clothes.  Why are my clothes littered all down this town?  Why would I strip?  Am I drunk?

Drunk.  That would explain so much.  But if I am drunk, and not in a coma, then where am I?  I look around.  I just don’t see anything I know here.  Maybe I came out of the coma and celebrated by getting drunk.  Then I stole a car and drove three thousand miles to a town I didn’t know.  Illegally parked the car.  Got it towed.  Then, still in my drunken stupor, I began walking.  Stripping as I went.  Passed out in the park.

Yeah.  You’re right.  That’s dumb.  I shrug.

I slip on my shorts.  Find my shoes in a bush not even fifteen feet away.  I slip them on.  Flip flops.  Must love them.

I walked some more.  North, I think.  Possibly South.  Hell, this is probably West.  I don’t know.  I was never good at directions.  I guess it really doesn’t matter all that much.

I feel the need to keep walking.  I’m not sure why, though.  I’m sure I’ll never find anything that will help me move on.  Keep going.  Wake up.  I don’t know.  But I suppose I’ll keep walking.

I walk.  And I walk.  And I walk.  And I walk.  And I walk.

I wonder how long I’ve been walking.  I stop misstep and look back.  The town is long gone.  It is beginning to get really dark.

If I was to die in a dream I wonder if I’d really die.  I heard you do.  I hope that’s not true.  We would never really know for sure, though.  If someone was to get a hatchet in their face in a dream and die.  Then die in person.  They’d not be able to tell anybody.  Why am I even thinking about this?  I’m just going to freak myself out.

Wait.  That looks familiar.  I squint my eyes at a small café that is sitting off in the middle of a field.  But I feel as if the last time I saw it, if I actually have, that it wasn’t in a field.  Why would someone put a café in a field?  That just doesn’t seem logical.

The field is large.  No road to get to it.  Right behind the back door is millions of corn.  It’s a corn field.  It’s a shame it’s not a cornflake field.  I snort laughter out.  I crack myself up.

The front door of the cafe is red.  Bright red.  Why would someone paint the front door red.  A large window engulfed the door.  The roof is in a large “A” shape.

I make my way slowly up to the building.  All the lights off.  I grab the door handle.  Might as well try.  The door flings open.  The bells hanging on the back of the door ding loudly.  I stand quietly inside the dining room.  The room is dark.  A small light lit up above the grill.

I walked up to the counter.  I noticed a small silver bell sitting on the top.  Next to a note that read ding for service.  So.  I ding the bell.  I ding the bell again.  And again.  I pick up the bell and hit it on my forehead.  Ching.  Ching. Ching.  I giggle to myself.  With the bottom of the bell in my palm I hit it on the counter.  Ching.  Ching.  Ching.  This is fun.  I’ve always wanted to do that since watching Gabriel Iglesias on Comedy Central.  I snort to myself.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”  An older voice said behind me.

I jump.  “Oh.  I didn’t realize you were in here.”

“I wasn’t.  But your insanity toward my bell got my attention.”  He sounded very annoyed.  He was short.  Greying hair.  With a bald spot on the back.  His eyes were glazed over.  Wrinkles all over his face.

“I’m sorry.”  I really was.  I have just always wanted to do that, and I’m sure other places would have shot me.  How ironic.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

I opened my mouth to say something but instead snapped it shut.  He didn’t look as if he really wanted to do anything for me.  “No sir.  I’m good.”

“In that case….”  He turned quickly on his heels and left the building.

I sighed.  I should have asked for popcorn and a soda pop.  Extra butter, please.

A noise behind me gets my attention and I turn.  A hooded figure.  Ugh!  What is with me and creepy figures?  I couldn’t see anything about this figure except the teeth shining in the light from the kitchen.  I stared.  Speechless.  The figure lifted his hand and snapped.

Just like that the walls blew off.  A cloud of smoke appeared in front of me.  It was so quick.  I couldn’t do anything.  Just stand there.  The roof collapsed, falling straight on top of me.

I jolt awake.  Eyes wide breathing heavy.   I look around.  I’m lying on a stretcher in an ambulance.  I sigh.  Relief stretching through me.  My body completely relaxes in a matter of minutes.