The Quest

The turbulence was almost too much to bear. Spake pulled out the onboard oxygen mask, cupping it to his face and falling back down in his seat.

Rocking back and forth, back and forth. Walls shaking. People screaming. Children screaming.

“Hold on, everyone”, shouted the pilot over the intercom, static being produced, transmission cutting in and out. Trying to keep things under control but the aluminum tube was about to rip apart in mid-air.puuoi

Down she went, shooting down through the sky faster than a hot missile.

The plane crashed down into the Sahara desert, creating a wave of dust that stretched for miles. Flames engulfed the wreckage. Noone could have survived this. But somehow, one did.

Now Spake began his quest across the desert, looking for help, looking for anyone. Parts of the plane scattered across the arid land. Hot and dry. Sweltering heat.

Around this area was a secret facility, a place where a project was being conducted.
 

 

The Secret Box

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There once was a secret box that could only be opened by a special person. It had six locks on the side, six magical locks that when opened revealed something so powerful that the founder had to be so careful as to not let it get into the wrong hands. The Creator of this ancient artifact left very little clues as to how to unlock the box. It may unleash something bad or something good, forever changing the course of the world. Sort of like Pandora’s box but in a different way.

The clue is given via a hologram image of the Creator, which is basically a recording of him thousands of years ago. He died shortly after creating this. He speaks in a strange language that must be deciphered. This language might be made up if anyone knows.

The only way into the ancient underground lab where this box is located is by taking a drop of your blood and placing it on the sensor rune in the door. But beware, it only accepts people that share some bond with the Creator or are part of his ancestry line. So basically, the mythical lair is set up to keep out anyone who is unworthy of its secrets and be abusive. Until this day, the only ones to have ever discovered the location of the secret box, otherwise known as a word that sounds like Klingon, are the Creator himself and someone he trusted closely named Romulus. Together, they set up the defenses and other precautions that would ensure the box would stay hidden and protected. They were afraid that if anyone else discovered this, things would go terribly wrong. Nothing like this had ever existed in the world. The most worthy person would come along someday.

That was before a man named Slocan Mesta came along. And he would not only succeed in accessing the hidden lab, he would unlock the magical box and acquire the power that was inside, which turned out to be quite useful – for a while at least. Being one of the last ancestors of the Creator (whose last name might have been Mesta or something else), it was probably right that he was the worthy candidate to finally discover the power that had been dormant for so long.

Whatever happened to Slocan Mesta?  Well after he went into the village he quickly did things that terrified people and made him an instant villain. It turns out that he rose to power quickly, using his powers to manipulate and trick people. He couldn’t be caught since he could transform into any living thing, human or animal, could easily hide in plain sight. It was said he manipulated his wife into marrying him and had two children who may or may not had inherited his rare abilities.

Mesta has seemed to have gone into hiding after his power became so uncontrollable, he couldn’t be apart of the normal population anymore. It was taking a toll on his body as well, making him very weak and tired, draining him of his energy. That was the downside to opening the secret box, for what was inside seemed to morph itself into its host, completely taking over that person’s soul, little by little taking control of their mind until they no longer could make their own moral decisions anymore.

The story continues into the present day when four kids come in contact with the recluse, aged quite considerably, and are led on an adventure for the ages. A plane will crash down into a desert, someone will be taken and held hostage – by hazmat suits, and the key to restoring a burnt out apocalyptic land to its once peaceful and thriving state will require the impossible to happen.

Mission: Stealth

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Back inside the halls of long abandoned Praline, the bounty hunt for Dmitri Ivanova continued. It was going well into midnight and tensions were high for his capture.

“Where are you Ivanova?” said Looper in a hushed tone, walking through an aisle of the school’s abandoned library. His flashlight beam hovered over some dusty books on a middle shelf, various titles on the spines becoming clear. Ivanova, the ruthless tyrant and murderer from Russia, could jump out at any moment and start shooting at the tall beared assassin.

“Come out,” Looper said, the old floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. Most of the windows of this abandoned library were boarded up except for two that had been shattered, letting in streams of moonlight that illuminated the aisle Looper was stealthily walking down. The sound of an old clock that was miraculously still ticking after all these years was the only other sound besides Looper’s shuffles.

They say Looper’s name comes from the way he goes around in circles on subjects,

Flash Fiction Challenge: December 15

In 99 words (no more, no less) explore the importance of a name within a story. It can be naming an experience, introducing an extraordinary name, or clarifying a name (who can forget Who’s on First). Go where the prompt leads.

 

36 Years

My childhood hero is getting old.

It’s Harry Potter and author J.K. Rowling’s birthday today, both born on July 31st. The celebration weekend goes on with the release of the unofficial eighth book in the Harry Potter universe “Harry Potter and the Cursed Child”. While this book is available in a physical paperback form, I bought it on Google Play for a friendly price of 14.99. It’s not really a novel but the script from a stageplay adapted into a book. The drama continues with the kids of Harry, Ron, and Hermione going to Hogwarts. Albus Severus Potter is the main character in this story and deals with some real issues, including questioning his family name and heritage. What’s in it for the future of Harry Potter and company? Read the story to find out.

Dramatic

The Walk Alone

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I walk alone
The shadows in the valley
Misunderstood creature of the night
I bask in darkness
Void of light
The odd one out
I walk alone

Shadow

The Search For Wi-Fi

Quiet SpotI was a desperate traveler looking for a Wi-Fi signal. A lightning storm had just commenced and knocked out my Internet reception at home, possibly damaging the receiver. I had no idea when it would be fixed, a week perhaps.

I had been walking along a long road near a farm looking for help when I was suddenly kidnapped by some guys in a car. They blindfolded and tied me up in the backseat. I had no idea where they were taking me but soon woke up in the middle of a desert with no one around.

Luckily, my phone was still with me, but the thugs had stolen my wallet. I tried to update my Facebook status, send a Tweet, check my WordPress, and upload a funny Vine of myself dancing near a cactus.

But nothing…

The first time I tried connecting…”Sorry there are no connections available”
The second time…”Sorry there are no connections available”
The third time though…”Hold on while we access your current location”

So I, a tired and confused nomad, waited for a response…

“You’re in the middle of the freaking desert!”

I looked at this weirdly. Was that a normal response?

The phone then put up another message:

“Here are some recommendations to find Wi-Fi: Go east about 10 miles. You’ll find a highway. Go north on that highway for about 5 miles and you’ll come to a little town called Dustcrop.”

So, with the sun beating down on my young sweaty face, and feeling dehydrated, I went the distance to the long highway and then trekked the five miles to this Dustcrop. It was like a scene out of an old Western flick or The Rifleman. Every shop and house looked like it had a cardboard front. A dusty road split down the middle of this strange-looking town. Everyone was milling out mindlessly, but when they saw me coming, they suddenly stopped and looked at me suspiciously. Immediately, a stout looking man with a moustache saw me and walked up to me casually.

“Howdy. I’m the Marshall. What can I do for ya?”, he asked in a heavily Western accent.

“I’m looking for Wi-Fi. Any available?” My straight American accent must had sounded silly here.

The man nearly choked from laughing so hard. Nearly fell down.

“Wi-Fi? Bless my buttons! Sorry, my young lad. There’s none of that here. We’re out in the middle of the freaking desert.”

“Oh. Do you know where I can find some?”

The Marshall pointed to a tan building on the right where a white pickup truck was parked. A tall gentleman was standing on the porch outside.

“Ask that man to give you a ride into the main city. He’s the keys around here.”

And so I did. And when the pickup truck stopped in the bustling urban jungle with lights and screens flashing everywhere, I got out and started checking my phone for a signal. Still nothing even as I waved my device around and walked around a bit. What seemed to be the problem? In the desert, not having a signal was obvious. But still not having any connection in a thriving metropolis was kind of strange. I checked all of the settings, made sure the phone was not in Airplane mode. No. There weren’t any connections available. How could that be?

Frustrated, I asked a guy dressed in hipster clothing where to get Wi-Fi in this city.

“Uh, sorry man. Wi-Fi has been banned from this city for years.”

I looked at him in horror. “What? Banned? How come?”

“Privacy issues and too much data overloading.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Yeah, I was kind of shocked too. A lot of people were pissed. They now have to go at least 20 miles to find any connection. No wired connections here either. We’re nearly Amish.”

“Well, sir. Thank you. I’ve been traveling all day to find Wi-Fi. I got kidnapped and dropped off in a desert, strolled into a strange highway town, and now am here in this strange city. And all I want to do is post a funny cat picture on Facebook. Can you give me a ride? My escort just left really fast.”

“Sorry, I don’t drive. Actually, no one really drives anymore because of the pollution act of 2013. The few that still drive need special permits to do so and do it very little to save from polluting the air anymore.”

“So how do you get around? Is there a train? A subway?”

“Nope. The train system was discontinued after a bunch of passengers got claustrophobia. The subway crashed and hasn’t been repaired yet, tax dollars going to other things like a new statue of Sir Elton John over there. You can ride that around though.” He pointed to a small tricycle by a light pole. It was pink with a basket and had streamers on the handlebars. “I don’t know whose it is but I’m sure they’re not missing it.”

Without another word or hesitation, I hopped on the little trike and rode through the internetless city, not caring what funny looks I was getting or if my legs were cramped and aching. But after about ten minutes, I soon stopped short when I saw a library nestled within some trees. It seemed to be the perfect spot. Could it actually be? Something told me it was.

I went inside. A strange smell came to my nose of fresh paint and cut wood. Checking my phone, I was super excited to find there was a working connection! I found a comfortable chair in the back corner and checked my online life in relaxation. Finally, after so much trouble, my tired nomad feet could rest. Funny cactus Vine uploaded. Third time was the charm.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “History of Language.”

The Titanic Sails Again

On the set of James Cameron’s 1997 romantic disaster film Titanic, I presented the beginnings of an alternate script I had worked up overnight. The director looked at it as if it were ridiculous, for which is was, but read it anyway:

A person from 2015 builds his own time machine and sets the date to April 12, 1912, the date of the Titanic’s maiden voyage. Of course, the guy has to look the part, so he researches and looks for clothes from the early 1900s, and is dressed like a dignified Englishman in time to arrive on the dock at Southampton. He even has an authentic ticket produced to reside in first class, for which he certainly is not of, but no one would be able to prove it otherwise.

Narration from the time traveler:

It was one of the most glorious and grandest ships in the world, and in early 1912, I was aboard it. The RMS Titanic, set to embark on a voyage to America. I was to reside in the bottom dorms of the ship, known as steerage, after mistakenly having a third class ticket produced, getting on with just one suitcase and trying to not act too modern (there was a smartphone in my backpocket for taking pictures and maybe wowing the passengers later on).

While walking the deck, I met a friend named Jack Dawson who was an excellent artist. He showed me some of his paintings, including those of women he met in Paris, many of them nude. Instead of waiting for the right moment, I warned him right there that the ship was to sink on its third day. He looked at me in disbelief and laughed and said I was crazy. “What makes you think that?”, he asked. “This is the best ship in the world. It can’t sink!”

“I can assure you that this ship is not built to withstand even a mild collision,” I replied and added, “you all are ignorant of the fact that sailing out on the Atlantic Ocean into the night is as dangerous as ever with communication so far away.”

“You all know that this ship is going to sink?”, Jack later asked during his dinner with Rose and her rich royalty, frightening everyone.

“What makes you think that?”, asked Cal with skepticism. “A friend told me. He says he’s from the future.” Of course, they all looked shocked at this statement.

“From the future? And you believe him?,” Cal said, casting a sideways glance at the person seated next to him, who too couldn’t believe this, his moustache twitching nervously.

“Well, if it means saving all our lives, I would say so.” They all just shrugged and dismissed all of the foolishness Jack said during the rest of the dinner as “hogwash”.

But after notifying the crew, they promptly took my advice to prepare for the worst, even getting a call out to another ship to come to their rescue if needed.

And just as it was to happen, the look out crew spotted the deadly iceberg on the chilly night of the 15th and had enough time to maneuver the ship past it after knowing about it far in advance. They, Jack and Rose, and some of the other passengers, including first class, all looked at me in astonishment. Some thanked me graciously, some patted me on the back, some looked at me as if I was an alien from another world, even if I was dressed like them.

“Is there anything else you know about the future?”, the Captain asked. “Of course. I’m from it,” I said and then added, “You guys really need to learn about Facebook.” And with that, I pulled out my smartphone and took a selfie with me and the Captain together, who looked at the device curiously.

So now the ship has been saved and history changed:

Jack lived and went on to marry Rose in America, raising a family in a Wisconsin log cabin. Cal was thrown in prison for attempting to murder Jack, eventually committing suicide by hanging himself. The Titanic went on a second voyage back to England in 1913, not avoiding the iceberg this time, as fate was angry and sprouted up an array of iceberg blockages. The ship hit one of the blockages head on though and survived the impact, the operators taking my advice to do so. A fire eventually broke out in the boiler-room, damaging but not sinking the ship in 1914. Instead of James Cameron’s movie being about the disaster of the Titanic, it was about a time traveler who goes back to warn the passengers and does the incredible. And about a ship that is cursed and narrowly avoids disaster every time it sails.

“Okay, this sounds great and all, but I’m not producing sci-fi here,” James Cameron said to me. “Please take your script somewhere else, maybe to Joss Whedon or Steven Spielberg.”

And so I did, and way and behold, Spielberg loved it so much (I think he was drinking something) that I worked on the script some more, working it into an official full length script. The movie was produced and was officially named “Back to the Future: Part IV: Saving the Titanic”. Michael J. Fox was even so excited that he agreed to reprise his role as Marty, his illness seeming to be magically cured. Christopher Lloyd as Doc Brown even suggested turning the ship into a time machine boat.

And then I woke up. All just a dream.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fourth Wall.”

You get to spend a day inside your favorite movie. Tell us which one it is — and what happens to you while you’re there.

Birthday Wishes

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Fiction:

“Look, Lorie, it’s a comet!”, shouted her brother Pascal, nudging her slightly. They were sitting together on the roof of their house, just outside the open window of Lorie’s small room, listening to the crickets chirp and the wind blow calmly. Sure enough, when the teenage girl looked up, a brilliant trail of silvery dust could be seen speeding across the stellular sky. It quickly disappeared behind the horizon of trees in the distant countryside.

What a great thing to see on her birthday, Lorie thought. Nothing too exciting ever happened around the sleepy hillside just on the East side of the river that snaked though this part of Garris County. She sometimes wished she could get away and experience what was on the other side of the river, what mysteries she would uncover. Pascal and she would come up here often in the evenings just after supper had finished and mom and dad had settled into their favorite TV show together. It was a peaceful moment of bonding for them and they usually didn’t say much but let Mother Nature do the talking.

It had been a good day for the girl from a small town in the rural landscape. Her mother, a very fine chef, had meticulously baked her a cake, chocolate with strawberry frosting, and when she went to blow out the fifteen candles on top, she secretly wished for a number of things to happen to her in the future:

No.1 – She would marry a handsome prince who rode through the country on a white horse. No, that sounds so cliché and fairytale like. She did want to meet someone with a little ambition in life though, someone she could travel the world with, him having money being an obvious thing in this case, though she would definitely want to have her own source of wealth. This man would come from a rich family, of course, and would have attended the finest colleges, preferably one from the North.

No. 2 – Her eighteenth birthday would be even more extravagant than anything before. She imagined it being held in a large dance hall with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Everyone would be dressed up in their finest clothes, the men in tailored suits, the women in free-flowing dresses. She would be like the queen, everyone singing for her, all the eligible bachelors wanting a chance to dance with her on that smooth parquet floor.

And No. 3 – She would have had the greatest last year of high school during that eighteenth year. Many unimaginable things would happen to her. Lorie would be elected Homecoming Queen, walking along the good-looking King who happened to be the star quarterback of the football team. She would get to take the class trip to a faraway country, preferably Paris, since that is what she had heard was exclusive to the upperclassmen of her school. Again, it all sounds so cliché, but after living her life for so long in a low-key, unassuming way, being able to do something that not everyone gets so lucky to do and being celebrated for just once would elate Lorie.

She would love to have a day everyday that celebrated her, made her feel like the most important thing in the world. Like having a birthday everyday, as Katy Perry would say (yes, she knew about pop music even way back in this area where it all but seemed unlikely to exist, having listened to her friends music at school), getting the most wonderful gifts, being able to go anywhere she chooses. She would be floating on a weightless cloud, not a thing to harm her, always happy.

“Hey, Lorie, you okay?”

She hadn’t realized she was still sitting up there on the roof with Pascal, having drifted off into deep fantasizing thought. Pascal had made as if he was about to go inside again, silently gesturing for his sister to do the same.

“Yeah, I’m fine, was just thinking about something”, Lorie answered, still looking ahead towards the forest, the last bit of sunlight slowly sinking.

“What was that?,” Pascal asked curiously, choosing to sit back down again.

“Just something amazing. I can’t hardly put it into words but it is nice.”

Pascal didn’t answer this time but looked at Lorie as if he was intrigued by what she said. After she seemed to fall into deep thought again, he simply smiled and sat there quietly with her, just staring at the cosmic display of stars amid the half crescent moon.

After a few minutes, he finally broke the silence.

“It’s okay to dream sis, but don’t let it go to your head.”

Lorie finally looked at him after he had said this. He must had figured what she thinking then  With him being a few years older than she is, he was basically fit to tell her to not be so naive when it came to the world, that not everything is as good as it seems. Sure, she thinking she may get to be a famous moviestar someday might had seemed an impossible thing, but in her dreams it seemed closer than ever as if she were actually there on the red carpet…

With this final thought, she sighed deeply and went back inside, Pascal following close behind. She’ll get to show off someday, Lorie solemnly thought.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Festivus for the Rest of Us.”

Planet Minecraft

There once was a little man named Steve who was dropped into an enormous block like world. The only things he had were the clothes on his back and “fists” of fury that could punch through wood and rocks like Superman on steroids.

His big mission: to craft the world before him and survive the elements – mainly those pesky and relentless monsters, AKA mobs – creepers, endermen, zombie, and the formidable Herobrine. The weather was either rain or shine and didn’t have much of an effect on the landscape or Steve, other than making the grass grow rapidly fast. This land seemed to have a plethora of livestock that could be harvested such as cows, chickens, sheep, pigs, and rabbits, but they didn’t go down without a pitiful fight.

Steve soon learned how to craft different tools, from stone pickaxes to mighty swords, and used these to defeat enemies as well as mine the land with more practicality and speed, until they broke of course. He gathered many materials such as wood, cobblestone, and even very rare diamond and soon had the necessary skills to build an entire new world. Dreams of building towering skyscrapers, legendary castles, beautiful arching bridges, and articulately designed underground mine shafts floated through this one guy’s virtual mind. The possibilities were endless.

But there was just one thing, or many things missing: a companion to share his experiences with and build the world together and have fun. Steve looked all around for other inhabitants of this sandbox world and saw not a soul around (except for the Creeper that exploded in his face) until one day he came across a sign asking for people to join a club of avid followers of a game called Minecraft, whatever that was. All he had to do was step on a circular pad of light underneath the sign and be whisked away to another world – one that was full of happy and eager crafters just like Steve, all getting to know one another and participating in some exciting games. But when they all saw Steve drop in on the world, they all laughed for he just had on the same, old boring clothes he started his adventures with while everyone else was in extravagant and rather exotic looking clothes that they may had bought or crafted their selves. All of a sudden, Steve felt like an outsider, like he didn’t belong here with people that all seemed to know each other. Couldn’t even join in any games no matter how hard he tried. Was shunned by many unforgiving eyes.

But then he met a friend, someone who took him as he was, accepted that he hadn’t quite figured out how to look cool. This great friend showed him all around this populated world full of interesting designs from replicas of famous buildings to giant flags made out of blocks. And everywhere he looked, everyone seemed to be happy or him now, all clapped and cheered, and said together in one loud chorus:

“Welcome to Planet Minecraft! Make yourself at home.”


In response to The Daily Post’s writing promptu: Interplanet Janet

You get to design your own planet: tell us all about your planet — the weather, the seasons, the inhabitants. Go.

Night of A Thousand Freaks

Stirring in my sleep. A chainsaw maniac chasing me through the woods, the cliché scene. I trip over a tree root – “CRUNCH!” – landing hard on my palms, tasting the soft earth. The sound of deadly weapon getting closer, lunatic footsteps crunching the twigs. Heart racing a mile a minute, struggling to free myself from the root, but shoestring seems to be snagged. The chainman is suddenly there, silhouetted against the faint light of the hazy moon. Frantically kicking at this reverse deus ex machina, tears rolling down my face. I look up; he has a mask on, like Jason, starts to lower the frightening buzzing weapon – “Please, NO!” My legs seem to give out. I stare at the madman and for just a second seem to see a glint in his eyes behind the mask, before it is extinguished like a smoldering fire. Everything in my head goes silent…and then…just then I’m on a makeshift raft with my dad in a dark swamp with trees on both sides. The sky above is starry, full of cosmic display. I stand up in this marsh and peer at the eerie forest before me and then look back at my dad. He seems to be sinking into the swamp, and what looks like rats are crawling over him, burying him alive, completely unaware, just sleeping away. My head pounds with anxiety. I stare at the horrific scene for a moment before the words that inadvertently come from my mouth are “He wasn’t worth it anyway,” and continue toward the forest, leaving my father to sink beneath the mucky depths of this mysterious wetland.

The nightmare shifts to me running through a labyrinth of houses, still at night, the sound of police sirens chasing after me, hunting me down. Heart pounding, I race through numerous alleyways and gated squares of closely packed homes, zigzagging this way and that. I keep running until the sound of the sirens are no more, not wanting to be found or face my downfall, and then the scene disappears and I am in a bright room lit by a hanging chandelier. The walls are wood paneled, the floor vanilla colored. There is nothing in this room except three wooden doors on the far wall facing me. And then a man at least 6″5 dressed in a casual dinner suit steps through the closed center door, steps straight through it like a ghost. He reminds me of someone I’ve seen before, but his face is blurry. This broad lad walks forward and stops just before me, seeming to grow a foot taller as I stare up at him.

“You know you have to pick a door,” he says in a loud booming voice filling the entire room. He stands to my right so I can see the three doors before me.

“Which one will it be, door 1, door 2, or door 3?”, the voice of Wayne Brady appears from somewhere.

The doors seem to rush towards me or I towards them and suddenly the room changes completely, gets smaller. I am now facing the three doors in what looks like a small prison cell. There is a large pool of blood in front of me and is seeping through the small floor crack of door 2. I definitely wouldn’t choose that door, would I? The other doors seem perfectly fine: one is a bolted metal variety, the kind seen in strong ship holds, and the other has wood of mahogany and cherry, expensive looking. But I am rooted on that center door, the blood reaching my bare feet, chilling my toes. I want to open that door, see what happened, the curiosity is tempting. Door 1 and Door 3 just don’t speak anything to me. But Door 3 says it all, even if there’s most likely not a good message on the other side. I touch the door and it simply swings inward, a flash of bright light and then…

I’m in a maze-like video game or movie, going through different rooms, and end up in a large bathroom/locker room of a gym perhaps. A little bit of creative thinking to solve the challenge, riddle here. Not so obvious. I start off entering the place through a door in a dark corner. Tiled floors. The sections of the locker room quiet and eerie. Up ahead is a lit area near a wall. I walk towards it and see a foggy mirror, cracked. Cobwebs hanging from the brick wall. Dust particles floating in the shining light. I turn to the left and see a lit passageway. Objects, such as a vanity set, are against both walls. In the distance is an opening to a dark chamber with the silhouette of a large menacing structure with curved sides and a sloping roof standing. Maybe there are steps on the sides. Probably enemies will be waiting for me there. They can likely sense my presence. I’d better stay away from that place. Going around the shadowy locker room looking for clues. Finally go into a section further away from the lit wall. Then a little girl appears, says “I just want to go home” in a creepy voice. She appears to be crawling on the ground and has an eerie horror look about her, one of those Gothic, depressed, lonely orphaned children. Blackest eyes of the night, pale face like pastry flour. The sequence ends and I go through a basement door, stepping into the darkness.

And just as I witness the chainsaw maniac again, his freakish figure appearing in a greenish fog, I suddenly wake up, sweat drops on my forehead, breathes coming in cold hard gasps. It’s 6:00 in the morning. I quickly grab a pen and paper and begin to recall what just happened in this nightmare.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: Just a Dream