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I Need A New Dream Catcher by Ray Printer Friendly

You know what sucks? People who tell you about their dreams. I mean the dreams they have at night, not like their goals and hopes or whatever. The people who tell you about their goals and hopes, they suck, too, but in an entirely different manner.

There’s not much that I dread more than hearing the phrase, “So I had the craziest dream…” Because the thing about dreams is that they’re generally only interesting to the owner. You don’t often meet someone who can convey the intricacies that make dreams fascinating and surreal. And when people try, they just sound stupid.

All of that was a precursor, of course, to me telling you about this dream I had. I just wanted to let you know that I realize what a douche move it is. It’s just that I don’t feel like trying tonight, and Trey always gives me shit if I don’t post much at the first of the month. Or at the middle of the month. Or the end. Really, the guy just gives me shit all the time about everything. I think the only reason we’re friends is because of his awesome G.I. Joe collection.

Anyway.

So I Had The Craziest Dream...

I went to visit my dad. He lives in Kansas. In my dream, though, there was a bridge from my hometown in Texas. You know how it is in dreams, when nothing is really where it’s supposed to be. Anyway, so I’m walking across this bridge with my sister and her husband. We’re on the way to my dad’s house, and we’re just talking about what was on TV last night or whatever.

Suddenly there’s this noise, like an air-raid siren. I look towards town, but I can’t see anything unusual about it. The sky above is completely empty.

“No way,” my brother-in-law says.

“What is that?” I ask.

“We have to hurry,” my sister tells me, and we all start running. Even in my dreams, I’m a big fat-ass, so running is difficult, and I can’t keep up. The siren stops abruptly, and the only noise is my breathing, and our footsteps as we run along the asphalt.

“We have to take cover,” my brother-in-law says, and starts running to the side of the bridge. I’m still trying to catch up as he begins crawling over the side.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“We have to take cover.” He helps my sister over the bridge railing, and they both climb down into the steel bridge supports.

I heave myself over and follow them. We’re still about thirty feet off the ground, huddled up between the steel beams, and I realize I can see the town from where I’m sitting. I see this giant contraption looming above the tiny skyline of the town.

“What is that?”

“It’s the government,” my brother-in-law tells me. “Government testing.”

“Testing what?”

“You just have to be really quiet,” my sister says. “Just try not to move.”

I realize that the giant thing in the distance is a catapult. The wheels on it are the size of a large building, and it dwarfs most of the houses in town.

I’m terrified. I have no idea what’s going to happen, but this thing, this giant weapon that was built to destroy, is pointed right at me. And suddenly, it releases.

“What the hell?”

It has just shot a fighter jet at us. The airplane shoots into the sky, slowly turning as it sails upward. It looks like it’s moving in slow-motion, like it’s a balloon floating away.

And then it begins its descent, and it doesn’t look slow anymore. It’s moving faster than anything I’ve ever seen before, and it’s making this high-pitch whistling sound that makes my head feel like it’s about to explode. I barely have time to scramble from my steel beam before it crashes down on top of us.

The world is filled with the screeches of ripping metal and the roars of exploding rock. A piece of glass from the cockpit whizzes by and slices my right earlobe off. I lose my grip and tumble from my girder.

A part of the bridge has collapsed, so instead of falling to my death, I land on the jagged asphalt and tumble to the ground beneath the bridge, tearing the skin on my palms and knees as I roll.

My sister and her husband are on the ground beside me, recovering much more quickly, and they drag me under a pile of debris.

“We have to hide,” my sister tells me.

“What is going on?” I ask as I huddle in the make-shift shelter.

“Government testing,” my brother-in-law says again. “Bastards. They used to do this kind of thing out in the desert, but there’s some kind of endangered lizard, so now they just do it in small towns.”

“What about the people?”

“They get paid fifteen dollars every month.”

“They’re shooting jets at us!”

“Keep quiet,” my sister says.

I hear that whistling sound again, and look up just in time to see another jet coming our way. It isn’t as accurate this time—it smashes into the ground about five feet away and crumples violently, causing an explosion of shrapnel and dry earth.

I can’t breath—it feels like my lungs are completely full of dirt—and I can feel warm wetness in several places. I see mud forming on the ground beneath me where my blood is dripping.

“What about Dad?” I ask.

“As long as he got to a shelter, he’s fine,” she tells me.

“Do they shoot at everyone who tries to come into town?”

“Not everyone. Most people, though.”

“This is insane! You can’t just shoot at citizens with jet catapults.”

“They can when it’s testing,” my brother-in-law says. “In the long run, it’ll be helpful, they say. So it doesn’t matter what they do in the short-term.”

I want to argue, but I glance over and see the catapult launch once again. I watch in terror as the plane speeds towards us. It smashes down onto our little shelter, and I duck down, screaming.

When I look up, I see that the nose of the jet has erupted through the chunk of asphalt I was hiding under. It’s just above me—another two feet, and it would have smashed every part of my body from the waist down.

I see a white liquid dripping from the cockpit. I reach out and touch it.

“What is this?”

“It’s cheese,” my sister tells me. “That’s what they’re testing.”

I look at her questioningly. She shrugs.

“For enchiladas. They’re trying to find the perfect cheese for enchiladas.”

And that’s when I woke up.


Comments:
Entered By QueB From The Land of Happy Cows...and Happy Cows Make
2009-08-04 05:05:47

You need to either drink less, OR, drink way more. Way, way more. And if I have a nightmare about catapult-flinging fighter jets con queso tonight (or any night), I'm holding you responsible. And sending Busch Gardens Tampa, the art model, to seek my revenge for me.


Entered By Ray From Austin
2009-08-07 03:28:24

I'm going to go with "way more" on this one. But only because it seems like the right thing to do, NOT because I'm a raging alcoholic.


Entered By cheddar From VT
2009-08-11 00:29:25

Since everyone knows the best cheese is really made in Vermont, I vociferously object to the California comment. California cows make mellow squishy indecisive cheese, dammit. Yet I agree wholeheartedly with the "drink more" idea. Which makes me open-minded, not indecisive.


Entered By Leslie From Texas
2009-08-11 18:12:16

Maybe it's residual guilt because you didn't come to Fair this year. For the uninitiated, Fair (and yes, it's always capitalized and generally needs no additional description) is an annual carnival held at the end of July in the small town in Kansas Ray wrote of. Anyway, maybe the jet plane is the helicopters you've ridden with your nephews in the past -- or possibly the infamous Bullet. That ride was the closest thing to a jet-flinging catapult that I can imagine -- and we had the bruises to prove it as children. The cheese? No idea on that one. This means I can count on you next year, right? I'd hate for you to have another guilt-induced nightmare. You and your princess could drive up to our place and then we could all go together -- the five of us, the two of you, and the dog, of course. Hmm, I bet being fired upon with queso-filled fighter jets is sounding better and better, isn't it?


Entered By Ricky From Entering hyperspace
2009-09-20 03:37:02

Wow. So much to comment on, where do I begin? Okay, first of all, I am sure that you read my pome "Whisky," so you know where I come down on that score. Two: Vermont makes cheese? I thought those miscreants only made maple syrup, and guys like Bernie Sanders. Go figure. And Californication makes cheese? I thought it was just cheesy that they made out there. Three: Your sister is proof that the whole clan is just way more twisted than anyone would have imagined. and Four: I am out of energy, but you have some way-spooky dreams, dude.



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