I had a dream where everyone spoke an elf language.
It was set in a village of sorts.
A convincing collage of the Northern places I have already been.
Like a ghost of movement existing just for the group of us sat by the shore, our designated sea-carrier nearly knocked out by the mounting gusts of wind from the incoming storm.
The town had a desolate air but was by no means uninhabited.
During the autumn season, phonelines would be cut and cars would take flight.
The towns people took secret pleasure in witnessing the trouble these caused tourists.
One of them eyed us now.
He was skinning his fish, smoking his cigarette and rocking back and forth on his ancient rocking chair, the handles into which he had in his free time carved heads of horses.
The townspeople, we, as well as the bearers or the approaching ships knew there to be some kind of unexplainable trouble to come.
The force loomed pressingly above us with horrible malice, mounting into piles of identifiable currency.
One of the ships that before looked ripe to have been blown over reached shore, parking sideways along the coastal side line.
I waited to embark.
Having climbed the staircase, I met the girl on the moss bed.
My friend (also part of the group) regretted ever having mentioned her at all.
She also felt guilty for having been caught in such a state.
Although it had begun to storm properly now, the climax had not yet been reached.
The end was neigh.
But before:
it had already been determined that there would be a party,
(I could tell by the fact that the scruffiest had already rolled cigarettes to use once they had reached the desired level of intoxication).
Wind whacked upon us, blasting the bit from the direction of abeam.
The girl on the moss bed, she was the sacrifice.
If we let her go, we could sail to safety.
The sea beast reached over and uncovered the lid of the boat. He was a ghost creature. A floating and uncertainly shaped one that had recently reached maturity.
Instead of taking the girl as he was supposed to, the villain focused its energies on me.
Something terrible and picturesque happened.
I woke up.
Another night, another dream:
Having narrowly escaped through the aberrations of the stools used for sitting at the ‘Leaky Cauldron’, I found myself another seating area.
No Butterbeer here.
The arrow had led to a white room muddled with expectation.
It was my trial.
I was affronted by a set of companions, who were not really my friends, but who may to an outsider have been considered as such.
I spent a day around their kitchen table, fighting the claustrophobic confinement.
No use.
That darned extra opening was going nowhere.
The fake mission was to spur me to join.
I rapidly and annoyingly explained as fast as I could. As a friendship-marked truth, I offered a set of toad-chocolate munchers acquired from the ‘Leaky Cauldron’.
I had been in the wrong.
This was not my place at all.
A third.
Did this have to do with depth perception?
Or with Luigi Colani?
In this distorted universe,
I wore nice clothes to a tsunami.
Pearls too, that would have given off a much more put together first impression than of which I am deserving.
The millisecond the water inflated into a wall of wave, I knew I had made a grave mistake.
But I could not have known.
After all, this was extremely inconvenient time for the natural disaster to take places.
It was a Sunday and I had other plans too.
Just the wrong moment to be trapped between uneasiness and elbows and floppy hats and stuff and stuff and stuff.
“What try-hard exoticism!”
Not wannabes these; my dreams for real.
WAST WRTNG 