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  1.  (10440.1)
    Memories are all that stand between us and Galvani’s frogs. Here is where we burn our anecdotes onto the face of the Interweb and persuade history we’re more than twitching amphibian meat machines.


    1. Recount a tale on the below topic. You have 300 words. Anything more than that will be flambéed with the righteous heat of Deletion. Repeat offenders will be banned.

    Linking to a longer version of the story, or posting subsequent chapters, or anything which indirectly pushes it past that 300 word limit, will be similarly nuked.

    2. Read – and comment on – the other entries, before you post your own. Partly that’s because you’ll look like a plum if your story is a rubbish shadow of someone else’s. Mostly it’s because you’re not an impolite shit, are you?

    [3. Additional emphasis: “Topic.” TOP-IC. That means your anecdote should revolve around a specific subject, yes? The one below, in fact. Not just any old tale you care to share. Deviation = maggoty pee-hole disaster.]


    By telling us your story, it’s in the public domain. Don’t get pissy about that.

    Right now you’re in a pub, surrounded by writers, artists and socialites. If you recount an interesting tale to entertain and endear yourself to your fellows, you do not get to bitch about it if a twisted version of the same tale shows up 30 years later on the other side of the planet. Stories are contagious. My advice? Be honest. Don’t make shit up. Don’t treat this like a fiction thread. It’s a chance to entertain and move us with your life experience. That’s plenty good enough.


    "Did someone say "dreams"? That's their SLAVE NAME. In the wild they name themselves "psyche-ejaculata", and their mightiness is mighty."

    [Let me repeat, for the sake of the dinlows out there: YOU HAVE 300 WORDS. Lack of net access prevented me from being heavy-handed over the previous thread. No more free passes.]
    • CommentTimeJan 9th 2012

    I don't remember dreams. I'm sure I have them but I don't remember them.

    Now nightmares, the scum scraped from the bottom of my mental barrel, those excreted pyche-ejaculata, as our revered leader puts it... oh, yes. I have nightmares.

    Creations of what I laughingly refer to as my mind, producing terrifying scenarios from which I wake up, covered in sweat, heart pumping and thumping through my chest.

    Yeah, wouldn't mind remembering nice dreams, or not remembering the nightmares.

    Of course the scary thing is when I wonder whether what I'm thinking now, while 'awake', are the nice dreams, and I'll only ever have nightmares when I sleep.
    • CommentTimeJan 9th 2012
    I once had a dream where I was a Dark Lord, resplendent in black armor and black, red-lined cape, and wielding a greatsword of some fell metal. I was laying about--putting down a rebellion or somesuch--when some peon got in a lucky shot, cleaving my head from my shoulders. I saw it in first person as my head bounced and rolled to the ground. My body, still standing, ran through the offending anarchist, seized my cabeza, and reattached it with a mighty twist. Thus restored, I returned to the glorious battle, already in progress.

    The next night I dreamt I woke up and made coffee.

    My subconscious, folks! Let's give it a big round of applause!
    • CommentAuthorStefanJ
    • CommentTimeJan 9th 2012
    When I was a teenager I had a dream in which:

    I was walking down a Manhattan street at night. I was an adult, indeterminate age.

    Being Manhattan, it was busy. I crossed the street to go into a donut & coffee shop . . . a ubiquitous sort of place in NYC. On the way I passed two scruffy guys fighting over . . . was that a shotgun? Anyway, it wasn't my business.

    I found a seat in the coffee shop and ordered a donut and coffee. Moments later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned. Inches away was the barrel of a shotgun; beyond that, an insensate angry face.


    That was all.
  2.  (10440.5)
    I once dreamed that my head had broken, and it had been sent away for repair. 'They' (as in the repair people), had given me a temporary replacement, a courtesy head if you will - which was a mannequin's head, expressionless white plastic, not much to look at. I was waiting at the top of the stairs in my parent's old house for it to return so I could refit it, as the replacement was quite uncomfortable, and I couldn't see properly out of it, and there was an emptiness where there should have been weight and brains and stuff.

    The doorbell rang, and it was the postman. Somebody (I don't recall who, my mother or sister probably), answered and took the box from the postman.

    Then they dropped it, and I heard the sound of my head shattering in the box. I knew that I'd have to wear the mannequin's head forever and my face would never come back.

    I was screaming, I think, for a long while after I awoke. I drank a lot in those days...
    • CommentAuthorRenThing
    • CommentTimeJan 9th 2012
    I don't remember my dreams very often but my nightmares? Oh, they linger.

    And the thing that fucked me up most growing up was that devil dog Zuul, or Zhul, or Zu'ul, or ever how you pronounce the ghost/demon from the original Ghostbusters film. Everything was going along quite swimmingly until Sigourney Weaver had to open that god damn refrigerator door and let it out into my brain meat.

    That thing stalked me through the dreamscapes of my house. It got me from closets, it clawed me from under the bed. It chased me down the block and got me on the front porch of my neighbor's house as I tried to escape. That fucking thing haunted me for three years nightly, ruined my sleep and turned me into the insomniac I would end up being for years after. I had other nightmares during that time, but Zuul fucked me up more than most. I couldn't even go to sleep if my closet door was open.

    Until one dream when it chased me out of my house and into my front yard and my subconscious decided enough was enough. In my dream I turned around, balled up my fists and screamed, "FUCK OFF." Zuul actually looked a little hurt.

    I only had one more dream with the demon dog in it a few years later. It looked like it did in the movie when Rick Moranis opens the closet door and it's sitting there, all teeth and horns and glowing eyes, just before it has a coat thrown over it. He came back to check in on me, made sure I was ok. We actually had a nice conversation, about what I couldn't tell you now, and I haven't dreamed of it since.
    • CommentTimeJan 9th 2012 edited
    So, what, do I just type boobs 300 times?

    Nah, I'm not that bad, mostly. It seems, lately, that my dreams are, usually, some type of adventure survival, often based on my recent media consumption. The last last that I remember was zombie based, but with creepy, local, detail. It was pretty standard with the back story, I, with my friend Lisa, were the two known survivors.

    I live in the suburbs so there are plenty of homes that we traveled between, looting and rooting our way through the town, spending a day or two in each home, emptying pantries and knocking off zombies. I handled most of the dead guy slaughter, as the protector (can you be a sexist bastard in dreams?). When I think about it, the last zombie story I've consumed is from Steveo in the book.

    A couple of months ago I had a dream that I was in a GIANT mall (nightmare maybe?) with my wife and another friend surviving against aliens. Yes, I had a sonic. It was pretty fun.

    I don't usually have non-standard dream. I love them, it makes an action star out of a fat bastard and that is pretty neat.
    • CommentTimeJan 10th 2012 edited
    I blame watching all nine seasons of the X-files (found the whole collection on The Pirate Bay) for my current spate of dreams.

    Last week I dreamed that scientists had directly observed a quantum event and caused the laws of physics to collapse. Huge hands were coming down from the sky and tearing up the landscape, because everything was large and small at the same time. A destroyed Earth was hanging above, having been ripped apart and forcing the remnants of humanity to settle on the moon.

    (and I'll be pleased if someone wants to use this as the kernel of a sci-fi story)
  3.  (10440.9)
    I’m one of those who scenarios everything, rehearses it ahead of time to see what the outcome(s) could be, I replay to adjust for multiple possibilities, and am occasionally frustrated by those parameters that I can’t control for outcome. From thence I believe come my nightmares.

    One such odd dream last week. It was both vivid and ordinary.

    A street like many in the UK, indeed clearly here in ‘my town’. Mid 70’s built terraces with tiny gardens front and back. A mismatch of cars; old Beetle, new Landrover, their ages no real clue to the incomes of those tucked behind each front door. I’m drawn to pick a door - pale lilac, all wood, steel door knocker. I push it open and step carefully inside.

    A wall of books greets me on entry. Careful selection of a tome saw them fold aside and admit me, into a world of numbers, papers, roses. Stairs to climb, corners to turn, a little algebra for good measure (imaginary numbers as it happens, who knew I’d use something from an aborted attempt at A’level pure mathematics, or maybe just a sub-conscious nod to the presence of Apple in my life?), an attempt to trip (damn those heels... still they look darn good) me, finally the turret (definitely a dream, no sign of this from the outside) with a tiny winding stair. A rope handle, blood red walls, dark grey velvet carpets, candles the only light; and at the top, waiting just out of sight...? The anticipation both a route to heartache, and a conduit for bliss.

    Rightly or wrongly, sometimes the things in your dreams are exactly what they seem.
  4.  (10440.10)
    I tend not to remember my dreams 5 minutes after I wake up. But here's a recent one that I do recall.

    I was in a restaurant, flirting with a cute waitress. They're closing up so I leave, only to realize I left my backpack in the bathroom (as one does). I run into the waitress while trying to get back in. She sneaks me in, past the beligerent owners who live there and I get it. We then spend the rest of the evening having a lovely time flirting, escalating to making out. As one thing is leading to another, her psychotic ex shows up and begins chasing us with a knife. I don't know where the heck she disappeared to, but he had me cornered hiding under a car in the garage of a nearby auto mechanic.

    Cut to early morning and Richard fucking Castle walking into the mechanic's garage with coffee. Then I woke up and couldn't sleep for the rest of the night (and yes, my dreams do go into the third person/cut to other people or locations to fill in narrative details). The only conclusion I can draw is that I died and since they say if you die in your dreams, you die in real life, I must assume I'm dead and whatever higher power controls the afterlife has a sick sense of humor. Bastard!
  5.  (10440.11)
    I have all sorts of fantastical dreams and I always blank out when these things happen. Who knows if I'll manage anything this time.

    @fauxhammer: That's totally badass.

    @JP Carpenter: In a weird twisted way, I would have loved waking up from that dream. It's a fascinating one.

    @Littlepurplegoth: I do the entire trying to figure out what I should do in any kind of scenario, which is interesting until the scenarios I don't want to think about starts creeping into my dream. It's an interesting dream, with lots of details. I like that, when dreams are full of recognizable details.
    • CommentAuthorFlabyo
    • CommentTimeJan 10th 2012
    I only ever remember the ludicrously mundane ones unfortunately.

    I once had a dream where I tried to make cereal, and discovered there was no milk, so went to the store to buy some.

    Then I woke up, and was massively upset to discover that I didn't actually have any milk despite feeling mentally that I should have some.
    • CommentAuthorStefanJ
    • CommentTimeJan 10th 2012
    A pathetic dream which I had a month or so ago.

    It was a flying dream. (I have these fairly often. Actually, "flying" would be exaggerating a bit. More like enhanced floating. It usually involves twisting my elbows just so.)

    So. It's summer. I'm at some kind of neighborhood rummage sales. Lots of long tables full of junk on a grassy field.

    I find that I can float in the air. The ease with which I can do this is pleasing, and I smugly cruise around the fair in a lotus position.

    Then I realize . . . I have a super power! I can use this to my advantage!

    I stretch out and float over the rummage sale tables, browsing them from above and avoiding the crowds.


    Well, towards the end of the dream it did occur to me that I could really freak out the other fairgoers by doing a "dead man's float" over the crowd, flopping limply just of reach of folks.
    • CommentTimeJan 11th 2012 edited
    So I believe in dream interpretation, but I don't believe that any of it follows a necessarily set group of symbolism that you could read out of a book. I have lizards show up in my dreams, but its representation is entirely different than most 'translations' because I have a beloved pet lizard and thus, they represent my goals and things what I care about. So in a sense, it isn't what you're seeing so much as how it makes you feel. In this belief, I have really fucking weird sex dreams.

    So in my dream, I'm going through a house, trying to decide if I want to buy it. It has thousands of empty rooms that all have incredibly wet floors that I'm walking through. And I start to feel a little funny. Then at some point, I walk into a room where there is someone knitting. Clickety clacking metal needles rubbing against each other, twisting and pulling and pushing yarn. I can see this all in macro-detail and feel it all throughout my soft bits. And it's bringing me to incredible ecstasy until I can't take it anymore and wake up in quite the sweat, legs clenched, gripping the sheets.

    Yea. Sexy fucking synesthetic knitting needles. I hate dreaming.
  6.  (10440.15)
    I've only woken myself up laughing twice in my life. This is the second time, about a year ago.

    In my dream I'm in downtown San Francisco, standing outside a building I recognize as an old movie theater. For some reason, however, I'm convinced it's a gay bathhouse (it wasn't) and I'm outraged about that fact (I wouldn't be ordinarily). I keep yelling that it's a gay bathhouse to passersby, who ignore me. Finally I grab a cop, explain to him it's a gay bathhouse and demand that he go in and arrest everybody. The cop says he doesn't care, tells me to get away from him and walks off. As the cop leaves, I yell after him "Aww, but balls are touching in there!" Cue paroxysms of brainless laughter jiggling/choking me awake.
    • CommentTimeJan 12th 2012
    Sorry to be a pedant, and I promise I will be back here with some crazy brain juice sometime soon, but right now I feel the need to point out that there are three 'N's in 'Spinning'.
  7.  (10440.17)
    Whenever I dream that I am flying, I'm already in mid-flight.

    I suddenly realize I do not know the mechanics of how I am flying.

    I'm being propelled head first, like a rocket, but I have no means of maintaining a direction, speed, or altitude.

    I imagine it's (geek reference here) somewhat like Cannonball from X-Men; high speeds, little to no control, as I propel myself face first into the ground.

    Then I wake up.
      CommentAuthorAlan Tyson
    • CommentTimeJan 12th 2012
    I almost never have dreams about flying, but I do, very often, have dreams where gravity stops working. This can be, by turns, very pleasant (almost transcendental) or it can be quivering-asshole terrifying. But it seems to happen to me on at least a monthly, sometimes weekly, basis.
    • CommentTimeJan 12th 2012 edited
    My flying dreams all follow the same format...they've been far too alarmingly real. In these dreams, my flight ability is based on some sort of telekinesis, and I need to focus and have concentration to do it. So I take off, start flying, and almost immediately am struck by sheer terror as I go too high and try to steer and so on. This then leads to me generally crashing to earth and being unable to do it again. Just as it would be in real life, I have no confidence at all that it is really happening, and thus my performance anxiety stops me from being able to do it.

    Make of that what you will. I blame the fact that I watched /The Greatest American Hero/ at an early age and learned all the wrong lessons from it.
    • CommentAuthorStefanJ
    • CommentTimeJan 12th 2012
    Oh man, how did I forget this one?

    Finger Puppet Plays.

    My family and I are in Old Forge, a vacation-oriented town in upstate NY. There's some kind of art festival going on, and the little community center / gallery is bustling.

    But there's a problem. The person who was going to perform the Finger Puppet Play couldn't make it.

    Somehow I am drafted into service . . . not knowing what the fuck a Finger Puppet Play is. I try to bow out, but everyone is insistent.

    I'm brought into a gallery room where there's a wooden platform, over which is mounted a tan sheet of taut, somewhat elastic cloth. I'm instructed to squeeze underneath the sheet, where I lie on my back. The "play" consists of pressing my fingers up into the sheet, distorting it in such a way as to . . . what? Create shadows? It simply isn't clear.

    As I fumble about trying to make interesting patterns in the fabric, attendees circulate through, making snide comments on the quality of my performance.