Snakes in the Grass

I arrive at work early in the cold, dark morning. I pull myself up into a large front-end loader and start it up. Unbeknownst to me, there is a man underneath the large vehicle. I run him over and kill him. I fall into a depression. I meet with my team leader at Ford Motor Company and tell him that I have to quit. I can't work here knowing what I did. He is sad to see me go. 

I go to work for my dad. We walk through a field near several cement blocks. We spot several snakes slithering in and around. Rumors and gossip move throughout the workplace about me. I'm the man who killed someone. I can't escape the guilt. I don't reckon I'll find peace anywhere I work. 

I run off to visit an old internship that I was part of years ago. I stand in a meeting with Victor Davis Hanson and Steven Crowder. Victor leads the internship and wants everyone to take a mandatory class on converting to Islam. Steven is angry and refuses to do it. My team leader from Ford refuses as well. The rest of us fill up vans and buses and travel to a location with several longhouses. My group meets in one. It's mostly women and a few men. I tell the person in charge that I'm not going to do this. She tells me I have to. I refuse and leave. 

I drive down dark country roads trying to find my way back to the internship. I see a sign but I miss the turn the first time. I find it the second. I walk the internship grounds alone. Eventually I see all the vans and buses return. A young woman stops me and hands me a small carton of bacon flavored French fries. 

My mom arrives and I walk around the crowded campus introducing her to everyone. A friend of mine just had surgery and she is in the crowd. Another friend approaches her and rubs her leg damaging the surgical wound. She's angry with him. He walks to the leaders of the internship and turns himself in.  

I wake up

Apocalypse River

The world has gone to shit. Most people are dead. I stand on the banks of a major river hoping to spot other humans. In the distance, a man is sailing downstream. I yell and wave my hands but he doesn't hear me. I dive into the water and swim hard and fast. I lose sight of him. 

Down the river, on the shore, I spot a four story red brick building. I enter it and find a brother that I never knew. My parents split before I was born. My mother had another son. Near the top of the building the walls are broken apart. I jump out into the river.

I'm traveling south towards Brazil. I walk a land of grass and hills. My family and I come upon a house where the cast of Mrs. Doubtfire lives. We meet them inside. Everyone runs outside to play. I am scared. Nervous. I want to go outside but I can't. I stare out a window with nothing in view but a brick wall. Someone is in the house with me. I believe it is Robin Williams. 

I exit the house and walk to the sandy beach where the actors and actresses are playing beach volleyball with a blue and white inflatable beach ball. I am living in the past, as if I were part of an old VHS recording from the early 1990's. Laughter can be heard. Matthew Lawrence keeps running to the opposing teams side and then back to his side. The sand is too hot. My feet are burning.

I wake up.

Nobody is Flying the Plane

    Central Indiana on a puddle-ridden, weather beaten road, President Donald Trump gives a speech to the cameras on Hoosier soil. It's cold and Autumn. A slight sleet blows across our skin under the dull gloomy sky. The dead, dry cornstalks in the field looks like skeletons sprawled out. Across a nearby field is my boyhood home. Air Force One is parked on the skeleton's backs. 

    We stand inside our circles and talk. My sister stands there too and talks. The President tells us that we need to fly out of the United States. We step aboard the American metal bird. Some faces I recognize. Others I don't. 

    We mingle in a dim lit cabin with maroon velvet seats. Refreshments and alcohol sit on two tables. In the captain's chair is President Donald Trump. He is flying the plane.

    Passengers fill their plates and their glasses. I go back for seconds and thirds. They make witty remarks and ask the President questions. Laughter can be heard. I sit there shy, I have Nothing to say. My mother appears from a bedroom behind us, her eyes sleepy, her voice scratchy and faint. She's confused. Doesn't know where she is. Her eyes meet the pilots and she smiles and giggles and takes a few awkward steps back. They talk. I laugh, "she won't leave him alone," I say. She monopolizes their conversation and drags Don by the hand and leads him to talk a little more. Nobody is flying the plane.

I wake up

City Life

The sun was down. Derek said he wanted to go dancing. We drove to the club and he went out on the floor by himself. I stayed at the table.

Later Reece had a television in the back seat. He said we were going to watch a movie. He would not give the apartment number. He put pieces of tape on the railings as he went up.

We followed the tape through the stairwell. On the fourth landing it stopped. We stood there. Somebody downstairs was coming up. Reece looked at the television and then at the door in front of us. He didn't say anything.

Laws were broken. Debts left unpaid. Minutes later we would be lying in a ditch, car wrecked, and surrounded by cops.

I wake up.

A Song In The Night

    My friends and I go to a concert to see a band that we enjoyed years ago. We get there early and find good seats. The concert goers enter the building wearing large, elaborate costumes.

    A large man sits next to me and falls on me several times. I don't know if he is drunk. My friend Derek sits to my right. I watch as people on the gym floor turn tables upside down to create a strange place to sit.

    The band begins to play. The crowd erupts. I look to see that Derek is walking out of the gym and two lesbians sit in his place. We flirt with each other. They want sex. I talk to them and they think my breath is bad but they don't say it outright. They make jokes at me. I stand up and leave the gymnasium. I recognize several of my friends as I walk out.

    Driving home, I get into an accident on the highway. It wasn't my fault. I leave my car and walk away, leaving the incident unresolved. I meet a man named Victor Davis Hanson in a building nearby and as we talk I become afraid that I will be in deep shit due to leaving the scene of an accident but I never go back.

I wake up.

Sweet Encounters

I walk through the local mall, eyeing the stores on either side as I go. I enter a large open atrium and see a woman from work walking toward me. She is a beautiful Hispanic woman. She greets me excitedly, then rummages through her purse and pulls out what looks like a Danish but is actually made of gummy candy. She tells me that she bought it for her child but wants me to have it instead. I take the candy.

I wake up

Roaming Chickens

Behind my childhood church in Anderson, Indiana, lie acres of woodland. These woods feature trails leading to cabins, gazebos, a secret bench, named Meditation Point, overlooking a ridge and creek, and a hidden lake in a clearing amid the trees. A few locals know about the lake, but not enough to draw a crowd. 

I stroll along a trail toward the church when I reach a fork. One path leads to the church, the other ascends a hill to a gazebo. I spot my dad hiking on the latter. I stop to converse with him. As we talk, I glance into the woods and notice he's set up a small chicken coop, complete with fencing, a henhouse, and roaming chickens.

As my dad and I talk, I glance up toward the gazebo, only to find it gone. In its place now lie a few small boulders. Things have changed since I was here last.

I wake up

Train and Trolley

My father aspired to emulate Evel Knievel, planning to launch a train across a thousand-foot gap in the tracks. I had originally agreed to join the stunt, but fear of death compelled me to back out. On the day of the event, another person and I ran several miles along the beach to secure a prime vantage point. Miraculously, my father succeeded.

That same day, another spectacle unfolded on the artificial island where we were stationed: a trolley ascending one of its extended hillsides. Tragically, one of the women aboard perished. I found this perplexing, as the trolley posed no apparent risk—it climbed slowly and steadily up the incline.

I wake up. 

Evil In Her Eyes

On a field trip, we traveled to an old mansion with what appeared to be ancient ruins nearby. I joined a few friends in exploring the ruins. While they continued onward, I walked back to where the bus was parked—only to find it gone. We'd been left behind.

I sprinted down the length of the driveway, leaving my friends behind but hoping they'd catch up. Spotting the bus at the end of the drive, I screamed for the driver to stop. They did. I boarded and found a seat at the back, next to the teacher and her daughter. The teacher's daughter wasn't in our class; she was much younger, around the age of five.

Partway through the bus ride, I glanced at the young girl and noticed her face starting to contort, her voice shifting to that of a man. She growled and spat at me. I knew it was the mansion—something evil there had attached itself to her.

At that moment, I realized we'd left a few of my friends behind. I yelled, "Tim, are you in here?" No answer. We had to turn the bus around.

My friends were still on the second floor of the mansion, in a small bedroom with a bed and a television. A sinister presence hung in the air, though nothing was visible. One of them walked to another bedroom to check on the others.

We returned to the mansion. They made their way downstairs and out the door, feeling the evil around them the whole time, then hurried back to the bus.

All seemed well. I changed seats to a row in front of where I'd been sitting and looked back at the young girl. There was still evil in her eyes.

I wake up. 

Trick, Treat, and Twilight

     Dusk sits heavy over Sandoval, Illinois. Halloween quiet runs through the streets. I walk half-asleep, breath mixing with the cold air. My aunt and uncle’s house stands nearby, dark against the sky.

My nieces and nephews move ahead with their bags open. Their laughter carries. No other kids are out. The streets stay empty.

I follow a few steps behind. The cold presses in. Their voices are the only sound.

A figure steps out of the shadows and blocks the way home. Nothing about the shape looks wrong, yet the night turns. The figure does not move aside.

I stop. The kids stop with me.

Under a streetlight I look at Anna. Hollows mark her leg. I lean closer and see straight through them. The street stays quiet around us.

We turn back toward the house. The figure remains where it stood. Inside, the rooms are warm. The hollows stay with me after the door closes.

I wake up

Innocence Lost

The elementary school stands dark. I walk the hallway. A little girl is missing. Adults move through the halls.

A teacher steps out of her classroom. Her face is pale. She asks whether the police found fingerprints inside. I lean toward my father and speak low. The worry about fingerprints feels wrong.

We enter the room. Chalk dust hangs in the air. Lockers line the wall. A sound comes from one of them. I open the door. The girl lies inside. She is not breathing.

The teacher who asked about fingerprints stands nearby. No one speaks. The hallway stays quiet.

I wake up

Past Echoes, Present Whispers

   

    I find myself back at Liberty Christian High, the halls echoing with ghostly remnants of adolescent chatter. I venture into the basement, bracing myself for the expected damp darkness, but it surprises me. It's not the musty cavern I'd imagined. A group of people even huddle at the far end of a corridor.

    Still, an unsettling shiver runs down my spine. The school has shifted its skin since my time. It's familiar, yet foreign - a puzzling paradox. "They've spruced the place up," I tell a friend, my voice bubbling with a tinge of nostalgia and admiration.

    My words tumble out, cloaking my deeper feelings - a mix of appreciation for the new and longing for the old, for times that will never come back, and for changes that came too fast, like a ride on a rickety rollercoaster. A bizarre blend of homecoming and alienation weaves through me. This place is both my past and an uncertain present, standing as a symbol of inevitable progress and relentless time.

I wake up

Beneath The Surface

    In the last light of day, I'm at my father's house. It's old and dark. I have a simple job: carry a bag of garbage to the kitchen. The shadows grow long and I feel scared, like a kid alone in the night. I see a ghost - a lady wearing an old-fashioned bonnet, drifting by the kitchen.

    I rush outside, spilling my fears to my dad. He steps inside and climbs the creaky staircase. I follow, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior, and there she is again, the ghostly lady, halfway up the stairs. My dad is at the top. I'm stuck at the bottom.

    Then, something strange. The ghost comes down the stairs and plants a deep, hard kiss on my lips. It leaves me shaken.

    Later, we swim in the nearby lake. The house ghosts, supposedly wiped out by my dad, are nowhere to be seen. But as we swim, something pulls him under. The ghosts are back, angry and looking for revenge. He's struggling, crying out for help.

    "I didn't mean for you to kill him!" I shout at the ghosts, but they don't listen. His last scream echoes as he's dragged under for the last time. The lake, still and silent, becomes his grave. Revenge, it seems, is served cold and deep.

I wake up.

The Flight

 

    My old man, in his infinite wisdom, secures reservations for my escape to Atlanta. But in this twisted turn of fate, Tandy, my loyal feline sidekick, finds himself trapped within the confines of the car's treacherous glove box. Without warning, the box plunges through the very depths of the vehicle, threatening to unleash the beast upon our already precarious journey.

    Undeterred by this devilish omen, we venture into the dark caverns of the movie theater, seeking solace amidst the flickering shadows. It is there, amidst the silver screen's hypnotic glow, that I surreptitiously reveal the grim truth to my father—an unyielding reminder that time, like a relentless demon, shows no mercy. The realization sets in: my plane, its steel wings eager for flight, now beckons me urgently.

    With a nonchalant flick of his hand, my father assures me of alternate arrangements. "You'll catch a later flight," he mutters, his voice brimming with unnerving calm. And so, we embark on a harrowing journey through twisted roads, leading us to an airport nestled within the desolate reaches of the countryside.

    Hidden beneath a cloak of forced composure, I yearn for a window seat. Oh, the allure of those heights, where dreams meet the vast expanse of the sky. Airborne, we become mere pawns in a cosmic game of chance, suspended between the realms of heaven and earth. The allure of it all, the primal thrill, seeps into my bones.

    With trepidation and a faint glimmer of hope, I take my place among the faceless multitude, boarding the metal monstrosity that promises to whisk me away. But as I step inside, an undercurrent of unease tugs at my senses. The whispers of past flights gone awry echo through the cabin's recycled air.

    The journey ahead, shrouded in uncertainty, unfolds like a forgotten nightmare. The realms of reality and terror merge as I buckle up, clinging to my fraying sanity. The plane, like a sentient creature, hums with ominous energy, its metal veins pulsating with unknown intent.

    In this realm of suspended time, I find myself captive, a prisoner of the skies. The fate that awaits me remains hidden in the abyss, an enigma that may unveil itself in fleeting moments of turbulence or in the serenity of a smooth ride. I am but a pawn, a character trapped within the pages of this terrifying tale, as the plane hurtles forward into the unknown, the relentless journey toward destiny unfolding before my eyes.

Waverly Hills

    Venturing into the eerie depths of Waverly Hills Sanatorium, my companions and I weave through the dilapidated remnants of what was once a bastion of healing. This place, with its dark history and whispered tales of spectral hauntings, holds a reputation as one of the most haunted locations in the world.

    Through broken doorways and along crumbling corridors, we traverse the decaying labyrinth that time has forgotten. These weathered walls bear the weight of countless stories, the echoes of suffering and anguish lingering in every gust of wind.

    Rooms upon rooms reveal themselves to our curious eyes, each with its own macabre tale to tell. The ravages of time have left their indelible mark, reducing this once grand establishment to a mere ghost of its former self.

    Yet, amidst the debris and decay, we stumble upon a sight that captures our attention—a shattered statue, the remnants of a monkey frozen in a permanent state of destruction. Some have dubbed it "The Monkey King," a moniker that carries an air of both reverence and foreboding.

    As I gaze upon this twisted relic, I cannot help but wonder about the secrets it guards. Was it a symbol of mischief and playfulness, or does it carry a darker significance, a portal to the otherworldly? The absence of ghosts may deceive the senses, for this forsaken place holds secrets that lie beyond the realm of the visible.

    Whispers of forgotten tragedies resonate within these crumbling walls, even if their apparitions elude our mortal gaze. The absence of specters does not diminish the palpable weight of the past, nor does it quell the uneasy sensation crawling up my spine.

    In this desolate chamber, where the monkey's shattered visage looms like a grim specter of the past, I find myself ensnared in a web of curiosity and trepidation. The absence of ghosts may deceive, but beneath the surface of this forsaken abode, a maelstrom of forgotten souls and dormant spirits awaits its moment to materialize.

    Waverly Hills Sanatorium, a place where the boundaries between the living and the dead blur, holds its secrets close. And as we wander through its desolate halls, the sense of anticipation grows, for the truth, like a slumbering beast, waits for the opportune moment to stir from its restless sleep.

I wake up

The Balloon Has Gone Up

    Yearning to serve my country, I make the decision to enlist in the military. The journey begins with a grueling two-week boot camp, a crucible of endurance and discipline. Alongside my comrade Chad, we find ourselves thrust into the company of seasoned soldiers, their eyes reflecting the weight of experience and the scars of conflict.

    Together, we march to the battlegrounds, braving the horrors of war. The air was thick with tension, the deafening sound of gunfire, and the acrid stench of fear. Our hearts pound in unison as we face the unknown, driven by duty and the unyielding camaraderie that binds us.

    Yet amidst the chaos, tragedy strikes with a cruel and unforgiving hand. My mother, a beacon of unwavering support, ventures to visit me in the midst of the turmoil. But fate, ever the cruel mistress, unleashes its merciless blow. An enemy soldier, lurking in the shadows, springs forth and in a split second, snuffs out the light of her existence. Grief clings to my soul like a suffocating shroud, engulfing me in an abyss of despair.

    Despite the weight of sorrow that threatens to consume me, Chad and I press on, our footsteps heavy with determination. We continue to navigate the treacherous path of battles, our minds scarred by loss but our resolve unwavering. Each engagement, a reminder of the fragility of life and the sacrifices we make in the name of duty.

    In the midst of the turmoil, a small helicopter emerges, its blades slicing through the air like whispers of hope. The pilot, a figure of unknown origin, turns to me and beseeches for assistance. His request is simple—to wipe away the encroaching dust that threatens the delicate machinery while we soar through the heavens.

    In that moment, doubt gnaws at the edges of my conscience. I confess my lack of experience, my inability to fulfill the role bestowed upon me. The pilot, understanding the weight of my admission, nods with somber understanding. "I appreciate your honesty," he murmurs, the gravity of the situation etched upon his weathered face. And so, the opportunity slips through my grasp, the winds of destiny carrying me in a different direction.

    Regret lingers, mingling with the scent of gunpowder and the cries of fallen comrades. In this realm of uncertainty, choices are made and fates intertwine. I am left to wrestle with the ghosts of what could have been, the path not taken—a solitary soldier, burdened by the weight of an unchosen destiny.

I wake up. 

Couch

     Within the walls of my relative's house, an unsettling presence lurks. A creature, elusive and mysterious, scurries through the hidden recesses of the couch's cushions. Its rustling echoes like a secret whispered in the dark corners of the night. But this is not the first encounter with the uncanny that this dwelling has seen.

     Earlier, I had the fortune or misfortune, depending on one's perspective, to stumble upon a diminutive raccoon—a tiny creature no larger than a mouse. Captivated by its unique essence, I carefully ensnared it, confining it within the confines of a glass tube, an odd trophy of my curiosity.

     Yet, as if summoned by the strange magnetism that pulses through this family abode, another member of our kin emerges, clutching the newly apprehended couch-dweller in their grasp. Is it a squirrel or a ferret? The answer eludes us, its true nature veiled by the whims of the fates.

     Amidst this peculiar spectacle, I find myself drawn to the presence of my grandmother—a figure who seems to exist in a world uniquely her own. A cigarette dangles precariously between her fingers as she shuffles through a deck of playing cards, her weathered hands etched with a lifetime of stories. The air hangs heavy with the scent of tobacco, mingling with the electricity of the unknown.

     My gaze drifts downwards, capturing the image of the tiny trash panda, sprawled on its back, limbs splayed in every conceivable direction. Its vulnerability tugs at my heart, urging me to seek solace in the embrace of nature's embrace. And so, with a decision forged in the crucible of empathy, I resolve to transport the diminutive creature outside, allowing it to bask in the revitalizing touch of fresh air.

     Together, we step into the world beyond the confines of four walls, the creature nestled safely in my hands. The atmosphere crackles with anticipation, as if the very universe holds its breath, awaiting the unfolding of this peculiar tale. And as we venture forth, I can't help but ponder the profound connection that binds us all—the living, the curious, and the enigmatic—in this ever-unfolding tapestry we call life.

I wake up.

Veiled Malevolence

    In the shadowy corners of my perception, a vision emerged—a tall, gaunt woman cloaked in the garb of a nun. A sight both mesmerizing and unsettling. She defied the laws of nature, suspended in mid-air, her body levitating four feet above the ground. Slowly, she rotated, casting an otherworldly silhouette against the dimly lit backdrop.

     An eerie hum emanated from her ethereal presence, a dissonant melody that sent shivers down my spine. As my feet propelled me forward, curiosity mingled with trepidation, an insatiable desire to unravel the enigma before me. I drew nearer, my heart pounding like a drumbeat of impending doom.

     And then, in the flickering light, her features became unmistakable. Her skin, as black as the deepest abyss, swallowed all traces of light, radiating an aura of malevolence. Eyes devoid of color or compassion pierced through the veil of my sanity, drawing me deeper into a maelstrom of fear.

     An icy grip constricted my chest, and panic surged through my veins like a toxic elixir. The revelation struck with undeniable force—she was not a mere mortal clad in holy vestments. No, she was a being of darkness, a harbinger of unnameable terrors.

     Yet, as I recoiled from her presence, my imagination unraveled a wicked tapestry. Within the confines of my mind, a distorted image materialized—a blasphemous fusion of divine and infernal. Jesus, distorted and twisted, adorned with a crown of horns. Arcs of electric energy gripped his hair, yanking it back in a torturous dance.

     In that moment, the boundaries between reality and nightmare blurred, and I found myself teetering on the precipice of a horrifying revelation. The veil that concealed the true nature of our existence, of the forces that lurked in the depths of the unseen, was thinning. An unspeakable truth lingered just beyond reach, threatening to unravel the very fabric of my perception.

     My mind, a playground for the macabre, plunged deeper into the rabbit hole, consumed by a cocktail of terror and fascination. For what lay before me was not a mere encounter with a demon, but a glimpse into a distorted realm where angels wore horns, and electricity harnessed the hair of divine figures.

     In the face of such malevolent majesty, I trembled, my fragile sense of reality hanging by a thread. The world I once knew had shattered, leaving behind fragments of my shattered psyche. How could one reconcile the unfathomable horrors that lurked beneath the veneer of our existence?

    The answers, like whispers in the dark, eluded me, but I knew one thing for certain—what I had witnessed would forever haunt the recesses of my soul, etching a tale of cosmic terror that would forever leave me trembling in the embrace of the unknown.

I wake up.

Celluloid Dreams

     I found myself within the hallowed halls of the RED LETTER MEDIA headquarters, a sanctuary of cinematic nostalgia. Room after room brimmed with the relics of a bygone era, VHS tapes piled high like towers of forgotten memories. The air carried the weight of countless hours spent lost in celluloid dreams.

     Amidst this labyrinth of analog treasures, a figure emerged from the shadows—Jack Packard, the harbinger of cinephile wisdom. With a knowing smile, he confirmed my suspicions, acknowledging the existence of another video store hidden away on the upper floor. A realm yet unexplored, beckoning with the allure of undiscovered gems.

     We embarked on separate paths, Jack leading the way as I ventured deeper into the heart of the house. Each step carried the anticipation of revelation, the sense that the secrets of this cinematic haven were on the cusp of unveiling themselves.

     In a quiet bedroom, I sought respite upon a well-worn bed, its history embedded in the very fabric of the room. A flicker of movement caught my eye—a feline intruder, its gaze fixed upon me. "Here kitty kitty," I cooed, inviting the creature closer. But innocence belied its true nature as it lunged, claws sinking into my flesh. Laughter bubbled from my lips, an incongruous response to the chaotic mix of pain and adoration.

     A voice in the background offered a peculiar suggestion—to wave and greet the cat as a gesture of goodwill. I complied, hoping to quell the storm brewing within this unpredictable creature. But my efforts were in vain, as it pounced once more, its playfulness edged with a dangerous charm.

     Guided by an invisible hand, I found myself in a room where Jack stood in the company of Jay Bauman. The glass window before us revealed a private domain—a shower stall occupied by Mike Stoklasa. The room hummed with electric anticipation, a hidden power waiting to be unleashed.

     Four buttons adorned the wall, beckoning us to play with the unknown. Jack's finger met one of them, and water cascaded from the showerhead, an innocuous act amidst this peculiar setting. And then, my gaze fell upon a button, an enigmatic invitation that read, "Are You Afraid of the Dark?"

     Driven by curiosity and a hunger for the unexpected, I pressed the button, igniting a chain of events. Green slime, reminiscent of Nickelodeon's playful mischief, descended from above, landing with a sickening splatter upon Mike Stoklasa's unsuspecting head.

     In that moment, the boundaries between reality and surrealism blurred, as if the very essence of cinema had taken on a life of its own. Laughter mingled with the discomfort, an amalgamation of joy and unease that seemed to define this enigmatic realm.

     Within the RED LETTER MEDIA headquarters, I had ventured into uncharted territories, where the whimsical and the uncanny danced a peculiar waltz. And as I stood before the glass window, witnessing the aftermath of my impulsive act, I couldn't help but wonder what other wonders—and horrors—awaited me in this surreal domain of cinephile enchantment.

I wake up

A Quarter 'Til Extinction

    The bustling streets of New York City served as the backdrop to our unplanned detour, leading my sister and me to the doorstep of an elderly couple's house. As we entered their abode, a sense of unease settled upon my shoulders, for I knew all too well the importance of respecting one's dwelling. But my sister, oblivious to such concerns, carelessly trampled through their sanctum, stoking the flames of my frustration.

     Voicing my discontent, I admonished her for her lack of regard, demanding that she recognize the significance of our intrusion. She shrugged off my words, nonchalantly suggesting that I inquire if we could seek shelter within the confines of this unfamiliar dwelling. Exasperated, we stepped outside into the cityscape, where the twin towers loomed in the distance, casting long shadows over our uncertain future.

     News of an impending catastrophe reached our ears—an apocalyptic comet hurtling toward our fragile planet. Whispers of doom echoed through the air, as some proclaimed it to be an extinction-level event. Determined to devise a survival strategy, my family and a select few friends convened at a restaurant, hoping to find solace and a glimmer of hope amidst the encroaching darkness.

     Deep beneath the surface of our collective fears, a singular idea emerged—to seek refuge far below ground. My father, ever resourceful, recalled a hatch nestled within a nearby golf course, its depths shrouded in mystery. Yet, an unsettling revelation followed, as he revealed that he had overheard faint voices emanating from within, hinting at a clandestine presence.

     In the midst of our deliberations, a family friend, veiled in secrecy, led us to a hidden staircase—a portal to the unknown depths of the earth. Hope mingled with trepidation as we descended into the bowels of the earth, a motley crew bound by a shared desire to outlive the imminent cataclysm. Alas, our steps did not go unnoticed, for a group of wayward miscreants trailed behind, their intentions veiled in malice.

     Amidst the chaos, a figure representing workplace safety protocols chastised us, his fury ignited by our reckless disregard for OSHA guidelines. Panic gripped us, scattering our once united front. The malicious horde pursued me relentlessly, their malevolence manifesting in a vicious assault upon my person.

     As I stumbled homeward, bloodied and battered, the weight of impending doom and the twisted nature of humanity pressed upon my weary shoulders. In the face of an approaching cosmic reckoning, it seemed that even the bonds of friendship and the sanctity of safety guidelines were but fragile threads, torn asunder by the brutality of those who embraced chaos in the twilight of our existence.

I wake up