Post by Mr Anon on May 29, 2008 22:36:12 GMT
There are the dreamlands of children; soft, safe and enchanting. There are the dreamlands of schemers; cold and sharp, but beautiful nonetheless. There are the dreamlands of madmen; twisted, dark and at war with themselves. There is the dreamland of Arnold Schwarzenegger, which is, for some reason, filled with penguins in top hats. And then there is my dreamland.
My mind is a desert. It is rough, it is harsh, and it is not all suitable for human habitation. Very little of it is actually used or useful, but given time and water it has the potential to flourish. And even now, while much of its soil is parched and barren, some life thrives here, made strong and unique by the incessant heat. But I want more.
I notice a small, somewhat pathetic plant, and stop beside it. It is parched and wilting, but it could be valuable. With more effort than I would like to admit, I summon a small raincloud and water the plant until some of its colour returns. I suddenly realise that I now know the formula to find the surface area of a sphere.
Sadly, this glorious revelation is interrupted by a loud noise in the distance, and an accompanying dust cloud.
Something that I neglected to mention about my dreamland is that it is extremely large. I don't say this out of bigheadedness (no pun intended), but it is a solid fact that while all other dreamlands that I've visited are only about a mile across at most, my wasteland home stretches on for longer than I've ever been bothered to measure. Unwanted interlopers in my mind (usually looking for a fight, trying to become stronger by forcibly absorbing the astral forms of others) have been known to have their astral forms collapse from lack of water or sheer boredom in vain attempts to find me. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be happening to the entity that made the noise: its spirit has spotted me, and is charging towards me at full speed.
Doing my best to keep calm, I try to discern the attacker's identity. I sense that it is male, and that he has taken the shape of a large black bull. Quickly, I assume the form of Doctor Who's Tardis (a spaceship designed as a police phone box, for the uninitiated), with a bullfighters' costume painted on.
The bull stops uncertainly about six metres from me, its expression one of pure confusion; exactly the reaction I had hoped for. I use this opportunity to let the Doctor's cute little robot dog poke its head out of the door and zap a gash into the bull's side with its cute little laser. Fears and hopes, the blood of dreamlands, come pouring from the wound; a cursory look shows claustrophobia and a desire to make the world's largest pancake. With a grunt and an enviable aptitude for regeneration, the bull heals it shut in under two seconds, then charges.
I leap nimbly to the side, making him crash into one of the cacti in my desert. As astral beings tend to be fairly fragile and light compared to psychological constructs, this affects it less like a bull hitting a cactus and more like a bull hitting a brick wall with nails somehow attached to it pointy-side-up. As he turns on me and exhibits his remarkable healing factor, the Tardis produces a red sheet from out of nowhere and waves it around triumphantly. Enraged, the bull charges again.
Once more, the Tardis moves out of the way, and the bull crashes into a cactus. He heals again, but his regeneration is slower this time. I know that I am wearing him down, and I know he knows I know. I can see his angry little mind working out a new strategy: that sheet is a symbol of his victory. If I can just get it out of his hands . . .
There is a horrible change in the atmosphere as the bull suddenly realises that a phone box (or, for that matter, anything trying to do a passable imitation of one) should not have hands. The sheet falls to the sandy floor and promptly ceases to exist. After a pause of about half a second he comes to the same conclusion regarding legs and the Tardis drops down to earth with a clatter. Finally, he deduces that, having no eyes, my chosen form should be incapable of seeing the world, and I am blinded. I manage to rationalise that it has special sensors just in time to see the bull charging once more, lurch clumsily out of the way, and flee. I am so focused on running that I even forget to make him hit another cactus.
The Tardis flies away, spinning wildly in its flight like it did in that one episode where the Doctor had to stop humanity being destroyed by evil aliens. I consider trying for victory by sniping at the earthbound enemy from the air, but am shocked to discover that the bull has turned red and sprouted wings, and is in hot pursuit. I couldn't help feeling disappointed, even in the midst of my terror; I had rather hoped that when I met a Dreamer with an imagination comparable to my own, we would be on the same side.
I evade the bull for at least a minute before it manages to clip me on one of the Tardis' lower corners and sends me spiralling through the roof of a dusty, uninhabited house, representing a partially-repressed memory. The bull charges into the house to finish me off . . .
. . . and then I have him.
The memory this house represents was one of my high school, when two of my classmates locked me in a closet for over six hours. I had been frightened, alone and hungry (though luckily I had refrained from wetting myself). This would have done nothing but produce a slight feeling of unease in any other foreign spirit, but I knew he was claustrophobic, and I had been quietly preparing this memory for him ever since I saw the phobia in his blood. I managed to lead him here without him suspecting a trap, and now, he is mine.
Overwhelmed with sudden terror, the bull charges the walls; but they are fortified with both his fear and my memory, and cannot be stopped from closing in. In a bid to fit through the rapidly contracting hole I left in the roof, he transforms to his human form, a gangly, dark-haired teenager; but it is too little too late and it closes too quickly for him. As a last attempt, he becomes a fire-spirit, capable of slipping through the smallest openings; but there are no openings, there is no escape, and the walls have now closed in so far that he is sorely deprived of the oxygen needed to keep burning. After pausing for a single, guilty moment, I extinguish his astral form.
From experience, I know that I have not caused any permanent damage. However, he will find himself incapable of visiting any dreamlands, even his own, for about a month; and it is very likely that he will be experiencing intense migraines at random intervals for at least the next week. I discard my Tardis shape and adopt a human one so I can smile about this, then return to my gardening.
My mind is a desert. It is rough, it is harsh, and it is not all suitable for human habitation. Very little of it is actually used or useful, but given time and water it has the potential to flourish. And even now, while much of its soil is parched and barren, some life thrives here, made strong and unique by the incessant heat. But I want more.
I notice a small, somewhat pathetic plant, and stop beside it. It is parched and wilting, but it could be valuable. With more effort than I would like to admit, I summon a small raincloud and water the plant until some of its colour returns. I suddenly realise that I now know the formula to find the surface area of a sphere.
Sadly, this glorious revelation is interrupted by a loud noise in the distance, and an accompanying dust cloud.
Something that I neglected to mention about my dreamland is that it is extremely large. I don't say this out of bigheadedness (no pun intended), but it is a solid fact that while all other dreamlands that I've visited are only about a mile across at most, my wasteland home stretches on for longer than I've ever been bothered to measure. Unwanted interlopers in my mind (usually looking for a fight, trying to become stronger by forcibly absorbing the astral forms of others) have been known to have their astral forms collapse from lack of water or sheer boredom in vain attempts to find me. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be happening to the entity that made the noise: its spirit has spotted me, and is charging towards me at full speed.
Doing my best to keep calm, I try to discern the attacker's identity. I sense that it is male, and that he has taken the shape of a large black bull. Quickly, I assume the form of Doctor Who's Tardis (a spaceship designed as a police phone box, for the uninitiated), with a bullfighters' costume painted on.
The bull stops uncertainly about six metres from me, its expression one of pure confusion; exactly the reaction I had hoped for. I use this opportunity to let the Doctor's cute little robot dog poke its head out of the door and zap a gash into the bull's side with its cute little laser. Fears and hopes, the blood of dreamlands, come pouring from the wound; a cursory look shows claustrophobia and a desire to make the world's largest pancake. With a grunt and an enviable aptitude for regeneration, the bull heals it shut in under two seconds, then charges.
I leap nimbly to the side, making him crash into one of the cacti in my desert. As astral beings tend to be fairly fragile and light compared to psychological constructs, this affects it less like a bull hitting a cactus and more like a bull hitting a brick wall with nails somehow attached to it pointy-side-up. As he turns on me and exhibits his remarkable healing factor, the Tardis produces a red sheet from out of nowhere and waves it around triumphantly. Enraged, the bull charges again.
Once more, the Tardis moves out of the way, and the bull crashes into a cactus. He heals again, but his regeneration is slower this time. I know that I am wearing him down, and I know he knows I know. I can see his angry little mind working out a new strategy: that sheet is a symbol of his victory. If I can just get it out of his hands . . .
There is a horrible change in the atmosphere as the bull suddenly realises that a phone box (or, for that matter, anything trying to do a passable imitation of one) should not have hands. The sheet falls to the sandy floor and promptly ceases to exist. After a pause of about half a second he comes to the same conclusion regarding legs and the Tardis drops down to earth with a clatter. Finally, he deduces that, having no eyes, my chosen form should be incapable of seeing the world, and I am blinded. I manage to rationalise that it has special sensors just in time to see the bull charging once more, lurch clumsily out of the way, and flee. I am so focused on running that I even forget to make him hit another cactus.
The Tardis flies away, spinning wildly in its flight like it did in that one episode where the Doctor had to stop humanity being destroyed by evil aliens. I consider trying for victory by sniping at the earthbound enemy from the air, but am shocked to discover that the bull has turned red and sprouted wings, and is in hot pursuit. I couldn't help feeling disappointed, even in the midst of my terror; I had rather hoped that when I met a Dreamer with an imagination comparable to my own, we would be on the same side.
I evade the bull for at least a minute before it manages to clip me on one of the Tardis' lower corners and sends me spiralling through the roof of a dusty, uninhabited house, representing a partially-repressed memory. The bull charges into the house to finish me off . . .
. . . and then I have him.
The memory this house represents was one of my high school, when two of my classmates locked me in a closet for over six hours. I had been frightened, alone and hungry (though luckily I had refrained from wetting myself). This would have done nothing but produce a slight feeling of unease in any other foreign spirit, but I knew he was claustrophobic, and I had been quietly preparing this memory for him ever since I saw the phobia in his blood. I managed to lead him here without him suspecting a trap, and now, he is mine.
Overwhelmed with sudden terror, the bull charges the walls; but they are fortified with both his fear and my memory, and cannot be stopped from closing in. In a bid to fit through the rapidly contracting hole I left in the roof, he transforms to his human form, a gangly, dark-haired teenager; but it is too little too late and it closes too quickly for him. As a last attempt, he becomes a fire-spirit, capable of slipping through the smallest openings; but there are no openings, there is no escape, and the walls have now closed in so far that he is sorely deprived of the oxygen needed to keep burning. After pausing for a single, guilty moment, I extinguish his astral form.
From experience, I know that I have not caused any permanent damage. However, he will find himself incapable of visiting any dreamlands, even his own, for about a month; and it is very likely that he will be experiencing intense migraines at random intervals for at least the next week. I discard my Tardis shape and adopt a human one so I can smile about this, then return to my gardening.