Airport Gameboy Plane Crash Birth Drama

I’m in a movie theater, sitting alone, watching a film.

In the film, there is an airplane, full of people.

Richard Dryfuss, Ellen Burnstein and their small child sit in the airplane. They're arguing about the trip they're making; the small boy ignores them, playing with a Gameboy.

Cut to the plane exterior. There's some kind of short or spark or something. The airplane's engine catches fire.

Richard notices it out the window.

"Look!" he says.

They stop arguing.

The fire gets worse and the engine stalls. The airplane starts going out of control.

The oxygen masks come down, the passengers prepare for a crash.

The plane starts going in a free-fall, straight for the ocean.

Cut to the interior of an airport.

Richard, Ellen and the kid are sitting in chairs at what looks like a concourse.

The boy is still playing with the Gameboy -- Richard and Ellen are just waking up.

They both talk about the dream they just had about their airplane crashing.

Richard and Ellen continue to argue with each other about the trip for a few moments.

Then, Richard notices that something's weird in the airport.

There's strange Muzak playing in the concourse, but no announcements. No airplanes are taking off or landing, everyone is eerily quiet.

Richard talks to one of the staff, asking them why things are so strange.

The staff are calm, cool, and friendly, but almost completely emotionless. They are evasive and do not answer his questions.

Richard and Ellen make their way around the airport, trying to ask different staff members what is going on.

They tell the boy to sit down and wait for them to come back.

They argue ­ Richard thinks something is wrong, but Ellen doesn’t.

They get no answers from the airport staff.

Richard and Ellen go back to their chairs and notice the boy is gone. They look around for him, but he is nowhere to be found. They ask passersby if they’ve seen him. No one has.

They turn around and there he is again, just popping up out of nowhere, still playing with the Gameboy.

They’re relieved and tell him to sit down.

Twice more, they argue, talk to staff and loose the boy. The third time, he doesn’t reappear.

They go to a security guard for help.

"Come with me, please," guard says.

They're led to a back room that looks like a surgery theater in a hospital. A doctor and nurse are there.

"Get on the table, please," the doctor says.

Ellen argues, but the doctor is firm and calm. She gets on the table.

"I'm afraid you'll have to go through the whole thing again," the doctor says.

Stirrups pop up on the table and Ellen is strapped into place; another nurse appears from a nearby room to calm down Richard.

Ellen's stomach begins to grow huge.

She gives birth to her son all over again.

He emerges from her vagina, fully clothed, Gameboy in hand, the same size and age he was before.

Richard and Ellen are again on the concourse, sitting in their chairs. They look at the child, then at each other. They wonder aloud if what just happened really happened.

Richard finally seems to understand.

“We’re not in an airport,” he says. “This is purgatory.”

Then I woke up.

Technicolor Hostage Cereal Gangster

I am alone in a huge movie theater.

I am watching a movie.

It looks like a bright, vibrant Technicolor movie from the 1930's. But the film is one of those Warner Brothers gangster movies, which were all done in stark black and white.

A gangster is holding a woman captive on some kind of road trip. With them, they have a Black cook, a young girl.

The man resembles George Raft; the woman reminds me of Loretta Young.

The house they're staying in is dark, with high contrast shadows all around.

The clothes the characters wear or objects in the room are vibrant reds, greens, yellows and blues, standing out from everything there.

They’re about to have breakfast. The gangster sits at the table in the dining room, reading a newspaper. He talks about the cops not being able to find them.

The woman tries to figure out how to get away. She nervously drinks coffee and spreads some jam on a piece of toast.

The woman says something about checking on breakfast and goes into the kitchen.

The cook is there. The woman starts yelling at the cook and the cook recoils.

She leans in close to the cook and whispers in her ear.

“He’s trying to kill me. Just play along.”

The woman takes a stack of brightly colored dishes and throws them to the floor. She yells at the cook, asking her why she has to be so clumsy.

The woman leans in and whispers in the cook’s ear again.

“Run away and get help.”

The woman crashes some more dishes against the wall and yells at the cook again.

The cook seems like she’s in a state of shock and doesn’t know what to do.

The woman pointss at the door. She pleads with the cook, motioning with her hands.

The cook quickly and quietly scurries off.

The woman regains her composure. She picks up a tray that has some food and dishes on it, along with two boxes of cereal.

The woman carries the tray into the dining room.

"What was that about?" the man asks.

"I just fired the cook - she’s so incompetent,” she says, trying to remain calm.

The woman moves the tray towards the table.

Two boxes of Life cereal are on the tray -- the kind of boxes they had in the 1960's with "Life" spelled out in brightly colored letters.

As she sits the tray on the table, some of the letters on the cereal boxes float away into the air, forming the word "Lie".
Then I woke up.

Alien Blowfish Duck Lamp Sacrifice

I am a lamp.

I am a common, everyday lamp. One that would sit in a typical American home in the 1970's. I have a tapered ceramic base in some strange orange and burnt umber colors, a 60 watt bulb for my head, and a head covering consisting of a paper lampshade.

An obese man sits in a Lazy Boy recliner in his t-shirt. He takes a drink from a can of Budweiser and sits it down on the table beside me. He is watching a large 70's era console television set.

There is shag carpet on the floor, a sickly yellow and brown color. The room has plain wooden paneling. The lighting is subdued. It is night.

Sitting next to the television, near a window, is a toilet. The bowl of the toilet is filled with flowers, as if someone is using it as a decorative planter.

I hear someone in the hallway next to the living room.

It is an elderly woman. She is plainly dressed, her face wrinkled. She reminds me of a character actor one might see on a 70's British sitcom.

Her face begins to look distorted, almost like a blowfish when it's beginning to expand.

"Perhaps I should go upstairs," she says, apologetically, in a stoic, very British voice, "If the aliens are really here and taking over people, it might be best to just get them out of the way where they won't disturb anyone."

The man in the recliner stares at the television and seems to ignore what she is saying. His chair faces away from the hallway towards the television and he cannot see her.

Her face and head distort even more, growing larger and looking more like a blowfish.

Strange noises start coming from her body.

"Quick! Hurry!" I hear my friend Stuart say, "You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!"

I turn to see legs and arms sprouting from the toilet, like an anthropomorphic character from a tv commercial. It stands up.

"You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!" the toilet says in Stuart's voice, moving it's seat like a mouth.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, somewhat concerned.

Suddenly, I see a log in front of the television with an ax in it. The man rises from the chair and grabs the ax.

I feel funny.

I look down and see that I am now a duck, standing on the table.

The man grabs me by the throat; I flap my wings and feathers fly as he moves me towards the log.

"It's the only way," Stuart the Toilet says, "You must be a sacrifice for the alien!"

The woman's head grows larger and more distorted. Her body begins to shake.

"No!" I scream and squawk, "You be the sacrifice - not me!"

The man firmly places me on the log, his hand around my neck. He holds the ax high above his head.

"No!" I squawk, "There's got to be another way!"

"You must be the sacrifice!" Stuart the Toilet intones.

I see the blade of the ax coming closer towards my head. I struggle and squawk, but can't break free.

Everything goes black.

My head feels strange, as if part of the top center of my brain is empty, missing.

Then, something like a rush of electricity or bolt of lightning surges through the hole in my brain.

I open my eyes.

I am still a duck.

I am standing in a room all by myself. The floor is black tile. All of the walls of the room and the ceiling are covered with mirrors.

"Damn," I squawk, "what the hell happens now?"

Then I woke up.

Classroom Rune Goat Lunch

I am in a classroom. It looks like a room in my old high school.

It is a nice day and the sun streams through the windows.

I stand at a chalkboard with a class full of students. These are not high school students ­ these are men and women who are all adults, their ages varying quite a bit.

The students all sit in rapt attention as I stand at the board lecturing. I draw some strange symbols on the chalkboard, discussing the significance of each symbol.

I glance down at my watch. It is noon.

"Let's take a break for lunch," I say.

The students in the room rise up from their desks. They head out a door in the back of the classroom, murmuring and chatting a bit with each other about the lecture.

I know that they will be going to some type of cafeteria or restaurant for lunch.

But, at the same time, I know that I am not supposed to eat there.

I look to my left.

Standing at the front of the classroom is a goat tied to a chair.

"That's lunch," I think.

I walk up to the goat. I look down and have an ornate long curved knife in my hand.

I cut the goat's throat and drag it in front of my desk.

I take the knife in both of my hands.

I chop off the goat’s head. The goat’s body falls to the floor.

I carefully place the head, blood gushing from the base of it, on the desk.

I get down on my knees and use the knife to skin the goat.

I look up and see a little mound in front of me. There is a spit and a fire is slowly burning.

I drag the goat's body to the mound.

I insert the spit into the goat and place it above the fire.

I notice as I turn the goat on the spit that there is a strange thing in the center of its belly -- it is like a hole, a couple of inches in diameter, to its insides, almost like a round window.

Around the hole, impressed into its body, are two circles. Between the circles are strange rune-like symbols, similar to the ones I drew on the board during the lecture.

There is good fire going and the goat is cooking pretty well.

I look up and see a hole in the ceiling. The sky shows through the hole -- the smoke drifts through the hole in the roof to the outside.

The goat is ready.

I rip off some of its flesh.

I look over at the desk. I see the head of the dead goat just sitting there, staring at me, blood steaming down the front of the desk.

I have to eat the goat, but the thought of doing so repulses me.

I need to eat the meat, but I cannot bring myself to do it.

I wonder why.

I think it’s a cute goat -- it would be like eating Bambi or something.

I feel sad for the goat.

Then I woke up.

Naked Jewish Boy Bus Trip Party

It's a bright, sunny spring day.

I'm riding on a school bus, sitting near the back.

The road seems very twisted and the bus speeds along around the curves.

The road is near some kind of big body of water, like an ocean or really huge lake. The road goes around the side of these cliffs. I look down and see the water on the left of the bus.

There are a dozen people scattered around the bus, all of them are adults. Some are men; some are women. I don't know any of these people.

All of the people on the bus are naked. They chat with each other pleasantly, enjoying the ride.

I hear a voice behind me.

"Are you going to the party?" a man asks.

I turn around and there’s a young man there. It is John.

He has long blond hair, a nice thin build and a bit of a shadow beard. Like everyone else, he's naked.

He wears a necklace that fits close around his neck. The necklace has different colored beads on it.

"Yes, I suppose I am," I say.

We chat with each other about the weather or something.

I happen to look down and notice that he has a really nice set of tit rings.

I also notice something else.

John has several piercings in different sizes. The rings are placed all the way up the front of his belly and chest, from his waist to just below his neck. They are all in a row, each ring about a half-inch apart.

The rings are arranged in a manner that resembles an erect penis, with smaller rings forming the shaft and the wider rings making up the head of the cock.

"It's going to be a great party," he says.

Suddenly, I am standing in a shower in the building where the party will be held.

It's a little musty and run down and the lighting isn't very good. It appears similar to open multi-person showers one might see at the gym.

I wear flip-flops and have a towel around my waist. I take off the towel and place it on a hanger.

I walk to one of the showerheads, turn it on and shower myself down, enjoying the feel of the cool water on my body.

I finish the shower, grab the towel and begin drying off.

"Where is he?" I wonder to myself.

"He's not here,” a voice says from behind me.

I turn around. It is one of my aunts.

She stands there in front of me, fully clothed.

I ignore the fact that I'm standing in front of my aunt wet and naked and just continue toweling down.

My aunt rambles on about some kind of cake she's baking.

I finish drying off, tie the towel around my waist and start to walk off.

"You should find yourself a nice Jewish boy," she says.

Then I woke up.

Flies and Pearls in Bodega Bay

I am in the middle of a large office complex.

I stand in the center of the office complex, a series of hallways going out in all directions, with escalators going up to higher floors.

The office complex has a high ceiling, similar to a multistory mall and, in front of me, is a large geodesic dome. There is fake greenery planted all around the dome.

People wearing business suits rush around the office complex. They look worried.

All of them have pinks slips of paper. They talk with each other about being laid off from work.

All of the businesses in this office park have gone under.

They talk about their jobs, their friends, and good times and bad times in the offices as they worked together.

Some hug each other and get teary-eyed.

I decide to walk down one of the hallways of the office complex.

The hallway, with doors of businesses on each side, opens up more as I walk along. It changes as I walk.

I am on the street of a small coastal town. It is similar to Bodgega Bay in the Hitchcock film, “The Birds”. I see small shops and a café. I smell the ocean breeze.

The local people in the streets talk about tourists that are coming. They talk about the factories closing in the town and the new shops and businesses that are opening to appeal to the tourists.

I see a small shop up ahead, a large wooden sign showing a fish hanging out over the sidewalk above the door. I walk inside.

There is a line of people, waiting patiently. I get in the back of the line.

There is a Latin man, the owner of the shop, sitting at a counter. He has dark skin, a moustache, and wears a white rumpled shirt and hat.

The people in the line talk to him about scheduling a fishing trip with him as a guide. He owns a boat.

It is my turn in the line.

"What do you want?" he asks.

"I'd like to learn how to make flies," I reply.

The man looks me up and down, glaring at me and playing with his moustache. He is annoyed and surprised.

"Do you know how boring that is?" he asks, "Are you sure you don't want to go fishing?"

"No, I want to learn how to make flies," I say.

"Have you ever been fishing?" he asks.

"A few times," I say. "It was okay."

"Are you sure you really want to learn how to make files? It's really boring," he says.

"Yes. I like doing things with my hands."

"It's really boring. What's the most boring thing you've ever done?"

I don’t have an answer.

The man thinks for a moment, looking at people in the line behind me.

"Sure, okay,” he says, smiling. “I'll teach you how to make flies. Come back in a couple of weeks and we'll get started."

I turn and walk away from the counter.

The people at the shop sit at wooden benches eating fancy French and Italian deserts.

There is an empty seat at one of the tables; I sit down.

The owner of the shop walks up behind me, sitting a dish and spoon on the table in front of me.

I look down at my dessert ­ it resembles vanilla ice cream, floating in a cloudy white liquid.

The owner examines the bowl.

"Excuse me," he says, "There's a pearl in yours. I'm terribly sorry."

He picks up the spoon and retrieves the pearl. He takes the pearl with him as he walks away.

I dig my spoon into the desert and it hits something hard.

I lift up my spoon and find a whole string of pearls hanging from it.

I am on the main street of the town. It is cold and getting dark. The town is deserted.

I walk along the streets. Everything looks run down and dilapidated.

I notice the shop I had visited earlier. The sign hangs askew, the wood weathered and the painted fish on it faded.

I open the squeaky door and walk inside. There is dust everywhere; tables and chairs are overturned.

I walk to the counter. There is a slip of paper there. I pick it up.

It reads, “He left his tantric ways and skipped town. There's nothing to see here. Keep moving. -- Matt Redbear".

Then I woke up.

Golden Gate Airport Filing Cabinet

I wake up in an apartment in San Francisco.

The place belongs to someone else. I am visiting the city for a few days. They are letting me stay there.

It is a beautiful apartment in an older building, warm and inviting, with big windows. There’s a wonderful view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

I stretch and yawn. I move the white sheet to uncover myself. I get out of bed.

I walk around the room towards the window in my underwear. I look around, stretching and waking up, feeling the warm sun all over my body.

I hear someone else stirring in the room.

A drop-dead gorgeous man is in my bed. He leans back on a couple of pillows, naked, the white sheet pulled up to his waist. He stretches and yawns, the golden sun beaming off of his hard tanned body.

"Morning," he says. "It was nice."

I am taken aback. I don’t recognize him.

"We spent the night together?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. "But, don't worry. I'm just a figment of your imagination."

"Oh," I reply, somewhat confused.

I notice the man’s eyes as he looks at me. They are so blue and intense they almost glow.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” I say, “What kind of work do you do?”

The man tells me about his favorite ways of having sex ­ positions, locations, what he would do with my body.

“I really enjoyed last night,” he says, smiling.

He doesn’t mention what he does for a living.

“I’d better go take a shower,” I say.

I walk out of the apartment and into a hallway, making my way to a bathroom I know is up ahead. The wooden floors of the hallway creak as I walk; I feel the soft warm carpet running down the center of the hallway beneath my feet.

I open the door and go into the bathroom.

Two men are there, going about their morning. One is toweling off, just having taken a shower. Another stands at a mirror, shaving.

There is no eye contact between them and myself. It’s as if we share the same space, but they cannot see each other nor can they see me.

Things seem strange ­ I decide to skip the shower.

I exit the bathroom and walk back into the hallway. It has changed ­ it seems to go on for miles in the distance.

I decide to explore, to see what’s ahead in the distance. The apartment building hallway changes as I walk.

I am in the lobby of a large office building. There are people milling about, going in and out of a set of elevators in front of me. Some stand and talk with each other.

I wait there for a moment, still in my underwear, and watch them. They are dressed in suits and carry laptops and briefcases. They do not see me.

I continue walking through the lobby and enter a revolving door that leads outside.

I am on a long, narrow airport concourse with windows on either side.

Passengers rush about, going to and from their flights. Some carry or roll baggage. There are men and women, all ages. Some look like they are on vacation, others are dressed for business.

I am still just wearing my underwear. They do not notice me.

I look out the windows of the concourse. I recognize that I am in Los Angeles.

I continue walking and, up ahead, I see a film crew. They are shooting a scene with two men chasing another. They have guns. I step aside as they pass by.

I look through the windows. I want to go outside and enjoy the sun.

Suddenly, I am in a college, standing in an empty hallway. Everything is quiet and still.

There is a lecture hall ahead of me. I walk into it, feeling the cold institutional tiles beneath my feet, looking at the drab, somewhat dirty, beige concrete walls.

I walk into a tiered lecture hall. It is filled with old desks, all tightly packed.

I see a small wooden door, about three feet tall, on the far wall of the lecture hall near the podium.

I must get to the door.

I can barely walk because of the tightly packed desks.

I examine the desks. They are worn and covered with graffiti.

Each of the desks has a small rectangular wire frame on top for an index slip, similar to what one might see on a filing cabinet. Each frame contains a slip of paper.

My name is written on the slips of paper.

I finally make my way to the small wooden door near the podium.

I reach for the brass doorknob. I turn it and open the door.

Then I woke up.