4. Minotaur

A vast darkness. I felt the motion of a lake, cool wind pitching what I believe was, after a fashion, a gondola. I could not see any other passengers or pilot, but I felt a heavy presence all around me.

...

I was dragged straight through the vessel. Then erupted through burning earthly crust and was flung in an arc via some tangle of gravitational pulls. I tried to collect myself, but no sooner had I hit the ground I was grasped by a mighty paw and flung against a pillar.

A terrible man, if t'were a man at all, wearing the attire of a blacksmith, set upon me, throwing a resounding blow towards me. He barely missed my neck, which would have shattered. He grabbed a handful of my hair, next hoisted me to the level of his eyes. There was fire there. Molten metals. I attempted a few futile punches of my own about his large head; on the understanding that even a cornered coward may as well die fighting.

The man dropped me. I do not believe I had anything to do with it. I held a dent on the pillar face and lifted myself to stance. The man was working at a great furnace. Flames licked from it, out and over the man, who seemed to fear no pain.

I called out, "What is it you forge man?"

He replied in a language foreign to me, I had not even the barest inkling of it's origin.

...

A vast darkness. Instantly I felt the vessel lurch up into the air. A tempestuous sea. I saw and felt no one, but heard the cries of the passengers, the guttural shouts of the crew as they pulled on chains and rigging. I felt the tremors of a fallen mast and ran, searching for a door to some safe cabin. Clawing at the deck with one hand as the vessel bellied, I slammed against an unlocked door and through, knocking into a table leg. The door slammed shut. The voices dimmed and then, I dreamt of darkness.

...
...
...

I did not sleep for long last night. I did not see reason to rest until 1am. I awoke to the cawing of corvids at 4am. I exited my home before sunrise to see just why so many of them filled my garden and found them tearing flesh from a local cat. It must have died of old age or frostbite. I shoo'd the birds away, considered the cat's collar.

I explained the situation to the owner of the deceased; he was obviously distraught. I offered to and did bury the feline in a spot chosen by the owner (under a paving slab at the end of his garden, by a rose bush). I was offered coffee but declined and continued my day.

As for the dream? I do not know, likely it bares no overall meaning. I dubbed it "Minotaur", though I could not tell you why, perhaps the strangeness of the dream brought to mind a maze.

⚄

3. Siren

I was in my bed. Crisp Moon light shone through the window adjacent to me, I felt it uncommon that I would leave the curtains parted and blind raised, but I was between covers, so I made no great move to alter their positioning. Still, I scrutinised the room for other irregularities, one of my chess sets was open (coral pieces with stone board, pink in place of white, deep rouge in place of black, which I obtained in New Zealand), but found nothing out of the ordinary. The rhythmic churning of the boiler filled the walls, a cause for further drowzing. I cursed at myself for leaving the old building's internal heating at such a high quarter (I always switch off the boiler come night, a waste of good heat and money). I sighed and willed for sleep.

...

Sadly, at the exact point to which my eyelids had dropped to their eclipse- did I hear it.

...

Sounds came from the bottom of my staircase, a garbled hissing, like a beast of burden who's throat had just been slit for religious feast. It's pained tone drove into me, growing with degree as the boiler shuck furiously. Even from my room I heard the bolts split and felt it rock upon its iron bearing. I lay listening to it for over a minute (or less, or more), in something less than outright fear, studying it's qualities in a vain attempt to define it's species, before it began to wail like a thing dying. Slow, long and loud sobs, wordless and haunting. The Moon fled.

...

Bare feet and body froze as I crept along pine floor and out onto the landing. I handled, quite jocularly, a thick book from the walled case (an impromptu weapon), I moved five paces down the carpeted steps before realising the thing I was looking for had traveled over half way up the stairs to greet me. It moved on all fours, presumedly, body pressed so firmly to the stairs that it's form seemed to move at near perfect right angles.

...

Before feared I marvelled it. From head to shoulder it was a woman of such defined features, unlike anyone I have ever seen, a rare breeding of Mediterranean and Mongol. It's mane was a wet, post-swim jet that crawled along it's back, it's skin was a diseased patchwork of sea grey and tan. It had Caesar's strong brow and nose. It had thin, transparent lobed ears and pronounced lips that seemed to extend just a fraction too far on her left side. Above all this were it's eyes; chocolate iris, pooled black pupils and otherwise human, so human as to call in to question any other sight- and it was such a sight.

In front of this face, out stretched, were two malformed limbs which ended in growths shaped like hooks, with barely a layer of skin hiding thin bone. I am thankful they were not strong as this was it's means of propelling itself.

Beyond it's shoulders was a revolting mess of a body, like a child starved. Like an unfinished, uncaring attempt at a body. It was far too short and weak to be of any use. It's backend was, I noted as it shifted weight, covered in tiny, glimmering scales, the scales most blatantly of a carp.

...

The boiler began to sound off like a kettle, which shuck me enough from it to take myself, eyes fixed on it's own, back to the landing, where I leered at this revolting phantasm. I considered what I could achieve, I could flee, by what sort of person would I be, if I ran from a diseased retch? I could harm it, force it out of my house, but again, where would I stand morally? I watched it for over a minute as it lunged itself up and repeated the process of hinging it's hooks into a decent crevice in the staircase.

...

Then, in so sudden an action I felt it would fall, it arched it's back, resting on backwards bent feet, like a snake, or an eel, and leered at me with the same level of revulsion I had imparted it. It swayed as it glared at me, it's mouth wide. It screamed. It screamed and brandished it's limbs, as if pointing accusing fingers. Only one thought could enter my mind: Surely it was weak?

...

Through the screams I heard laughter; but I could not tell you if it came from the thing, from myself, or another source. I do not wish to analyse this area of the dream.

...

Shocked and frozen, both through fright and Winter's bite, I stood, as the wailing thing swayed and screamed. I almost vomited as I gazed at it, for within it's mouth appeared to be leeches, whats more it's tongue was bulbous, black and may have been a leech as-well. My legs began to buckle under it's acute audio. I felt my blood rising into my ears. I could take no more and did a regrettably animal thing: I threw the book at it.

...

...

...

I awoke nude upon my landing, covered in a cold sweat. Though raw beyond belief, I did not turn the boiler on until I returned from work (which you may conclude is a mere number of minutes before this entry). I have been known to sleep walk and have considered locking my good self within the room at night, but for some untold reason I am not able to.

⚂

A dread filled night

Greetings. I unreservedly welcome my two beautifics, a troubled young woman and a mysterious figure, and hope more of you join me in the future. 


This next dream was difficult for me to put down. I had considered forgoing it, feigning ignorance of it and perhaps, crafting a false dream for your eyes. But I can not avoid them any longer, this is why I have made Anthroagast. To attempt to strap reasoning to these things.


This dream will no doubt be ill written as there is so little to say, and yet, it was frightening. I am glad of this journal, I could say that to no one in life.

An interlude

It has for six days snowed heavily, at a constant rate. I traveled to a forest, an artificial backdrop, planted a mere seventy years ago, to consider a cliff that is crumbling into a slow within a river. A great sheet of ice filled a fracture in the ground close to the edge. I kicked at this rift until much ground was severed from the cliff, it fell intensely, causing me to fall backwards against what I presumed to be a beech tree (greening bark, buttress roots, large curved bow formation).

I found this to be up-roaringly humorous.

It has been a good day all around.

⚁

2. Turning

The night's work begins by standing in a antique elevator. Dressed in my most basic attire, black shoes, black trousers and a white shirt with silver cufflinks, this is significant as I usually ignorant of how I am clothed, if I am visible to myself at all. I have more than enough time to note the sticky, gum grey floor tiles, the cushioned navy walls with sickly yellow lining and the rusted, grate door to which beyond is rushing like a boiling liquid, distant and shadowed. I look above and see nothing where a grated ceiling should be, I know exactly what it should look like, but it is not present. I rise slowly, the clog-spun nature of it reminiscent of a roller coaster as it reaches the peak, at least to my ears.


...


clk clk clk clk clk clk clk clk clk clk clk clack-crssh


...


I expected an instant drop. Rather, the grated door half-opens with a jolt while beyond the surreal steamage a wide-set pair of oaken doors open; at least ten feet in height and twice in width. The doors were two hands thick and covered in carvings with a Greek touch, naked warriors and lions in tessellation. I slip out of the elevator, stumble and crane my neck just in time to see the grated portal crash shut and the whole abomination collapses into the darkness.


...


Emerged, soaking in some burning liquid (I am certain this is a trapped memory of an incident with hydrochloric acid, amplified). I stumble along a hallway, narrow enough to lean this way and that to touch it's plumbless walls, my palm against the wilting wallpaper for guidance as I am near blinded by the vicious substance. I turn corner after corner, calling out names- such names, names of no one I know now or have known. I turn and turn until a piteous revelation is granted toward me.


...


The passage is a pentagon. I can not possibly, physically leave the area.


...


I open my blood-clotted eyes and study the walls for some insight. Wallpaper, what is left of it, a once-white. The wall itself is the colour of a child's bruise and covered in notes, the kind yourself might scribble in glee before decorating. What I found most striking was the clean stamps of missing photographs, parts had nothing but the odd non-photograph, other areas were covered in them, anti-portrait painting of what must of been a great family line.
The carpet offered no clues, again a besmirged white, like road snow. The ceiling was irritating to gaze upon, non-existent.


...


Eventually (I believe I had gone from clean shaved to rugged within this time) I felt no choice but to peer through the acidic chasm beyond the oaken doors. Knowing this is not a way out, surely not a way out, I crept dolefully toward it. These doors, to my shock, were much less ornate and much lesser in size than hitherto established. The doors were closed and required much force to open, I felt muscle strain and tendons pull, but after what seemed like the labour of an hour, I opened it. A gust of wind, like a breathe, was relinquished from the shaft. I gazed.


...
...
...


The dream finished there. My thoughts? I find a great difficulty in writing within the correct tense, my apologises, I both feel as though they have happened, and they are in some other, constant place. I can not describe it, timelessness is perhaps a suited noun? For another explanation, I am not a writer as such.


I awoke from this dream with a nose bleed. I found seeing myself covered in blood visually interesting, and took a moment to let my blood fall into the wash basin. Then I showered, dressed and removed the stains before eating. I find the whole affair most riveting; did I have this dream because my nose bled? Or could this dream cause a unconscious, violent bodily action?

1. Searching

I am in my aunt's apartment, particularly my aunt's, as this is set to the tune of my uncle's demise. The place is quiet and claustrophobic. My aunt sits between the few rooms and weeps, facing the closed, sharply maroon front door. The only door in which to leave.


...


There is a kitchen with an oily oven hidden in an alcove. There is a room with wooden chairs and a broken television, a small stack of shelves huddle nervously in a corner holding books that are scented with liquor. There is a bathroom with a surprising number of mirrors, smallest a keychain with faux-hand mirror attached, largest a glinting steel man-sized Narsian which may have been procured from a clothes shop. There are two bedrooms facing each other to which I open and enter without care, the place was always too small to deny the much needed space and as such they were treated like second living rooms. Both sleeping spaces are identical, save white linen, rather than a garish red, bedspread and dressing table within my aunt's.


...


I discover nothing that was not as it always was as I roam between the bedrooms, I search high and low, turning over the dressing table and flinging open drawers with increasing desperation, desiring above all something terrifying, to allow myself the succour of nightmare. So that I may leave for some forest or underground bunker to be chased or better yet, to lucidly raise a handgun to the daemon of the night.


...


But no, this dream is only this.


...
...
...


For my own reasons I roll dice, at the end of each day's writ I will show you what I have gained or lost. It is white with black marks, six-sided, which I deem to be a proper die.

⚂

It begins here

This is not a structured news broadcast or diary. This is a momentary lapse in judgement, I have neither the time nor patience for this, but still; here I will post my thoughts (occasionally) and my dreams (the main brunt of it). I am disregarding sense, I will not alter or delay anything that occurs in my dreams, if my mind creates horror and revulsion- so be it. I believe it is better placed here upon this empty track than festering against the walls of my mind.


...


I have done little writing in my time, I am no scholar and have not held the title of student since I was fifteen, however it appear this style of writing, Horace Purple, is the manner in which this creature, Anthroagast, will be formed.


...




Presently I shall put last night's dream to imagined paper.