Updated Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Dreaming in Courier Font (29 Days remaining...)


BRANDON (28) - a young man with passionate, deep blue eyes and a chiseled surfer's physique - tosses and turns within the confines of his bed. Limbs thrash as we careen toward his head.


Brandon is sprinting along the QWERTY of a giant keyboard - torrents of panicked sweat cascading down his brow, the keys clicking beneath his feet with every gasping step.

The angle changes, the keyboard shifts - now the steps of an ancient Mayan Pyramid - the letters etched in stone, the Jungle sweltering behind him.

The ROAR of a Jaguar as it stalks amongst the treetops, held at bay by fear of a much larger predator.

He gulps in air as his bare feet pound the limestone, rocketing toward the top, toward the glowing MacGuffin. It watches him through slitted eyes, a yawn escaping its jagged beak.

A crash of THUNDER causes him to look back, it's there.

It's found him.

He stumbles, crashing headlong into the step - stars and copper as his mouth burns crimson.

He can hear it padding up the stairs behind him, a LOW GROWL harmonizing with the high-pitched shriek of quills on scales - its haunches tensing as it prepares to end it once and for all.

Scrambling, Brandon rolls to the side as its stinger BASHES into the step by his head - the tiny hairs prickling his ear as he bursts to his feet and into action once more.

Finding his footing he takes the steps two by two - I then P then ] as he launches himself toward the dais. He grasps at the shimmering ROC as it takes to the sky, its massive wings plunging the grove below into bouts of nightfall.

Brandon grips a golden talon, hoisting himself above the claw as the earth - and the creature - disappear beneath tufts of amber cotton. The dawn is breaking, the sun's light warms the horizon as they approach

A voice unlike any he has ever heard booms down from the Heavens above:

Nah, that sounds like a Movie...
What else ya got?

Golden feathers crumble to dust as the creature screeches its last - Brandon tumbles, free-falling, the rush of wind in his ears as he SLAMS through the canopy below, hitting every branch on the way down as he hears a familiar GROWL.

The gaping maw opens wide beneath him, fetid ivory daggers punctuating the edge of oblivion.

Brandon screams


And pitches himself out of bed, quivering amongst a tangled mess of sheets and blankets as the sparrows chirp above the morning dew.

Brandon checks himself, his heart racing, hair matted and pillow soaked - but he's fine. He allows himself to take a breath.

As a LOW GROWL is heard outside his bedroom door.

Fuck Me...

'Chiseled surfer's physique'.


I have the best dreams ever.


1 comment:

Trevor Finn said...

lol @ "that sounds like a movie". Same problem here. Why do spec pilots have to suck so hard?