Excerpt: Surreality Check

Chapter 26

It is cold. Unseasonably cold. Freezing for November weather. Even in my jacket suitable for keeping you warm during escapades in the Antarctic, I am still not warm. Where was I, anyway? I do not think I am in Estes Park, Colorado anymore. Scratch that. I state a very firm fact that I am not in Estes Park, Colorado anymore. The question was baffling to me. If not in Estes Park anymore; then where could I possibly be? I was stranded alone in darkness. Complete darkness. I could not see anything. Not feel anything. Couldn’t even hear anything except my own quickening breathing. My breath started forming a freezing mist of carbon dioxide that melted on my face.

A pole of thick, braided steel cable grew out of the ground under me. I panicked. It grew quickly; made me collapse on to it as it raised me higher in the air. Vertigo gripped my senses. I clung to the pole as its rapid growth slowed until it reached roughly 30 feet high. Gray paint sprang up from the ground and coated the steel pole. It reached up to where I was; trapping my jeans in a quick – drying, sticky, inescapable, mess. I wriggled around trying to get free. My pants were Gorilla – glued to the thick steel rod. Another braid of cable grew out in front of me that was parallel to the ground. It grew at a slight arc. More sticky gray paint ran up and coated the pole’s new appendage. To finish it off, a head grew at the end of the arc and glowed.

‘A lamp post just grew under me, Gorilla – glued my pants to it, AND managed not to kill me from fright?! I must be dreaming! I have to be!’ I feebly thought to myself. No amount of thinking could free me now. I closed my eyes for five seconds and tried to not scream out in aggravation. When I opened them, something had taken place of the dark and nothingness before. Three other lamp posts had appeared. An empty intersection was all that was here before fading in to space.

The click – clack of a person striking a wood block resonated within the almost empty space. It sounded as if it was keeping time for an orchestra; a 2/4 time signature. The wood block appeared in the hands of a living garden gnome as he marched in to the light of the intersection. Following him was an orchestra . . . of chickens?! Four violin players marched behind him, carrying their instruments and bows delicately. Five violas were toted in by the next row of chickens. Another five chickens hauled cellos. To finish off the orchestra, a solo bass player tied off the gang. They stopped marching in the center where they arranged themselves in three rows. A podium of tar grew under the gnome’s feet and hoisted him high above his orchestra. He started tapping a counter melody with his tiny feet for two bars before the violins and violas started playing The March of the Metronome. Should have been March of the Metro Gnome. That garden gnome IS wearing a trench coat . . . About halfway in to the song, a semi blared its horn and ran over the bass player. The orchestra stopped mid – measure, stared at the dead bassist, then took his slightly scratched bass and crossed the street where they marched in to the great beyond. I woke up with a jolt.

*next chapter is the sequel to the dream above*

Chapter 31

It is freezing. Absolutely freezing. So unbearably cold, that frost bite could set in and still go unnoticed. I am all that exists right now. Nothing at all accompanied me in this dark solitude. No light. No sound except for that of my ears ringing. I could have sworn that I had been here before; yet amnesia took control over my brain. Maybe I had been somewhere similar to this, but not necessarily here. Yes. That must be it.

A light flickered in the distance. Another three started to accompany it. They were all hoisted outward on top of poles arranged in a square fashion. An intersection! I started to clumsily amble toward the light, the loose gravel of the avenue crunching under my feet. I noticed a person sitting atop one of the street lights. The person was wriggling around feebly. That person’s pants must be frozen to the pole. Poor sap. I rushed faster to see if I could maybe shimmy up the pole and help them. Gazing closer, I saw that it was a teen girl in a goose down feather jacket. That's me! I've been here before in a different dream! I wonder if the chicken orchestra will show up this time . . . I had better help myself down from that pole before anything weirder happens!

"Shickiles! Your pants! They are glued to the pole! Rip them off! This is only a dream! It doesn't matter if you run around half - naked! Just free yourself!" I shouted to the other me. She stopped fidgeting momentarily and stared at me as if I were a maniac.

"Shickiles! It's me! You're me! Come on! A living garden gnome is going to show up soon! And he has an orchestra of chickens! Do you really want to witness that?!" She started giving me the evil eye. I ran to right below her street pole. She craned her neck around her legs and continued to stare down at me.

The click – clack of a person striking a wood block resonated within the almost empty space. It sounded as if it was keeping time for a band; a 4/4 time signature. The wood block appeared in the hands of a living garden gnome as he marched in to the light of the intersection. Following him was a band . . . of chickens?! Four flute players marched behind him, carrying their instruments delicately. Five clarinets were toted in by the next row of chickens. Another five chickens hauled saxophones. Two alto saxophones, one baritone, one tenor and one soprano. The brass section came in behind the woodwinds. Three trumpets, two trombones, two french horns, one euphonium and one tuba made up their section. To tie off the band, a percussion section of seven chickens pushed drums and bell towers and music stands. They stopped marching in the center where they arranged themselves in four rows. A podium of tar grew under the gnome’s feet and hoisted him high above his band. He started tapping a counter melody with his tiny feet for three bars before the band started off the first measure of Elliot Del Borgo’s Fire Dance in a scherzando fashion. I had played this piece in eighth grade band class as a flute. It was supposed to be played con brio. This band was surprisingly excellent; why couldn’t my band have been this good when I still played the flute?! That is SO not fair!

The timpani – playing chicken manically whacked its drums for the last few bars of the song. The bass drum was struck even harder. If that chicken had whacked that drum head any harder . . . the mallet would probably go straight through! The ring of the bass drum filled the air. The snare drum and suspended cymbal chickens rushed over to their partner’s side to try to dampen the noise with their wings.

The Shickiles that was Gorilla – glued to the lamp post took a glass vial out of her coat. It was filled with a silvery gold substance.

“Hey,” I gazed up at her “What do ya got there, Shickiles?” Her previously neutral expression turned to the filthiest smug grin in the universe. The kind of grin they depict in movies and often worn by the mafia boss. She nodded her head to the band behind me in the street intersection. I pivoted my body to take in the full band and found myself focusing on the conductor. The tiny gnome made a giant rabbit leap to jump on to his music stand. His head grew bigger, longer. I blinked my eyes and hoped like heck that the gnome would still remain tiny. The tiny garden gnome had morphed in to Robin Hood. In the flesh. What used to be his baton, was now a handsome wooden longbow. His gnome clothes turned in to a full suit of foresty archer armor.

“Oh. Man. Have. I. Got. A. Story. To. Tell. YOU!” Robin Hood stated ominously. He produced from his pocket a miniature, crystalline wine glass. The other me tossed her glass vial up in the air. Robin’s quick hands drew an arrow from his back quiver, knocked it, and sent it flying on a destined crash course with the vial. A perfect aim. The vial shattered in a brilliant, rainbow array of light dancing off the glass shards. The chickens, Robin Hood, and other me on the lamp post all waved goodbye to me. Why would they wave goodbye to me?! The silvery liquid collided with Robin’s glass of ice. At that second, everything vaporized with a great, explosive, spontaneous combustion. And I remembered why eighth grade chemistry classes were administered for many, many great reasons. First; in the event that the other you obtains cesium, run like hell. Second; to take up countless hours of your life. Third; to teach you how to fake it to make it. (Example: sleeping in class and getting your lab partners to make a suitable disguise.)

“ISHY! CESIUM! GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF!!!!! SAVE ME FROM ROBIN HOODAND HIS INSTRUMENT – PLAYING CHICKENS AND THE LIVING GARDEN GNOME AND MY EVIL TWIN AND -! SWEET JESUS, JUST SAVE ME, ISHY!!!” I woke up screaming and crying.