Repressed Dreams - Writers Forum

giser · 06-19-2008, 03:51 PM

Repressed Dreams

He sat in the silence the room full of people, all sleeping. The first silent moment this room had experienced in days was quickly ended by the distant sound of the A.C. cutting on. The abrupt tap and subsequent humming snapped him back to his nearly perfect reality. He glanced up ward from the cramped ocean of unconscious people. The group of sleeping visitors was only parted by the occasional pile of beer cans or homemade smoking device. The television was turned low to preserve the artificial tranquility of the room. The flickering plastic box was displaying the only channel it could as he reached into a pile of remotes within arms reach and used one to alleviate his fear of silence. The recorded voice came into the room gradually. The previously empty room began to stir with slight movement and groaning in response to the sound of a wiry man at a podium. The room went still again as the politician began to speak of our countries current violent engagement against illicit drugs. A smile gradually arose across his semi-conscious face as the irony of the situation bubbled to the surface. The politician stood in front of projected pictures of mass amounts of confiscated drugs. The pictures became evidence to further illustrate that the war on drugs was working and the nation would soon be free of this “scourge”. Sitting on the circa 1970’s couch, he questioned the validity of the speech while looking down at the table in front of him. The large glass table top was nearly obscured from sight by a large pile of the scourge of this nation. The pile of quarter sized buds seemed to radiate a green hue through the barely lit room. This image only brought to mind the sound of a dehydrator slowly humming in the next room. The final step of dehydrating and preserving the fungal result of his latest horticultural endeavors was nearly completed. He leaned his head back on the wall behind the sofa and closed his eyes as he contemplated the financial gain which would soon be yielded by the seemingly useless knowledge stuffed in his constantly THC clouded mind. He smiled once more as his eyes closed, reality drifted away, and the room went silent again.
He opened his eyes on the worn mattress in his unusually clutter free room. He sat up and attempted to piece together the now fragmented night, trying to place his actions from the sofa to his hard lumpy mattress. His current unclouded thoughts were interrupted by regret for the portion of the night which was now resulting in a less than pleasant physical state. He thought of staying in bed as he slowly arose and noted the difference in his clothing from the night before. Memories slowly locked together as he traveled down the short hallway past the other rooms of the house. The trip ended in a messy room, only clear of clutter where people had laid hours ago. The true emptiness of the room became apparent and resulted in a notable psychological discomfort for him. He rested in the lowest seat of the drooping couch and stared blankly at the silent, glowing television. The screen continued to flicker as his thoughts became occupied by the plans for the new day, which was more than half over.
A daily routine of procrastination was stopped when he noticed a note left by the previous nights visitors. The note thanked him for his hospitality during the previous night and was accompanied by homemade recording of the band’s newest songs and list of tour dates. He read over the date and time for last night’s show as a once motionless mass of blankets suddenly moved to reveal Sam. Sam had lived in the house for nearly a year and was currently occupied by his efforts to remember the later part of last nights party, as was the norm for all of us at this time of day. Clarity slowly formed behind Sam’s eyes as he focused on the situation as sputtered out the phrase “You hung over?”. He nodded in response as he shifted from his spot on the couch and reached into the pile encompassing the glass table top. Sam untangled his body from the twisted blankets and stood up. Quietly, a fuzzy green bud was picked from the pile and admired before being torn apart and rolled tightly in a piece of thin paper. Sam settled on the couch with an abrupt thud in time to see his friend strike a match and light the frayed paper end. He brought the paper to his mouth and inhaled as deeply as his lungs would allow. He closed his eyes and allowed the feeling wash through his thoughts. He opened his eyes and felt what would be the end of his fleeting sobriety. Handing the ember to his now semi-lucid roommate, he glanced down and blew out the match which was just now starting to scald his hand. As he discarded the burnt match he lifted the ash tray and looked at the frame and glass pain concealing a slip of paper noting his completion of a college education. He placed the stolen ashtray back in its place and realized the insignificant contribution that paper has had on his life. Sam motioned that the rotation had made back to whom had started it. “Most people hang those up” Sam remarked once he realized the focus of attention. He ignored Sam’s comment as he closed his eyes once more and allowed the feeling to wash over him, stronger this time. He counted the years since that brown wooden frame had been moved or acknowledged. He opened his eyes and allowed them to focus on the posters filled wall and simply said “I’m hungry”. As they both contemplated what would be involved in remedying this problem one of them reached into the gap between the cushions and pulled out a black plastic remote, pressed a button and filled the room with music. He quietly listened to the fast chaotic music wondered silently if this band had experienced the very actions that unfolded the previous night and every night prior for several days. After turning his head quickly he looked into Sam’s squinty red eyes and asked what had happened to Manuel in the disorganization of the night. Sam gave an apathetic shrug which offered no explanation but seemed to suffice for the time being.
With little regard to the unknown whereabouts of their other roommate they sat quietly and enjoyed the bag pipes and guitar of the music. A distant hint of a phone ringing presented a break in both of their dazed mood. The sudden noise prompted the beginning of the mundane task of sorting through the mass of clutter occupying the majority of their living space. The work was nearly half finished when the nearly silent hum of the dehydrator seemed to request immediate and full attention. He calmly left his work at hand and walked around the corner to the kitchen. Carefully opening the plastic lid he removed his newly preserved crop from the hot plastic box that had housed them for several hours. He grabbed a handful of tough wood-like fungus and admired the unique beauty that is only seen in the result of very hard work. The shriveled mass of fruiting bodies was admired for a few moments more before being torn apart with a vague resemblance to the similar experience only moments ago. He divided the pile of pulverized fungus into two equal parts and called Sam’s name. Without pause or a second thought Sam quickly entered the kitchen. Needing no explanation they both concealed their excitement as they picked up and ingested one pile each.
For the next hour their minds expanded and deepened to eventually encompass new dimensions not comprehendible by anyone with trace amounts of sobriety. The idea of self was abandoned and life itself became simplified within the complex texture of a painted wall. There was no pain or anger only pure existence.
Once this timeless period passed their functional consciousness began to make itself apparent again. With his body still partially tingling his eyes focused on a group of people standing in front of him. He blinked several times clearing previous hallucinations out of his eyes trying to decide of these people were actually in the room. He turned from the group of silent people to Sam who remarked “My skin is made of water”. This served as a reminder that Sam would offer no help with the current situation. His eyes took a moment more to focus before forcing out the words “Can I help you?” .
The man who seemed to be the leader of the group stood for a moment before forcing his attention away from the table cluttered with various mind altering substances and then said “We’re Auditory Fellatio, We’re playing at James’s bar, he said we could sleep here tonight, the door was open.”
The band was met with a blank stare that made his face look as if it were made of wax. He stared at the band in his living room. His mind skipped for a moment before sputtering out the one word “James?”.
That same guy squinted at him, still struggling to force his attention from the drugs in the room and answered “The owner of the bar down the road”.
He sank further into the sofa as he stared at the band and reminded himself he had known James for fifteen years. But could only reply “Why was the door open?”.
Another band member stepped forward from the mass of black t-shirts and denim and forcefully said “We don’t know but it may have something to do with the guy asleep on the porch”.
He stood, walked through the group, who parted in front of him. He stepped out the door that had been open in front of him all day and retrieved his unconscious friend. Manuel’s feet were at the door with his head hanging off the bottom step and resting on the concrete ground.
He reentered the house from the lukewarm twilight of the city. He paused a moment to ensure Manuel’s chest was still rising and falling in regular rhythm. With his friend’s well being confirmed he began the process of planning the night ahead.

phurst · 06-25-2008, 03:32 PM

He sat in the silence the room full of people, all sleeping. A room full of dead people is silent. A room full of sleeping people would come complete with snoring restlessness, coughing, etc. Plus the TV is on.
The previously empty room began to stir Is it full of people or not?
I got bored with the story. I started confused then when nothing happened and didn't seem to go anywhere, I quit. You need to build some kind of tension or action or make the words pretty, something to encourage the reader to continue.