//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 // Story: Phobovore // by Flint-Lock //------------------------------// John scrambles through the dark forest, trying his best not to trip. It’s easier said than done. His flashlight only shows a small part of the trail at a time, every inch of which is covered with roots, holes, and vines more deadly than any landmine. He isn’t so much running as he is dancing. It is a dance that is slowly wearing him out. John’s legs burn from fatigue. His mouth is drier than dust. He can’t keep this up much longer. John risks a quick look behind him. The monster is featureless, shrouded by the night, but John can hear the sound of countless snapping mouths coming from its body. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they’re hungry for. John’s feet kick into overdrive. His body overrides all pain signals, all demands for a rest are put on hold. John sees the headlights of a car in the distance. Somehow he know that it’s his. He gains a second wind, his joy overcoming his exhaustion. Just as he’s about to reach the car, John’s foot catches on something, sending him sprawling face-first onto the dusty trail. He flips himself over to see the creature leaping towards him. He screams… - “GAH!” John awoke with a nervous start, his body dripping with sweat. The 24 year-old hugged himself, half-expecting to see the monster staring down at him. It was just a dream, it was just a dream it was just a dream…. he repeated to himself like a monk chanting a mantra. scanned his tiny apartment with the scrutiny of a detective. He drank in the dingy apartment; every crack in the wall, every stain, every piece of cheap furniture was like a powerful medicine, purging the nightmare from his brain. Once John felt at home in the sane world, he slumped back onto his bed. He looked at his ancient clock radio and groaned. It was fifteen minutes past three; about four hours since he went to bed. Last night it had been 3:30 With a zombie-like groan, John peeled off the sweat-soaked bed sheets and picked himself out of his secondhand bed, his joints popping like strings of firecrackers. He dragged his body over to his tiny bathroom and splashed himself with water. As an afterthought, he looked into the mirror; To put it lightly, John was a wreck. His mud-brown hair looked as though something was using it as a nest, and his eyes looked as though he’d been using saltwater for eye drops. His eyelids were underscored by large, almost raccoon-like dark patches, making him look like he‘d just applied eye shadow. The hell is wrong with me? John rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Every night for the past week, he’d been having almost the exact same nightmare: he’d be chased by a monster, he’d trip, the monster would jump, and he’d wake up in a puddle of nervous sweat. No matter what he did, the dreams kept coming. Warm milk, going to bed early, sleep aids: all useless. A toothbrush rested in a glass, its bristles frayed worn by countless brushings. John picked it up, squirted a little toothpaste onto it, and brushed. Now that he thought about it, there was something weird about the dreams. Last night there hadn‘t been a car, or a flashlight. And the night before there hadn’t been a forest, just a featureless black void. It was like a blurry image that was slowly coming into focus. John spat into the sink and sent the spit-toothpaste mixture to oblivion with a twist of the handle. That wasn’t all that was weird. Usually his dreams evaporated the moment he woke up, leaving behind a few vague memories and nothing else. Not these ones. These nightmares stuck to the mind like hardened molasses. John could remember every single bit of them down to the tiniest rock on that trail. A jaw-cracking yawn erupted from John‘s mouth. With a resigned sigh, he plodded back to his bed and laid down. He knew all too well how this was going to work. He’d try to go back to sleep, but he’d be so worked up by the nightmare that his brain would refuse to shut down. Most likely he’d spend the rest of the night studying his ceiling and counting down the hours ’till dawn. Really gotta see a psychiatrist. John thought as he plopped his scrawny frame onto the bed. Yeah, a psychiatrist; one of those Sigmund Freud-types with the couch and the questions about his mother. They’d be able to fix whatever the hell was going on in his head. He was pretty sure his insurance would cover it. John rested his head on his pillow and stared intently at the ceiling, drinking in every crack, every ridge. He turned his head towards the clock radio: 3:48. It was going to be a looong night. - Elsewhere… A blue winged unicorn flies/swims through the dreamscape, searching for her prey. The dreams of a trillion different races from a trillion different universes float around her like soap bubbles. The gauzy, impossible bubbles are in constant flux, bubbling out of the dreamscape, drifting for a while, then popping into scraps of feathery dream-stuff. Winds of ideas and emotions blow around her, pushing the dream-bubbles wherever they please. The alicorn sniffs the dreams- her unique senses, attuned by centuries of experience, detect the scents of countless different dreams: the sweet perfume of pleasant dreams, the heady musk of…erotic dreams, and the charged, fear-sweat smell of nightmares. The alicorn turns her head towards the dreams of her own people, both a thousand lightyears and a single footstep away. Normally she would be tending to those dreams, using her vast experience to soften nightmares, maintain pleasant dreams and make sure the erotic dreams do not get too out of hand. It is her duty. Always has been. Always will be. But not now. With great reluctance, she turns her head away, leaving the dreams to play out without her guidance. Nightmares play through unmitigated, while pleasant dreams and erotic dreams twist themselves into bizarre shapes. She has something far more important to do first. -