//------------------------------// // Chapter 2 // Story: Phobovore // by Flint-Lock //------------------------------// John hopped off the bus, his jaw aching from almost constant yawning. “Hey buddy!” The bus driver yelled. John slowly rotated his head. “Yeah?” “Ya’ really oughta go to bed earlier. You almost slept through your stop.” John grunted; he didn’t have the strength for a response. The bus driver shrugged. “Just sayin‘.” With that the bus drove off, leaving John in a cloud of sooty exhaust. John plodded zombie-like down the rain-soaked sidewalk towards his apartment, cradling a bandaged hand. A massive yawn almost cracked his jaw in half. If only it were that easy… - John hadn’t slept a wink last night. Not for a lack of trying of course; he’d tried every trick in the metaphorical book to get his brain to shut down. First he’d tried thinking relaxing thoughts, but every time he tried, he his thoughts inevitably turned to the nightmare. When that had failed, he’d tried a glass of warm milk, and had spat it out when it turned out to be sour. As a last resort, he’d tried the age-old technique of counting sheep; he’d reached 357 then gave up. Defeated, John had just laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling and counting the hours until dawn. John looked at his bandaged hand. Work at the foundry had been murder. The intense heat had made his sleepiness even worse; during his shift, he’d drained a whole pot of coffee and two energy drinks and that’d only taken the edge off the drowsiness. Near the end , they’d worn off entirely and, in his sleep-fogged state, he’d absent-mindedly touched an ingot which hadn’t completely cooled. John rounded a corner plodded into the dilapidated apartment complex. He walked down the hallway to his apartment. “Hi.” John turned around. It was his neighbor, Maria. “Oh, hi” He mumbled, then yawned. “Been a while.” “Sorry. They’ve been having us work double shifts at the hospital.” Maria said “Just got off this morning actually.” The dark-haired latina noticed his hand. “Are you all right?” She gasped, examining his bandaged hand. “What happened to your hand?” “Nothing’.” John said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “ Nothing. Just a little stupidity on my part. Nothing serious“. “Sure looks serious.” Maria peered in for a better look. “And what‘s with your eyes? You look terrible!” She put her hands on her hips. “C’mon. tell me what‘s going on.” “S’nothing. I’m fine.” “Like hell it is!” Maria shouted. “You look like you haven’t slept in days!” John tried to walk away; she didn’t need to get involved in this. Maria grabbed John’s hand in a vice-like grip. “I’m not letting go until you tell me what’s going on!” John rolled his eyes and told Maria about his nightmares. Maria was a good friend; maybe the only true friend he’d ever had, but sometimes she could be a little…overbearing. More like a second mother than a friend. Maria held up a hand. “Wait right here.” Maria dashed into her apartment. John could hear her digging through a cabinet, muttering something in Spanish. With a groan, John leaned against the wall, waiting for her to find…whatever it was she was looking for. You should really ask her out. The stray thought cleared John’s sleep-fogged mind for a minute. Ask her out? No he couldn’t. They weren’t like that, not at all. He and Maria were just friends, nothing more. You’ve been “just friends” with her for two years. You talk to her practically every day. You smile every time you see her. Face it, you like her. You really like her. John slumped, defeated by his own mind. He couldn’t deny it any longer: what he felt for Maria went way beyond friendship. Maybe it’s time to take it to the next level. Ask her out on a date. John nodded. Yes, that’s exactly what he’d do. The first chance he got, he was going to ask her out on a date. Maria rushed out of her apartment. In her hand was a pack of gel capsules. “Here.” She said, pressing the foil-sealed pack into John’s hand. “They’re left over from a little bout of insomnia I had a while ago. They’re a little old, but they should still work.” John nodded. “Thanks Maria.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d already tried sleep aids. Maria smiled. “Don’t worry about it. You should probably also see a doctor or a psychiatrist while you‘re at it“ John couldn’t’ help but smile back. Screw the common cold; Maria’s smiles were the most contagious thing on Earth. She looked at her watch “ I’ve got some time to kill. There anything you want to talk about?” This is it John. The moment of truth. John silently groaned. That phrase was so overused. “Well, Maria I…” He stopped. “I…I…” “What is it?“ Maria asked. John tried to force the words. He couldn’t do it. It was as if someone had sealed off his throat with a caulk gun. “I…I…just wanted to say, uh, haveaniceday!” With that, John dashed back to his apartment and slammed the door shut. He slapped himself repeatedly. “Dammit!” “Dammit Dammit Dammit!” John sauntered over to his bed, picking his way through piles of dirty laundry and empty soda cans. He sat down; he’d done it again. Fate had handed him a golden opportunity on a silver platter and he’d blown it. Story of his life really. John fluffed his pillow and laid down. Maybe a little nap would help clear his fogged-up head. - Two hours later found John staring into a microwave, watching a bowl of ravioli spin around on a greasy platter. A yawn forced its way out of John’s mouth. He rubbed his eyes; the nap had done diddly-squat for his exhaustion. If anything, he felt worse than before. Beep! John grabbed the little bowl of pasta and carried it over to a cheap card table. He sat down and started slurping the reheated food down. Funny. He thought, licking sauce off his spoon. I’ve got the feeling that there’s something I need to be doing. Something clicked in his head. Oh right. Call a psychiatrist John grabbed his phonebook and turned to the “P“s. He whipped out his cellphone, and started dialing the number of every psychologist in town. It was frustrating, to say the least. Most of the local psychiatrists were either booked solid or were on some long vacation. It was as if the universe was conspiring to keep him from getting help. Finally, after what must have been an hour on the phone he managed to reach one. He’d have to wait about a week for the appointment, but it was better than nothing. A warm blanket of relief settled over John‘s mind. Maybe then he’d get some answers. And some pills. John looked around his tiny apartment. “Now what?” His eyes fell on an old typewriter on a secondhand writing desk. “Might as well finish revising that manuscript.” John muttered. He poured himself some Rockstar and scanned the manuscript like a machine. The story had been years in the making. It had first taken root in high school, when boring classes had clashed with John’s overactive imagination. Back then, it had been a pleasant fantasy, something to kill time until class let out. Now, it was a massive, 500-page epic-his magnum opus. John skimmed through the pages, giving the little manuscript one final look through. He’d revised the thing more times than he‘d cared to count, plugging plot holes, tightening up dialogue, even throwing out whole chapters that he’d thought were unnecessary. There was very little of the manuscript that hadn’t been altered in some way. And now it’s perfect. John beamed like a father seeing his firstborn son graduating. Yes, it was perfect. Perfect dialogue, perfect imagery, perfect characterization, perfect everything. John reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. He started stuffing the bulky manuscript inside. Enough revisions, it was time to submit this mutha’. What if it isn’t perfect? John frowned. No, that was ridiculous. He’d polished this thing ‘till it shone like a mirror. Trying to make it better would be like trying to make the sun brighter. You sure about that? Keep in mind it’s your manuscript. True. He could hardly be an objective editor when the work he was reviewing was his own. What was flawless to him might be utter crap to someone else, and the last thing he wanted was to submit something less than perfect. A terrifying thought bubbled up from John’s subconscious. What if it was crap to begin with? What if the story he’d been working on for years was so mind-bogglingly stupid that the editors wouldn’t give it a second glance? John pulled the manuscript out. He flipped through the pages; trying to make up his mind. Submit it. Don’t submit it. Submit it. Don’t submit it. Submit it… John opened his desk drawer and slipped the manuscript inside. Maybe he should wait a little while to submit it. At least until he could find someone else to review it. John yawned and looked at his clock. Half past 11. He’d been at this for hours and he was exhausted. A spike of fear arced through John’s system. No, he didn’t want to go to sleep. The nightmares would come back; stronger and more vivid than ever. He just wanted to stay awake. Stay awake and the nightmares couldn’t get him. John shook his head. No, he had to get some sleep. Nightmares or no nightmares, he had to get some sleep. With a resigned sigh- one of many he‘d made that day-John plodded over to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then laid down on his bed. He clasped his hands together. Lord, I know we haven’t talked in a while, but could you please please help me get a good night’s sleep? That’s all I ask, Lord, a good night’s sleep. As an afterthought he added Amen… With that, John closed his eyes and let his conscious mind dissolve into oblivion… - The winged unicorn stomps her featureless hooves on a dream-stuff platform. She has scoured the dreamscape for her quarry, sniffing the nightmares of countless species from countless worlds. So far, nothing. The unicorn lets out a frustrated snort. She has to find it before it’s too late; before it infects another world. Suddenly, the ethereal winds shift. The unicorn catches a whiff of her quarry and gags. The stench is unbelievable; to a human, it would be like standing upwind from a landfill during mid-summer. Nevertheless, it is a trace, the strongest she’s ever smelled. The unicorn braces herself and launches her equine body through the dreamscape, following her prey’s trail like a bloodhound. The dream-winds blow a cluster of bubbles into her path. The unicorn flies through them without a second though, shredding the dreams into feathery scraps. Beings from a thousand worlds wake up, their dreams cut short. The stench grows stronger. The unicorns eyes begin to tear up, the stench is so great. Each tear floats off, transforming themselves into blobs of mercury and gold before fading into the ether. Steeling herself, the unicorn follows the scent trail. Finally, she locates the source of the stench: a newly-formed nightmare with an all-too familiar fear-smell. The unicorn’s horn glows. With an expertise few can match, she carves a hole in the nightmare-bubbles’ skin with her horn and squeezes her way through. She will not let it get away. Not again.