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Brian was back in his dining room, staring through the window like a deranged recluse, tears streaming down his face like a relentless river of grief. Behind him, both his cup of tea and his bowl of soup lie splattered all over the dining room floor. Both cup and bowl smashed to pieces. Brian didn’t notice either the smashed crockery, or the spilled refreshments, he was too busy reciting things to himself inside his head.
“It was only a dream. Just a dream. It isn’t real. None of it is real. It’s all inside my head. It’s just my subconscious trying to sort itself out because I’ve been given some bad news. It’ll go away in time.” He recited it again and again, but it just wouldn’t sink home. The mages of his wife were too vivid, too real. But of course they would be real. They’d been sleeping together for years, if anyone should be able to build a mental image of making love to Jane, it should be him.
Just a dream, just a dream. It’s not real.
He was beyond confused. He had no way of knowing if he was still in a dream now. They were coming on with alarming regularity. Sat in front of the TV, lying in the bath, eating a bowl of soup. There seemed to be no escape. He was going crazy. He dragged himself away from the window, and forced himself to start picking up the shattered remnants of his soup bowl and mug. He scrubbed away at the soup for a while, before remembering that Jane had bought some new foam stuff which was excellent for getting stains out. He got the spray can out of the kitchen and applied it to the offending patch of soup-stained carpet.
While he waited for the foam to soak into the carpet, he came to a decision that he would not tell Jane about his supposed condition until he could get his own head sorted out around the subject. His hands shook visibly as he took the papers given him by Dogra and hid them in a drawer on his bedside table, he was completely on edge. After a while, he went back to the patch of soaken carpet and scrubbed away the remainders of the soup. The carpet would be wet for a few hours, but there was no trace that anything had been spilled there.
He made himself another cup of tea, taking a few Max strength cold/flu pills while he waited for the kettle to boil, and then went through to the lounge and sat on his leather chair. As he began to flick through the channels, he remembered that he should really call up work, but he really didn’t know what to say to them, either. Knowing that bunch of jokers, they’d just think he was winding them up, and insist he went into work regardless of his “deadly cancer”. He would have to go into work on Monday, and show them the paperwork himself, assuming it still existed.
He eventually resigned to watching some mediocre rubbish on one of the film channels. Man kills wife, son witnesses murder, son runs away, man chases son etc etc etc. Hardly inspiring, but that was probably the point behind the vast majority of television these days. Inspiration might make someone get up and do something, instead of sitting in front of the TV set for endless hours at a time. No, that’s not what they wanted. They wanted people to watch crap, call up for their phone in polls, bid-up for things that no-one in their right mind would ever actually need, gossip about fictitious soap characters because you’ve spent so much time sat gormless in your chair too zombified by grievously dire unintellectual folly to think coherently of your own accord. The thought was too much, and Brian flicked the standby button on the remote.
The TV set flicked off, probably the most dramatic thing he had seen the screen do since he had turned it on. He was about to get out of his chair when the set flicked back on again, displaying a screen full of static. He grabbed the remote again and hit the standby button, but it had no effect. The static began to take shape, and before long, Brian could make out what looked like a residential road. Fairly modern houses on either side of a road devoid of any markings. A few parked cars littered the roadside sporadically, and each house had itself a fair sized front lawn, the houses on the left being slightly uphill towards the actual building.
The picture then changed to view one of the houses from the front, one of the nicer homes from the look of it. A well kept lawn, with symmetrically planted flowers making pleasant patterns around the garden. As the view panned forward, the number 35 clearly marked the door in large brass numerals. The door opened, and the view moved inside, the interior of the hallway looking all too familiar. Brian recognised the carpet on the stairs, the wallpaper and even some of the pictures hung up there as the view moved swiftly up to the landing. Before long, he was in the bedroom. The same pine bed. The same flawlessly white sheets. Then there was a man stood in front of the bed. He was at least as tall as Brian, and probably had two or three inches on him height-wise. He was also a little better built than Brian was, thick muscles knotting his arms and washboard abs gracing his naked stomach belly. He wore a pair of lightweight looking cream coloured pants which were held up with a drawstring. From the look of it, his legs were at least as muscular as his arms. He had a fashionable looking goatee on his chin, and his hair was thick and wavy in a sort of Mediterranean waiter style. The man looked to have a decent all over body tan.
Then Jane was there and the two of them started it all over again. The view panned quickly out of the room, back down the stairs and out of the house. It then zipped along the road toward the end, and Brian just caught a glimpse of the streetsign “Hastings Drive” before the TV screen died and went back into standby mode.
“It was only a dream. Just a dream. It isn’t real. None of it is real. It’s all inside my head. It’s just my subconscious trying to sort itself out because I’ve been given some bad news. It’ll go away in time.” He recited it again and again, but it just wouldn’t sink home. The mages of his wife were too vivid, too real. But of course they would be real. They’d been sleeping together for years, if anyone should be able to build a mental image of making love to Jane, it should be him.
Just a dream, just a dream. It’s not real.
He was beyond confused. He had no way of knowing if he was still in a dream now. They were coming on with alarming regularity. Sat in front of the TV, lying in the bath, eating a bowl of soup. There seemed to be no escape. He was going crazy. He dragged himself away from the window, and forced himself to start picking up the shattered remnants of his soup bowl and mug. He scrubbed away at the soup for a while, before remembering that Jane had bought some new foam stuff which was excellent for getting stains out. He got the spray can out of the kitchen and applied it to the offending patch of soup-stained carpet.
While he waited for the foam to soak into the carpet, he came to a decision that he would not tell Jane about his supposed condition until he could get his own head sorted out around the subject. His hands shook visibly as he took the papers given him by Dogra and hid them in a drawer on his bedside table, he was completely on edge. After a while, he went back to the patch of soaken carpet and scrubbed away the remainders of the soup. The carpet would be wet for a few hours, but there was no trace that anything had been spilled there.
He made himself another cup of tea, taking a few Max strength cold/flu pills while he waited for the kettle to boil, and then went through to the lounge and sat on his leather chair. As he began to flick through the channels, he remembered that he should really call up work, but he really didn’t know what to say to them, either. Knowing that bunch of jokers, they’d just think he was winding them up, and insist he went into work regardless of his “deadly cancer”. He would have to go into work on Monday, and show them the paperwork himself, assuming it still existed.
He eventually resigned to watching some mediocre rubbish on one of the film channels. Man kills wife, son witnesses murder, son runs away, man chases son etc etc etc. Hardly inspiring, but that was probably the point behind the vast majority of television these days. Inspiration might make someone get up and do something, instead of sitting in front of the TV set for endless hours at a time. No, that’s not what they wanted. They wanted people to watch crap, call up for their phone in polls, bid-up for things that no-one in their right mind would ever actually need, gossip about fictitious soap characters because you’ve spent so much time sat gormless in your chair too zombified by grievously dire unintellectual folly to think coherently of your own accord. The thought was too much, and Brian flicked the standby button on the remote.
The TV set flicked off, probably the most dramatic thing he had seen the screen do since he had turned it on. He was about to get out of his chair when the set flicked back on again, displaying a screen full of static. He grabbed the remote again and hit the standby button, but it had no effect. The static began to take shape, and before long, Brian could make out what looked like a residential road. Fairly modern houses on either side of a road devoid of any markings. A few parked cars littered the roadside sporadically, and each house had itself a fair sized front lawn, the houses on the left being slightly uphill towards the actual building.
The picture then changed to view one of the houses from the front, one of the nicer homes from the look of it. A well kept lawn, with symmetrically planted flowers making pleasant patterns around the garden. As the view panned forward, the number 35 clearly marked the door in large brass numerals. The door opened, and the view moved inside, the interior of the hallway looking all too familiar. Brian recognised the carpet on the stairs, the wallpaper and even some of the pictures hung up there as the view moved swiftly up to the landing. Before long, he was in the bedroom. The same pine bed. The same flawlessly white sheets. Then there was a man stood in front of the bed. He was at least as tall as Brian, and probably had two or three inches on him height-wise. He was also a little better built than Brian was, thick muscles knotting his arms and washboard abs gracing his naked stomach belly. He wore a pair of lightweight looking cream coloured pants which were held up with a drawstring. From the look of it, his legs were at least as muscular as his arms. He had a fashionable looking goatee on his chin, and his hair was thick and wavy in a sort of Mediterranean waiter style. The man looked to have a decent all over body tan.
Then Jane was there and the two of them started it all over again. The view panned quickly out of the room, back down the stairs and out of the house. It then zipped along the road toward the end, and Brian just caught a glimpse of the streetsign “Hastings Drive” before the TV screen died and went back into standby mode.
.....
Brilliant.
Excellent vocabularly, very extensive detail.
Very good indeed, I thoroughly enjoyed reading it
Brilliant.
Excellent vocabularly, very extensive detail.
Very good indeed, I thoroughly enjoyed reading it
Brian was back in his dining room, staring through the window like a deranged recluse, tears streaming down his face like a relentless river of grief. Behind him, both his cup of tea and his bowl of soup lie splattered all over the dining room floor. Both cup and bowl smashed to pieces. Brian didn’t notice either the smashed crockery, or the spilled refreshments, he was too busy reciting things to himself inside his head.
“It was only a dream. Just a dream. It isn’t real. None of it is real. It’s all inside my head. It’s just my subconscious trying to sort itself out because I’ve been given some bad news. It’ll go away in time.” He recited it again and again, but it just wouldn’t sink home. The mages of his wife were too vivid, too real. But of course they would be real. They’d been sleeping together for years, if anyone should be able to build a mental image of making love to Jane, it should be him.
Just a dream, just a dream. It’s not real.
He was beyond confused. He had no way of knowing if he was still in a dream now. They were coming on with alarming regularity. Sat in front of the TV, lying in the bath, eating a bowl of soup. There seemed to be no escape. He was going crazy. He dragged himself away from the window, and forced himself to start picking up the shattered remnants of his soup bowl and mug. He scrubbed away at the soup for a while, before remembering that Jane had bought some new foam stuff which was excellent for getting stains out. He got the spray can out of the kitchen and applied it to the offending patch of soup-stained carpet.
While he waited for the foam to soak into the carpet, he came to a decision that he would not tell Jane about his supposed condition until he could get his own head sorted out around the subject. His hands shook visibly as he took the papers given him by Dogra and hid them in a drawer on his bedside table, he was completely on edge. After a while, he went back to the patch of soaken carpet and scrubbed away the remainders of the soup. The carpet would be wet for a few hours, but there was no trace that anything had been spilled there.
He made himself another cup of tea, taking a few Max strength cold/flu pills while he waited for the kettle to boil, and then went through to the lounge and sat on his leather chair. As he began to flick through the channels, he remembered that he should really call up work, but he really didn’t know what to say to them, either. Knowing that bunch of jokers, they’d just think he was winding them up, and insist he went into work regardless of his “deadly cancer”. He would have to go into work on Monday, and show them the paperwork himself, assuming it still existed.
He eventually resigned to watching some mediocre rubbish on one of the film channels. Man kills wife, son witnesses murder, son runs away, man chases son etc etc etc. Hardly inspiring, but that was probably the point behind the vast majority of television these days. Inspiration might make someone get up and do something, instead of sitting in front of the TV set for endless hours at a time. No, that’s not what they wanted. They wanted people to watch crap, call up for their phone in polls, bid-up for things that no-one in their right mind would ever actually need, gossip about fictitious soap characters because you’ve spent so much time sat gormless in your chair too zombified by grievously dire unintellectual folly to think coherently of your own accord. The thought was too much, and Brian flicked the standby button on the remote.
The TV set flicked off, probably the most dramatic thing he had seen the screen do since he had turned it on. He was about to get out of his chair when the set flicked back on again, displaying a screen full of static. He grabbed the remote again and hit the standby button, but it had no effect. The static began to take shape, and before long, Brian could make out what looked like a residential road. Fairly modern houses on either side of a road devoid of any markings. A few parked cars littered the roadside sporadically, and each house had itself a fair sized front lawn, the houses on the left being slightly uphill towards the actual building.
The picture then changed to view one of the houses from the front, one of the nicer homes from the look of it. A well kept lawn, with symmetrically planted flowers making pleasant patterns around the garden. As the view panned forward, the number 35 clearly marked the door in large brass numerals. The door opened, and the view moved inside, the interior of the hallway looking all too familiar. Brian recognised the carpet on the stairs, the wallpaper and even some of the pictures hung up there as the view moved swiftly up to the landing. Before long, he was in the bedroom. The same pine bed. The same flawlessly white sheets. Then there was a man stood in front of the bed. He was at least as tall as Brian, and probably had two or three inches on him height-wise. He was also a little better built than Brian was, thick muscles knotting his arms and washboard abs gracing his naked stomach belly. He wore a pair of lightweight looking cream coloured pants which were held up with a drawstring. From the look of it, his legs were at least as muscular as his arms. He had a fashionable looking goatee on his chin, and his hair was thick and wavy in a sort of Mediterranean waiter style. The man looked to have a decent all over body tan.
Then Jane was there and the two of them started it all over again. The view panned quickly out of the room, back down the stairs and out of the house. It then zipped along the road toward the end, and Brian just caught a glimpse of the streetsign “Hastings Drive” before the TV screen died and went back into standby mode.
“It was only a dream. Just a dream. It isn’t real. None of it is real. It’s all inside my head. It’s just my subconscious trying to sort itself out because I’ve been given some bad news. It’ll go away in time.” He recited it again and again, but it just wouldn’t sink home. The mages of his wife were too vivid, too real. But of course they would be real. They’d been sleeping together for years, if anyone should be able to build a mental image of making love to Jane, it should be him.
Just a dream, just a dream. It’s not real.
He was beyond confused. He had no way of knowing if he was still in a dream now. They were coming on with alarming regularity. Sat in front of the TV, lying in the bath, eating a bowl of soup. There seemed to be no escape. He was going crazy. He dragged himself away from the window, and forced himself to start picking up the shattered remnants of his soup bowl and mug. He scrubbed away at the soup for a while, before remembering that Jane had bought some new foam stuff which was excellent for getting stains out. He got the spray can out of the kitchen and applied it to the offending patch of soup-stained carpet.
While he waited for the foam to soak into the carpet, he came to a decision that he would not tell Jane about his supposed condition until he could get his own head sorted out around the subject. His hands shook visibly as he took the papers given him by Dogra and hid them in a drawer on his bedside table, he was completely on edge. After a while, he went back to the patch of soaken carpet and scrubbed away the remainders of the soup. The carpet would be wet for a few hours, but there was no trace that anything had been spilled there.
He made himself another cup of tea, taking a few Max strength cold/flu pills while he waited for the kettle to boil, and then went through to the lounge and sat on his leather chair. As he began to flick through the channels, he remembered that he should really call up work, but he really didn’t know what to say to them, either. Knowing that bunch of jokers, they’d just think he was winding them up, and insist he went into work regardless of his “deadly cancer”. He would have to go into work on Monday, and show them the paperwork himself, assuming it still existed.
He eventually resigned to watching some mediocre rubbish on one of the film channels. Man kills wife, son witnesses murder, son runs away, man chases son etc etc etc. Hardly inspiring, but that was probably the point behind the vast majority of television these days. Inspiration might make someone get up and do something, instead of sitting in front of the TV set for endless hours at a time. No, that’s not what they wanted. They wanted people to watch crap, call up for their phone in polls, bid-up for things that no-one in their right mind would ever actually need, gossip about fictitious soap characters because you’ve spent so much time sat gormless in your chair too zombified by grievously dire unintellectual folly to think coherently of your own accord. The thought was too much, and Brian flicked the standby button on the remote.
The TV set flicked off, probably the most dramatic thing he had seen the screen do since he had turned it on. He was about to get out of his chair when the set flicked back on again, displaying a screen full of static. He grabbed the remote again and hit the standby button, but it had no effect. The static began to take shape, and before long, Brian could make out what looked like a residential road. Fairly modern houses on either side of a road devoid of any markings. A few parked cars littered the roadside sporadically, and each house had itself a fair sized front lawn, the houses on the left being slightly uphill towards the actual building.
The picture then changed to view one of the houses from the front, one of the nicer homes from the look of it. A well kept lawn, with symmetrically planted flowers making pleasant patterns around the garden. As the view panned forward, the number 35 clearly marked the door in large brass numerals. The door opened, and the view moved inside, the interior of the hallway looking all too familiar. Brian recognised the carpet on the stairs, the wallpaper and even some of the pictures hung up there as the view moved swiftly up to the landing. Before long, he was in the bedroom. The same pine bed. The same flawlessly white sheets. Then there was a man stood in front of the bed. He was at least as tall as Brian, and probably had two or three inches on him height-wise. He was also a little better built than Brian was, thick muscles knotting his arms and washboard abs gracing his naked stomach belly. He wore a pair of lightweight looking cream coloured pants which were held up with a drawstring. From the look of it, his legs were at least as muscular as his arms. He had a fashionable looking goatee on his chin, and his hair was thick and wavy in a sort of Mediterranean waiter style. The man looked to have a decent all over body tan.
Then Jane was there and the two of them started it all over again. The view panned quickly out of the room, back down the stairs and out of the house. It then zipped along the road toward the end, and Brian just caught a glimpse of the streetsign “Hastings Drive” before the TV screen died and went back into standby mode.