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It was very dark. He walked slowly, very unsure of where to go. He could hear a clock ticking, but could not quite make out where it was. The sound of the old rusty artifact pounded against his ear drums, his footsteps adding to its rythm. There was light far away. He started running towards it. It grew bigger by the second.



Suddenly, there was a great flash. Two slick, stick like figures flew in front of him. He could make out the letter L in front of him. Before he even had time to stop and try to understand this apparition, something grabbed his ankle and threw him to the ground. He stumbled, rolled over and lay in wait. He stared in shear horror at what had tripped him: in front of him was a bloody, disembodied hand, a few fingers still flickering.

"No..." he backed awayslowly, feeling terribly ill, "this can't be possible!"



He climbed back up to his feet, walked backwards a few paces before another bright flash stunned him. This time, a snake hissed in front of his face, circled his neck a few times before slithering into the shape of an S and making way to a huge, black, cold object. A putrid smell emanated from the dark lump. He looked up. Staring down at him were two, giant, yellow eyes. He stared right back at them. From the glow of the eyes, he could see the outline of pieces of flesh hanging from what look like a broken jaw.



He screamed, grabbed his pocket knife from his pocket and threw it violently at the corpse. It immediatly vanished in a cloud of smoke. Without thinking, he dashed for the light which onec more shone in front of him, far away.



He slipped. Once again, an extremely bright light filled his mind. This time, there were no snakes, no sticks. Only the letter D hovering in front of him. Trying to make sense of those letters, he noticed a pungent smell of purulent putrefaction. He looked around, wondering where this petrifying odour could come from. He felt his way to a wall, crawling over a cold, slippery texture. As the light started shining again, he discovered with pure horror abhorrence that what was surrounding him and littering the walls was a trumendous amount of exposed surpurged organs.



He got up as quick as he could, ran towards the light, ran as fast as hi tired legs would carry him, ran straight towards what he prayed was the end of his nightmare.



There was an enormous "clash", cold and fresh air rushing into his face, pieces of broken glass slicing into his arms as he flew out the window of the 27th floor, leaving behind him the hypodermic needle he should have left in the dealers pocket.

The following stories (if I ever feel like writing them) are all based on my dreams and nightmares. Some of them were written when I was a kid, which may explain the lack of expression. I purposely will not correct the ones from my childhood for I want to keep o record of my writing "skills" over the years.