Aquatic Dreams

“I refuse to go near that water! It's a pool of bloody madness, it is. You're all just so ignorant to something a tad bloody mysterious... Or you don't like the reality I present ya with. Good-day to you all, I've said what can be said."

Most of the people in this humdrum community thought just the same about the rambling, kinky-haired wizard - in fact, they thought him something like that. An old recluse, shacked up in a weathered half-barn-half-house, lived his life without a femenine touch, deeply involved with his wacky experiments and far-out theories. Some of his zany tests were astrological, others biological, some rather unsettling, some even aquatic. His latest "discovery" had even led him to a truth about the water that sat on the outskirts of this town. Nobody listened to the cautions, instead just mocked who they were coming from.

The wizard, whose name is actually Lucias, lives with one companion, a cat. His name is Pushkin.

"Oh, my furry Russian poet, they will truly suffer and I cannot prevent it. It is a curse itself to know the reality of how much agony will come - and then Death will follow. Are you hungry? I've not a lot for ya at all, to be quite honest." Pushkin meowed especially loudly, before stretching and signifying his readiness for food."Little bit of chicken for a chubby little ruski. Oh, Pushkin, little fella," Lucias continued, petting his friend, "there's really not much time. In such a rational world how can one scream out the spiritual and be heard? Damn them all should I? What could be done with my knowledge to save them, hey?" Pushkin continued to relish his chicken.

Lucias had had a dream which he believed was to come true. The community which degraded and avoided him was going to be swallowed and possessed by an ancient force. In his dream, this demon manifested itself through the form of the water of the quarry, for it was not a regular, red figure with horns or a flaming trident, but still far more terrifying, and surrounded by what seemed to be catfish, or crayfish.

In the same town, sharpening a large knife on a wet-stone, was a man by the name of Stuart Dunly. He was an electrician working for a corporate firm - was - until he was fired three-weeks ago for inappropriate behaviour. The room he was curently in was dimly lit, with pictures of what seemed to be family photos, aged, some torn. It wreaked of fish too, so no surprise to also find in this weird room fragments of fish bodies lain around on surfaces, and their decaying skeletons hanging on the walls. Now with his knife freshly sharpened, Stuart reached into a bag and pulled a fish about three-pounds in weight out, nonchalantly plopping it on the table in front of him; the stench gave him a deluded sense of satisfaction and disgust. He plucked at the scales with his blade, peeling them off whilst gazing at the process, they shimmered a warming silver in the eye's of such a cold man.

Lucias lived not so far from the lake. On a whim, or by the ineluctable hands of fate, he took a stroll there to see if anybody was around, to warn them with his gibberish about the water demon. Evening approached, he hadn't seen anyone. This relieved him, when just as he was relishing that relief, he noticed a man fishing.

"Hey, you there, excuse me." He hobbled over to the man with avid legs and a loud mouth for someone trying to catch fish. The fisherman turned and looked, but did not reply.

"Sir,-"

"I'm trying to fish."

"No, but you don't understand. You see I've come across a truth. Yes, I know it's going to sound crazy but just listen to me, please." The fisherman put down his rod and the rambling man again felt relieved, for he assumed the man would prepare to listen. "This lake here, you must stay far far away from it. Do you hear?"

And what came next was a six inch knife rammed psychotically deep into the stomach of the old, cooky man, psychotically deep! The fisherman grunted, himself even relieved, and then became enveloped by the urge to stab him again. The last breaths of the old man faded into that chilly night, whilst Stuart Dunly pierced his flesh over and over, more than seven times; he savoured every one. Who is to say that was his first murder?

Once the wizard was dead, slashed, mutilated, Stuart threw him into the lake and continued to fish. One could say the old man's dream did come true, or a warning was received by him of some sort, but he was simply too far from its true crux, too caught up in his manic realm, looking too externally.

There are many people who interpret their dreams as collective, when as a matter of fact it is a personal insight; the tragedy they see is within them, they just make it impersonal.