Dreamlog: 2015, June 16

It has been a while since I’ve written down one of my weird dreams again. Not because I stopped having them, because that is something that will probably never happen. But like with everything, I tend to have a problem with focussing on things for a longer span than 2 weeks. Thank you ADD.

But enough excuses. Here’s a dream I had quite recently. I’ve dreamt this particular dream in parts. Whenever I’d go back to sleep the next evening, the dream would simply continue where it had ended the evening before… So I will try to write it down in that pattern. Here goes.


Giant Roasting Feast, part 1

I wake up, because the smell of fire was filling the air and find myself lying in my post-apocalyptic house. The one I’ve been dreaming of before and have written about before. It appears to be early in the afternoon. I stare at the ceiling for a moment, counting the cracks and dark spots. But the smell of fire still lingers and so I get up to find out where the smell is coming from.

Instinctively, I follow my nose and open the window. Outside, I see a crowd gathering at the square, surrounding a pile of stacked wood. There’s a man standing next to the pile of wood, speaking to the people. From my window I can see his mouth moving, but am unable to hear what he says.

I go downstairs, grab a coat from the coat rack and leave my house to join the people gathered at the square. There, I see my elderly Arabic neighbor, the one I’ve dreamed about before as well. He is listening to the man who is speaking to the crowd as well. I walk up to the elderly man and ask him softly what was going on. My neighbor isn’t too sure, but he had received a flyer about a special feast, called: “The Giant Roasting”.

Good food was hard to come by, in my post-apocalyptic dream. Some people, like my Arabic neighbor, managed to grow weeds and other small plants in their yard. Which was a miracle on its own. But meat was scarce. Most of the animals that had survived whatever it is that turned the world into a post-apocalyptic state, resembling the scenery straight out of a Fallout game, were either sick or deformed.

In the flyer that my neighbor had clutched in his hands and in the speech given by this strange man who was speaking to the crowd while standing next to a pile of stacked wood, all promised one thing: To save us all from starvation. For this man had found and captured a herd of surprisingly healthy looking wild deer. The stranger announces that he would roast these deer during the “Giant Roasting Feast”. The crowd cheered when they heard all these wonderful promises, presented by the stranger.

“And who are you?” I blurted out.

There was utter silence. The eyes of the crowd are all on me now. My Arabic neighbor nods in agreement at me. Others begin to talk amongst to the person next to them, asking the same question.

“Who I am? I am simply a man who wants to feed the hungry.” the stranger replies.

“And what do you want in return?” my Arabic neighbor shouts with a thick Arabic accent.

“Yeah!” the crowd shouts in agreement of those words.

The stranger beings to smile, with a weird look upon his face. It made my stomach turn and I had a really bad feeling about it.

“Can’t a man share his food, without the assumption of wanting something in return?” he asked.

The crowd began to talk amongst one another again, considering his words. Then the stranger raised his arms to hush the crowd, and reassured everyone that there were no strings attached. He asked for 10 strong volunteers to prepare the feast with. A group of men and women stepped forward. He thanked the group of volunteers and asked the crowd to cheer them on. The crowd did so. He then spoke once again, promising that this “Giant Roasting Feast” would take place in a week.  Accompanied with his new acquired minions and loud cheers from the crowd, the strange man marched into a house on the other side of the square.

My Arabic neighbor invited me over for tea. I was sitting on a typical Arabic couch in the living room of his humble post apocalyptic house. His son was sitting quietly in the corner, playing with a handmade ball. The elderly Arabic man was in the kitchen preparing tea. Moments later he returns with a tray with a teapot, teacups and even a bowl with black berries.

The man puts the tray on the coffee table, pours tea in the teacups and hands one of the cups to me. He then calls his son over to sit with us. The young man grunts softly, looks at me and then at his father and slowly stumbles his way to the coffee table sits down on the floor. The elderly Arabic man hands the young man his teacup. Then, the man sits down on the couch opposite of me and takes the last teacup in his hand.

“Drink! Drink!” he says with a cheerful voice.

His son slurps exuberantly and loudly from his teacup.  The young man yelps out in pain. In his exitement, he had burnt his mouth because the tea is obviously hot. His father looks at him and shakes his head. Then I finally get to hear his name. The elderly arabic man introduced himself as Mashhadi. He also tells me the name of his son, which is Pahlavan. When I asked him about his wife, Mashhadi told me that sadly she had died in a tragic accident. He wouldn’t tell me more about her, unfortunately.

After a long silence, Mashhadi then compliments me for speaking my mind on the square earlier. He expressed his worries about the motives of this strange seemingly good Samaritan. Mashhadi also said that one of the neighbors from further down the block had disappeared and he somehow had the feeling that the strange man had something to do with this.

I could only agree with Mashhadi that something wasn’t right. A shudder went down my spine. A real shudder, that I could actually feel. My stomach was turning and I felt nauseous. An almost suffocating angst crept upon me.

And then I woke up.


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Thank you for lurking

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