Dystopian Dreams

So after drifting off to sleep after watching Sleepy Hollow, I had rather interesting yet disturbing dream(s). My dubious memory can only remember bits and pieces of isolated situations which my conscious self is struggling to string together.

1.) Waiting for the train: I was somewhere in my birth city of Durban in South Africa, waiting on a platform for a train to catch to…somewhere. Contrary to the usual trains of today, the rails below the platform were exceptionally wide, spaced at least 2 metres apart and made from what seemed to be a sort of polished concrete. After waiting for a few minutes on a mostly deserted platform (some inner thought told me the train fares were extortionate, hence none of working classes made use of them), a Megalithic train arrived, capable of carry several hundred passengers in a single carriage. I stepped into the carriage, feeling the cool air of the climate controlled carriage against by face. Ironically, the carriage designed to carry hundreds of people was empty bar a handful of suits making the journey home after a sweltering summers day and a lone individual clad in Motor cycle leathers who was having a conversation with another suit about how his motorbike broke down in the centre of Smith Street. The only sign that gives away the train was in motion again was the gentle momentum that pushed me into the back of my seat. The journey sadly then blurs into unconsciousness.

2.) The Dying: Standing alone in a backstreet, an adult daughter kneels over her mother’s corpse, her mental awareness desperately challenging reality, not accepting the transgression of her mother’s death into the realm of night. Standing over her, a militiaman with a rifle in one hand attempts to put some sense her in her head, but I can’t here his words, I can only see his uncaring gestures towards the daughter forcing her to give into reality. But most disturbing of all was the mothers corpse, clad in black as though dressed for her own funeral, laying against paving stones which had not seen the a ray of sunshine in more than 50 years, cracks filled with putrid looking black fungus. Her midriff faded into nothing, becoming one with the stones and the road. Still, the most fetid feature of the dead mother was her skeletal face, flaking green and white skin, drawn tightly across malformed skull and from lips, nose and eyes streamed a constant haze of grey white fungal spores.

Cthulhu: The Obsidian Pyramid

I'm currently in the process of compiling a Call of Cthulhu module set in the 1920s era. Below is my initial plothook for players.

Nearing the end of the 2nd hour of Henry’s evaluation of the “project’s” budget for the impending 12 months, James, with the mischievousness of a schoolboy and agility of an inebriated pensioner, crept from his chair and skulked towards the drinks cabinet in search of the 12 year old Bourbon that Henry promised earlier. He picked up the okra bottle with the gentleness of a midwife handling a mother’s newborn child, examining the label and the contents before picking up a tumbler and gleefully skulking back to the table in anticipation of the conclusion of Henry’s speech.
“Taking into consideration our first expected find will be between the 3 and 6 month mark of this new venture, the project will become self-funding and the Loan notes sold to our bankers can be redeemed with income generated from those artefacts recovered and sold to the British Museum.”
The numbers of Henry’s handouts blended into a blur of meaningless numbers which could’ve been composed by the ramblings of a circus mystic.
“If the Rothschild chose to invest, we’ll be able to accelerate the venture, and quite possibly see profits as early as the end of the 2nd month!”
James, a weary looking Oxford graduate, turned his cowing face from the fiscal papers in front of him to stare intently at the speaker.
“Henry?”
The New Yorker lifted his head from his speech notes, his thoughts derailed by the interruption.
“James, Do you have a question regarding the Rothschild’s investment?”
“No Henry, it’s just….I’m an Egyptologists. I didn’t spend 7 years at Oxford and travel the Atlantic to dilly dally with financial matters. Can we open the Bourbon and discuss the curiosities the excavator have unearthed thus far! I’m through listen to your sagas about profits and disposable assets for today”
Henrys closed his eyes momentarily, removing his glasses, as he stifled his anguish at dealing with those he though such financially incompetent individuals.
“James. If we fail to cover our expenditure, we will find ourselves heavily indebted, unable to put wine in the cellar, and food in the pantry! We need to monitor these matters closely. We can’t all be carefree and narrow minded archaeologists only looking for their next piece of pretty coloured pottery to dabble over! The likelihood of venturing onto a dig site again in your position now is minimal. Our roles are to manage the expedition from the University!”
The other members of team gazed casually at the New Yorker and the Egyptologist bickering, unwilling to get involved for fear of creating a rift in the between the members. A simple argument between two members can be easily remedied, but an argument between all members could cause the disestablishment of the expedition and the months of arduous toil would be put to waste.
The sharp ringing of the doorbell silences the bickering members. With a puzzled look upon his brow, Howard casually removes his fob watch from his jacket pocket, flicking it open in effortless action he had performed a thousand times before.
“Tis past 5, Do you have a prior engagement that you have neglected Henry?”
“Not too my knowledge, unless my diaries tell me lies”
Walking towards the door, the doorbell rings again, silencing the ticking clock.
“I’m coming! I’m coming! You insolent visitor!”
Henry pulled the latch aside and heaves the heavy oaken door open, to reveal the gloom of a typical rainy day during Manhattan’s December. Stood in the doorway is a Western Union courier boy, no older than 17 years of age, cowering under the lip of the doorway in a fruitless attempt to keep the rain off his shoulders.
“Begging ma pardon Sir. But tis an urgent telegram….from the Miskatonic University. I had a strict instructions to hand this err um telegram to you this evenin…..sir!”
Henry looked up and down the boy examining his scruffy attire before accepting the telegram. He quickly ripped the seal off the envelope before turning the card over to examine the message. His eyes dashed backwards and forwards, reading and re-reading the message. His onlookers watched an expression of excitement and confusion emerge across Henry’s face.
“Well Henry, don’t keep us all in suspense, what does it say?”
He looked from the looked, his jaw hanging slack in bewilderment.
“We have to leave for Cairo immediately, noon tomorrow!”

Looped Playback: Side A

Well there we have it. I’ve decided to abandon all other Web 2.0 services for a good, old fashion and honest blog....not that I expect anyone to actually take any interest in the meaningless rantings that will no doubt ensue in the coming months but it’s more productive than spamming your “friends” with invites to the latest time wasting application that a 12 year old in brazil has coded using only Open source applications.

Anyway...I’ve actually had a fairly productive day for a Monday! I managed to shift a fairly large process issue from my plate to Financial operations and asked for a “swift” resolution. Either way, it was an issue that had been bugging me all weekend and now it is someone else’s. After having my personal email account spammed to death from illegitimate pharmaceutical companies pedalling their below par prescription drugs amongst other items I’d care not to mention, I setup a Gmail account and download Mozilla Thunderbird. For freeware, I’m exceptionally impressed, it’s not outlook but it more that serves its mere purpose for brief conversational banter and registration emails I need it for. With sufficient plugins, it could almost rival Outlook (bar the VBA scripting of course). And then of course I got around to setting this here “blog” (I hate that world. I think amateur autobiography is a more suitable phrase).