Invasion

There is a building, the only building on a barren earth that is covered in long-forgotten yellowed plains and dried up grassy hillsides. The building is a tall rectangle that reaches for the clouds, but finds itself stuck ten stories high. It is simple and made of brick, with several windows on each floor. It is lacking any embellishment on the outside surface, there are simply old red bricks that have gotten more brown with each kiss of the sun. It is a simple rectangle reaching upward, pure right angles that flaunt function over form.

Within, the structure is stuffed with people and furniture. The ecstatic energy inside is frantic and crowded, like a third-world bazaar or market. Each floor is crowded with old wooden hand-crafted furniture from Russia. There are decorative couches with broad armrests made of wood and padded fabric. Embroidered cross-stitched pillows sit on every chair, coughing up floral patterns. Crocheted doilies rest on top of hand-carved armoires and dressers, protecting the delicate, shiny surfaces from plastic flower stuffed vases and old picture frames.

Rugs of many sizes cover the floors; tiny rugs big enough for a pair of feet in front of grand one-person chairs; large monumental weavings that sit below a set of three couches. Rugs of all shapes and earth-toned hues.
Struggling for breathing space among all the furniture are the throngs of people, all of them moving in the same direction. The one set of stairs wrapping the length of the building from the first floor to the tenth is overwrought with a mad panic. Men and women jump over the stagnant pieces of furniture to find a bit of footing on the stairs. Small children are left to fend for themselves as people clamor to the top.

Visible beyond the sparse windows are the series of hillsides on all sides of the building. The sky above is blue, yet a thin layer of white brushes everything in its soft stroke, muting out the sun just slightly. The hills are soft mounds of yellowed grass that continue towards the horizon like a monumental mountain range, continuing on and on past the line of sight. Coming over the crests of the dead grassy hills are men and women on horseback.

Most of the mounted riders are holding long poles with thin triangular ribbons attached to the tops of each pole. The ribbons flutter in the breeze like thunder, stretching a hundred feet behind each mounted rider. The men on horseback are dressed like Mongolians, wearing thick leather pants and jackets that are lined with pale brown fur. Their features are wide and their skin is like burnt copper. Their feet are covered in leather boots that reach their knees and they kick horse bellies with their boot heels, urging them on shouting “haw!” Between the sweaty horse breasts are more women on foot. They climb and conquer the hillsides in bare feet, running towards the building holding their square flags high above them. The cries and hoots of the invaders compete with the fluttering of the ribbons and flags and a chorus fills the valley.

Dragon

There is flutter and fury within the grand stone banquet hall. People in shabby wool clothes anxiously wait, filling the second floor interior balcony- the ledge stretches the entire length of the stone room. On the main floor below, there are peasants holding torches, providing the light and casting dancing shadows upon the massive cold walls. In the center, filling the empty space is a blue dragon. Breathing fire and bearing a cross, he is a mile tall, easily reaching the ceiling, looking at those of us on the balcony at eye level. It is him that is calling the battle, calling the names of people and animals meant to fight- it is a battle for the universe, communicated both subtly and forcefully with his presence and fire.
I am on the balcony, the dragon is before us, he is calm, watching attentively. The carved stone railing that once prevented a fall from such a height has crumbled, nothing stands between us. There is a stainless steel table at the ledge, and upon it, a woman. My hands are gripped tightly around her neck, holding her forcefully to the metal surface. The dragon has made it known she is on the list of the "fighters". The realization comes as a shock, she thought she would be someone’s lover, this, perhaps sparing her from battle. Now, her body rocks and squirms, vibrating with pain while she is injected with powers meant to aid the fight. My hands tighten, gripping as she convulses, becoming bald. Her body soon evaporates, transformed into a flock of five bats, beating their wings furiously, they fly out of the grand room into the reddish black night.

Predators

The houses are solemn, the street is empty and quiet. I strike out towards the beach, my feet thudding rhythmically upon the black asphalt of the avenue until I reach the sidewalk stretching along the camel colored sands. The sky is overcast and I am struck by so much gray, the hazy heavens above, the concrete below and a steely chain link fence bordering the walkway.

At the first post of the fence, where the street meets the sidewalk, I pass a woman with long dark hair and a similarly featured little girl. I look into the woman’s eyes as I pass.

There is a predatorial, reptilian quality to the way they size me up, dilated pupils and green irises fixed on my passage.

As I walk, I realize the little girl has stepped onto the sidewalk and is trailing behind me. She is just a little girl, I tell myself, but I feel fearful, I am being stalked. I walk faster and in return her pace is hastened. I break into a run, part from the walkway to plod through the sand. It slows me down, absorbs the shock of my footfall as the grain shift around my bare toes and heels. The girl pursues me, her mother lingering in the distance, keeping track of the hunt. The dark and white crested surf licks at the shore with a constant murmur, reaching out from a black horizon. I veer towards it, an escape plan working it’s way into muscular action.

Something Lurks

The ground is littered with leaves of brown and gold. Knotted oaks snake upward, their bodies fat and twisted.

One is missing its canopy. It has a gaping black opening in its trunk. This tree, or remnant of a tree, is to the left. It seems to offer both protection in terms of a place to hide and pose hidden threats of it’s own.

The landscape is uneven. There is a creek bed up ahead. I have advanced on this place repeatedly. Sometimes I find the creek full, other times at a trickle or bone dry.

Something lurks out here. It has taken someone I know.

I am almost in the creek when I catch a glimpse of it beyond the opposite bank. It is quick, running up right like a man, a blur of thick orange fur. I have not seen its eyes, but its mouth is black and has teeth for tearing flesh. It disappears amid the distant trees.

I begin to climb the bank and head in its direction.