All I Have To Do Is Dream
Byline: Gary Llewellyn
Dateline: December 2nd, 2017
Did you ever see that Twilight Zone where these people wake up two hours ahead of their timeline and all these blue dudes are putting together reality and getting things ready for two hours from now? Or maybe the Langoliers, except the opposite, where the chainsaw monsters are building the future instead of eating the past. Actually, thinking of this as a past/future thing is all wrong. How about comic books? You like comic books. Put these things together and you have The Dreamtime. The Dreamtime is what a bunch of white people decided the call the aboriginal Australian concept of the ‘everywhen’, a place outside of time where ancestors who sounded like superheroes assembled reality itself. To even have conjugated the verb ‘assemble’ in the past tense is already cocking up the idea. There is no past or present, there is everywhen. Where everything that is known or will be known is thrown together at once. A westerner is going have a hard time with the concept of everywhen. Our language demands verbs conform to time frames like past, present, and future. Certain aboriginal groups in Australia and perhaps elsewhere don’t screw around with past and future. Some don’t even have words for yesterday and tomorrow. Language affects the way you think and process the world around you.
To truly understand Dreamtime, I’m going to have to poke my head in it for a bit. To do that I’m going to inhale copious amounts of combusted DMT. Usually, what happens when you smoke DMT, is you take a drag or two and then drift off onto the factory floor of the self-replicating machine elves. You’re physically incapacitated, so those one or two drags are all you’re going to be able to get off. To get around this I’ve modified a hyperbaric chamber to constantly pump in DMT smoke. I’m not sure how I wound up with a hyperbaric chamber, I just woke up inside it after blacking out for three days. Stephanie thinks the idea is idiotic and refuses to help. She has a point, but I think idiotic is where we’re at, right now. Since Steph has checked out on this idea, I recruited three of her kobolds to assist me in this procedure. It wasn’t difficult to convince them. I think they would like to see me dead or, at least, incapacitated.
“But, Gary,” I hear you say, “What the fuck?” Everywhen seems like a decent vantage point from which to view the comings and goings of the old lich, don’t you think? Raven spy networks are cool and all, but precognition is better. So, in I go. I’ll be back next week with a full report on what I’ve found. I may even post it from the future. Until then, Gary out. As in really out.
Keep Me In Your Heart For Awhile
Byline: Stephanie Morgan
Dateline: December 2nd, 2017
Dear SEG-ers, this may be last time you hear from me. The hotel is surrounded by a zombie horde. This pretty much kills the theory that Grampy Morgan ran away because he still loves his granddaughter and wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. Thanks, Gramps. It sort of even reinforces the theory that he saw me as some kind of threat. The zombie horde is completely ignoring anything else in town and beelining straight for my hotel. My kobolds and I assisted the staff and other patrons in barricading the windows and doors and I’m keeping Nathan posted in the lobby in case of a breach. Hope is dim as the barricades look like they’re starting to give and we’re all out of mattresses. Even a tarrasque would be overwhelmed by the undead multitude that currently bombards our bulwark. I can’t risk Nathan becoming an undead tarrasque. I watch Game of Thrones, I know how that stuff plays out. If you think a bunch of rotten corpses are making quick work of our defenses, a tarrasque on the side of Alwyn Morgan would be endgame.
As for Gary, he disappeared. I don’t mean he wandered off in a drug haze, he literally disappeared. One minute he’s inside his stupid hyperbaric bong, the next he’s just gone. The last I saw of him he had his face pressed against the plexiglass yelling, ‘I’m in! I’m in!’, then – poof. Up in smoke. In his dreamland, I assume. Well, I hope he’s dreaming about this. I told him it was a stupid idea.
The ghouls have almost breached the barricades. I’ve told the kobolds to stand down and Nathan to hide. I can’t lose any more to the other side. After all, it’s me they want and if it spares the life of the others, they can have me. This is my tomb, not theirs. When the zombies finally make it through I want my face to be the only one they see. The only sounds I can hear are those of praying and sobbing, and the growling of beasts outside. One has gotten a hand through and is dismantling the makeshift buttresses. The bulwark has collapsed. I’m scared. This has been Stephanie Morgan reporting for the last time. If you hear from me again, I will be a literal page five ghoul. Merry Christmas, SEG-ers. At least, I hope there is one.