My First Post: Party in the Warehouse

Since I don't remember last night's dreams--an ill omen, perhaps, as I decided yesterday to start a dream blog?--I'll post here an oldie. Be warned. My dreams are no less nonsensical than anyone else's.


And a note: all names are, of course, changed to protect the innocent. And the guilty. And the really, really odd.


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I walked in a field on a warm, late-summer evening, leaving a party that was winding down. More people sat than danced, but the band still played.


On the far edge of the field stood a small, hangar-like warehouse. Its wide entryway was open. When I reached it, I stopped to look inside. It was dim, filled with stacks of wood crates. The walls were corrugated metal; the frame, a bare metal skeleton.


Standing to one side in the entrance was a man. Older. In uniform. An official—a general or a politician. Maybe both. He was also an important member of an African tribe. Five of his men stood here and there in the building, watching, waiting. I greeted the general politely, then turned to leave. But as I crossed the threshold I nearly collided with two or three more men, walking to the general, carrying something between them. I stepped back and began to apologize—and saw what they were carrying. It was a dead body. Brutalized and bloody.


The general nodded to his men, and they continued into the warehouse, trudging off into the dark. The general turned to me and told me to cover my eyes. Though I'd already seen the body, I did as he asked. After a moment, I said, “I didn’t see anything. Trust me. I can keep a secret. It's one of my virtues." I opened my eyes.


The general smiled in a kind, sad way (though he was neither) and said, "No. You must die. You have seen my complicity in murder. There is no other way."


"No!" I said. "Can't you please just let me go? I promise I won't tell a soul. There's nothing to tell! I saw nothing." He just shook his head, glanced at his men, and left, walking slowly into the night.


His henchmen started discussing how they should kill me and what they should do with the two bodies, arguing and shouting and gesticulating with machetes. Their edges gleamed and shone even in the dim warehouse light.


As they kept talking I began slowly edging away. They noticed and grabbed me, and for a time they held me and discussed whether they could cut off one hand and threaten to take the other if I told anyone about the body...but then one of them said no, they had to follow the general's orders. I had to die.


Then the band from the party started a new song—and it was the tribe’s theme. As if compelled, every one of the henchmen commenced their tribal dance, and while their attention was thus diverted, I slipped out under a loose section of wall.


the end.