Astral
&
the Journey Into Dreams
By: R.R. Arnold
Contents
Chapter One: Last Night I Watched Myself Sleep and I Saw Things... - Aurora View
Chapter Two: Banana Peel - Olivver the Kid
Chapter Three: I Can get Back Up Now - You, Me, And Everyone We Know
Chapter Four: Wild - Spoon
Chapter Five: Take A Picture - Filter
Chapter Six: Transient - Makari
Chapter Seven: A Long December - The Counting Crows
Chapter Eight: Such Great Heights - The Postal Service
Chapter Nine: Halcyon and On and On - Orbital
Chapter Ten: Outbound - The Story So Far
Chapter Eleven: All Your Heart - Transit
Chapter Twelve: The Thin Line Between Hope & Despair - Those Without
Chapter Thirteen: Something Special - A Will Away
Chapter Fourteen: Just Like Heaven - The Cure
Chapter Fifteen: No Cigar - Millencolin
Chapter Sixteen: Born For This - Paramore
Chapter Seventeen: Wrong - Microwave
Chapter Eighteen: Give - You Me At Six
Chapter Nineteen: An Honest Mistake - The Bravery
Chapter Twenty: Anvil - Lorn
Chapter Twenty-One: Work It Out - Microwave
Chapter Twenty Two: Bittersweet Symphony
Chapter One
Last Night I Watched Myself Sleep and I Saw Things...
A HARSH, GRINDING VOICE shattered the silence like a wrecking ball through glass. Wake up, you slumbering idiot! Chop-chop!
Its sneer filled the air. The sooner you’re up, the sooner I’ll be free from this damned place.
Blinking his eyes open, Chase took a beat, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a stubborn blanket. He lay there, each second ticking by as he struggled to piece together where he was, how he got here, what time – or even what day – it was.
Shadows slithering along the walls prickled his skin with goosebumps, while the thick, musty air attempted to choke the life out of him. He caught his breath, his mind racing with a million questions.
The walls wore a tired coat of yellowed, peeling wallpaper, like a faded memory of better days, as time’s relentless march whittled away the décor.
He glanced at the windows, now barricaded with crude planks – was it to keep the world out, or something in?
What’s going on?
he whispered, barely louder than a breath. Hello? Anyone?
his words echoed back at him.
The feeble flames in the fireplace flickered, their timid glow failing to pierce the cold expanse of the room. Above the hearth loomed a portrait, its subject cloaked in a suit so dark, it swallowed what little light dared to linger. Its eyes, hollow pits devoid of life, bore into Chase’s very soul, while its sinister smile hinted at untold stories, too chilling to be spoken aloud.
Sheesh – could you’ve made it any creepier?
Chase grumbled under his breath, attempting to shake off the unease. Yet, amidst the gloom, sat an open door, an escape, a way out of this strange place.
As he rose, a sluggishness clung to his limbs. The oppressive atmosphere seeped into his very bones, urging him to stay rooted in place.
It was then, as he moved to distance himself from the portrait’s grim visage, his gaze fell upon a small table nestled in the corner, seemingly insignificant amid the room’s decay. Upon it lay a framed photograph, the glass dulled by layers of dust. Driven by a sudden impulse, Chase approached.
He hesitated at the table, the edges of the dusty frame rough under his fingers. Gently, he wiped the glass clean, each stroke of his sleeve revealing more of the faces smiling back at him. He lingered on the image of his mother, her smile wide and welcoming in the sunlit scene. His fingertip traced the outline of her face, pausing on her smile. He drew a slow breath, his chest tightening as the laughter from the photograph seemed almost audible in the still, heavy air of the room.
For a fleeting second, his gaze dropped to his own smaller, youthful figure in the corner of the photograph, arms thrown wide as if embracing the whole world. He swallowed hard, the room around him fading into a blur as the sun-drenched beach seemed to rise from the confines of the frame, the sounds of that day – waves, laughter, his mother calling out to him – echoing faintly in his ears.
But a chilling voice cut through his reverie, a cold reminder of his present. Oh, sneaking out, are we? Stay for a while, the party’s just getting started.
His heart skipped. Clear as day, he wasn’t alone. Who the hell’s...
Before he could grasp the reality of it, a startling chime drew his attention to an ancient grandfather clock perched next to the table. Its worn frame, etched with cryptic symbols, seemed to stand as a sentinel over time itself.
Enough was enough. With determination coursing through him, Chase bolted through the doorway into a dark hallway, urgency in every step, breaths ragged. Stumbling over unseen obstacles, the clatter of each collision fueled his frantic escape.
Rounding a corner, he was greeted by a grand staircase bathed in moonlight. Its banister threw gnarled silhouettes that reached for him, as if alive.
Why the hurry? You haven’t seen the main act!
the mocking voice trailed after him.
And what? Watch me get murdered? Nah, I’m good. Ignoring the taunts, he descended the stairs, drawn to the only visible light ahead.
As he ran, the world transformed around him, reality blurring into a carousel of motion, each step rewriting the scene. The confining walls of the mansion dissolved, giving way to an open garden. He came to a stop, his breath catching in awe at the scene before him.
The air was alive with the buzzing of string lights, illuminating the crowd ahead. Hey, you made it!
A woman in a vibrant tie-dye dress and large hoop earrings approached him, her smile as bright as the lights above. Thought you’d miss your mom’s big 50th!
Chase blinked, his eyes straining to adjust from the mansion’s darkness. Do I... know you?
His voice sounded alien in his own ears, lost amidst the chatter that filled the space around him.
She paused mid-sentence, her smile lingering as she studied his face. Her eyes momentarily darted away, catching on a distant thought before returning to him. Oh, we haven’t met,
she finally continued, her voice softer, almost reflective. I’m Linda, a friend of your mom’s from way back.
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a whisper, You have her eyes, you know?
Her gaze held his, probing, measuring his reaction for a beat longer than necessary.
Hold up, did she say Mom’s 50th? There’s no way. That was two years ago. He nodded politely, still disoriented. Thanks. It’s just... I’m not really sure what’s happening right now.
Her expression softened. She always said you’d come around when you’re ready. Guess tonight’s the night, huh?
She gestured to the banquet table under a pavilion where people were gathering. Come on, let’s get you over to the party.
As they walked, Chase observed the crowd. People in 80’s fashion laughed and chatted, their conversations a blend of nostalgia and present-day musings. A group of kids, probably the children of his mother’s friends, played nearby, their laughter infectious yet strangely out of place in the landscape of his confusion.
Tables adorned with shining gifts and golden ‘50’ balloons radiated festivity. And in the celebration’s heart stood a towering cake, each tier more sumptuous than the last. Swirls of rich, velvety chocolate frosting, accented with gold leaf, crowned this confection. Fifty candles flickered atop it, their light dancing in celebration.
Bounding toward him came a man in a well-loved baseball cap, his eyes alight with mischief. Look who finally decided to show up!
he chuckled, ruffling Chase’s hair. Just in time, we’re about to give your mom the serenade of a lifetime.
Is she here?
The words tumbled out of Chase, a thread of hope weaving through them as he scanned the crowd.
The word ‘Mom’ struck him, filling a gap in his heart that had been empty for too long. But it also deepened his sense of loss, reminding him of a warmth that was conspicuously absent. Emotion surged like a tidal wave as he peered over the crowd, his eyes hungry for the sight of her comforting smile. Yet, among the sea of faces, she was nowhere to be found.
Mom? W-where is she?
His voice cracked, hope flickering and fading as the dread of not finding her loomed large. Memories of past birthdays, her laughter ringing clear and true, filled his mind, each one a sharp reminder of her absence.
The crowd began their merry rendition of ‘Happy Birthday,’ but to Chase, it was bitterly ironic. How can they be singing when she’s not even here? His heart sinking further with each note.
He stood still, the world around him continuing to celebrate as if in defiance of his turmoil. Then, a sensation akin to free-falling engulfed him, his stomach twisting into knots. Visions of his mother – her smile, warmth, the lullabies she sang – flashed before him, each a cruel reminder of what he’d lost.
The world around him warped, colors and shapes blending as if caught in a cosmic whirlpool. Linda, who had been watching him with concern, suddenly called out, Chase, don’t flip the switch!
Her voice echoed over the chaos, her words cryptic and urgent.
Before Chase could grasp the meaning of her warning, he found himself standing in a janitorial office.
This can’t be real,
he muttered, a tremor in his voice. His mind raced back to other sleepless nights, other nightmares that left him gasping for air. But this time was different, as if his deepest fears had woven themselves into the fabric of his reality.
Cramped, cluttered, and echoing the humdrum existence of its usual occupants, the room was crammed full of everyday objects. In a corner, two worn brooms leaned together. Against a wall, a pop-up table draped with a frayed cloth, and a bowl loaded with crumpled tortilla chips. Beside the table, a worn-out garbage bin, curiously brimming with warm nacho cheese.
The familiar aroma momentarily whisked him away to family movie nights – a tradition long abandoned since his mom...
Shaking off the memory, he whispered, Focus, Chase.
His stomach growled. Who tosses a goldmine of nacho cheese?
he asked, sifting through the bowl, only to find chip morsels. And who fills a bowl with crumbs?
he shrugged.
Suddenly, a soft whirring broke the quiet. The overhead lights flickered and dimmed, giving way to a dazzling disco ball that appeared as if by magic. It sent a flurry of lights across the room, creating silhouettes that swayed and twirled like ballerina dancers.
Then, an eerie, rhythmic hum filled the air, reverberating from a murky corner of the room. To his astonishment, a throng of mice, some decked out in tiny top hats and suits, others in flowing gowns, emerged from the crevices in the wall. They moved with a ceremonial grace, and each wore a small comical mask.
What the?
He whispered, transfixed on vermin tipping their hats at one another.
His brow creased in curiosity. There, sprawled on the floor, was a tiny banner. Each word on the banner was delicately crafted, reading:
‘Welcome to the Annual Anonymouse Ball’
A chuckle escaped his lips. A masked ball for mice, now I’ve seen it all,
he mused, the absurdity of it all distracting him from his predicament.
But the mice took offence. They squeaked in uproar. They scrambled. They closed in.
W-wait, I come in peace!
he yelped. The only exit was blocked by the perturbed rodents, his hopes lying beyond the wave of scurrying mice.
Cornered, he eyed the table, calculating a leap that might give him the height needed to jump over the mice and reach the door. But as he hoisted himself up, a mysterious symbol caught his attention. A strange, almost secretive, marking in the shape of the letter ‘Z’ protruded from the wall near the ceiling, barely noticeable. The cool metal chilled his fingertips as he traced the symbol.
A ticking, like footsteps, murmured through the room. The ticking crescendoed, accompanied by a voice calling his name.
Chase!
The voice urged, mingling with his own rising panic. As the mice clambered up the table, his heart pounded in his ears. Not like this.
Acting on instinct, he pressed the symbol into the wall. Immediately, the world around him plunged into darkness, seeming to disintegrate into nothingness. Then, as if passing through an invisible barrier, the darkness lifted. Disoriented, he found himself back in his own bedroom, staring down at his own unmoving body on the bed.
Am I... dead?
He whispered, leaning closer to his body. The faint rise and fall of his chest and a trace whisper of breath brought a surge of relief. I’m still breathing. But how’s this? What’s happening?
A muted, pulsating light emanated from his resting body, drawing his attention. He reached out towards it, lost in the mesmerizing show of colors.
The pull was insistent, like a hand trying to drag him back. For a split second, he resisted, torn between the desire to explore this new realm and the primal urge to return to the safety of the known.
As he reached closer, the world around him began to blur, the edges softening. A warm embrace started at his fingertips, gradually encasing him. The sensation was comforting, as if slipping under a cozy blanket after a long day.
Chase, wake up!
A voice boomed, just as the cradling warmth finally reclaimed him, pulling him deep into the familiar confines of his body.
Chapter Two
Banana Peel
CHASE LAY STILL, CAUGHT in that fuzzy space between sleep and waking. His mind, a jumble of dream bits, tried to cling to the fading images. Did I really just leave my body?
he whispered to the stillness of the room.
Reaching out mentally, he tried to piece together the dream’s fragments into something that made sense. Was it a reflection of his unresolved grief, a longing to go back to the way things used to be, or was it merely the random discharge of an overburdened mind on the brink of burnout?
He rolled onto his side, letting out a weary sigh. The dream’s leftovers clung to him, like a heavy blanket from his grandmother’s attic, carrying the scent of bygone days.
That’s when the pounding began – a relentless thud against his bedroom door.
Chase! Time’s ticking. I swear if I have to drag you out of that bed...
His father’s gruff voice pierced the fog, yanking him back to reality.
Jesus, Dad, the roosters haven’t even clocked in yet.
Groaning for effect, he rifled through the pile of mismatched clothes on his laundry chair
and bolted towards the bathroom.
A splash of cold water on his face woke him up fully, hazel eyes staring back from the mirror. His unruly dark brown hair needed a trim, and his willowy frame seemed at odds with his broad shoulders.
His room was a chaotic blend of teen angst. A mix of sweat-soaked athletic gear and stale snack wrappers created a unique aroma. Band posters and a hand-painted mural of his favorite album cover battled for wall space, though lately, music became more like background noise than a passion.
But it wasn’t just music. A collection of hockey trophies, each marking a triumph or defeat, gathered dust on a shelf, replaced by his new obsession: the video game Guardian. Hours vanished as he and his friends, eyes glued to the screen, journeyed through its fantastical realms.
Amidst the disarray, a lone photograph on his nightstand stood out – a snapshot of better days. The Collins family, basking against a backdrop of golden sand and cobalt sea, mocked him with their past joy. There’s his sister Liza, forever frozen in laughter; his brother Jeremy, always acting a fool; his mom Janet, beaming with wide smiles and open-hearted joy; and his dad Brian, the quintessential patriarch.
As Chase roamed through the house, his gaze landed on the hallway wall, adorned with a mishmash of framed memories. Each photo was like a mini time capsule, telling tales from the Collins family saga – from Jeremy’s triumphant grin at his first touchdown to Liza’s proud face on graduation day. Yet, among this timeless collage, there was a glaring gap where new photos should have been. The absence of his mother’s radiant smile in any new frame left an aching silence on the wall, like a cherished song missing its chorus.
Liza Collins, aka the Golden Child
– thanks to her borderline obsessive quest for perfection – was currently broadening her horizons at some Ivy league school out of state. Valedictorian, Student Council president, and a force of ambition to be reckoned with, she carried the weight of her own sky-high expectations like Atlas shouldering the heavens.
Meanwhile, Chase and Jeremy reveled in their academic mediocrity, brandishing their error-riddled test papers like badges of honor as they chanted their cheeky mantra: C’s get degrees!
Their laid-back approach was a breath of fresh air compared to Liza’s rollercoaster of ups and downs – like that time she barricaded herself in her room for a week over a measly ‘B’.
Chase favored the path of least resistance, a lifestyle philosophy he inherited from his late grandpa George, whose sage advice always lingered in the back of his mind: Life’s short, kid. Don’t waste it worrying.
These words, a guiding star in his world, were a distant light in his father’s sky.
Brian Collins, balancing the ledger of life as an accountant at C.D. Securities, or the Crooked Drunks
as he so fondly dubs it, was a man perpetually swimming against a current of deadlines and client demands. This left him with scant time for life beyond his spreadsheets, a reality highlighted in his peculiar, annual tradition: presenting his family with a hand-me-down bonus
to Scallywags, the local diner so unremarkable that even his boss shunned it like an audit notice. This gesture, while small, had become a beloved inside joke with the Collins family, showing their ability to find humor even through the mundaneness of daily life.
Stepping into the kitchen, Chase swung the fridge door open, his gaze sweeping over a culinary graveyard. Tupperware of half-eaten, expired casseroles and Chinese takeout boxes stood like tombstones on the shelves, marking the demise of meals once prepared with hope. With a soft thud, he closed the door, sealing away the remnants of forgotten dreams.
Turning, he met his father’s tired eyes, the man cradling his coffee mug like a lifeline, a faint halo of steam rising around him. The newspaper rustled as he turned a page, a futile attempt to escape into a world less burdened than his own. Beside him, dirty dishes piled high, a ceramic mountain awaiting its newest member.
Time’s unforgiving march had whittled away at his father, leaving him with a hairline in full retreat. But he clung to his remaining dignity, courtesy of a baseball cap – a gift from Chase’s mom on what would end up being their final anniversary.
Chronic lateness, another habit you’ve mastered, I see,
his father remarked, his eyes sidestepping Chase’s, as he snapped the newspaper to the next page – a little too sharply. The deep lines around his eyes spoke of a joy long-held hostage by grief. He sighed, a sound so laden with weariness it seemed to age him further. Chase pretended the sigh was one of annoyance or disappointment, but his own weariness told him otherwise.
The kitchen, once the heart of their home, now echoed with the absence of its soul – Chase’s mom. Her laughter, which used to dance through the air, was replaced by a stifling silence, punctuated only
