This is the preface to my story, as the premise is borrowed from a relatively famous online book called Machine Of Death, in which the premise for each short story is explained as below:

The machine had been invented a few years ago: a machine that could tell, from just a sample of your blood, how you were going to die. It didn’t give you the date and it didn’t give you specifics. It just spat out a sliver of paper upon which were printed, in careful block letters, the words DROWNED or CANCER or OLD AGE or CHOKED ON A HANDFUL OF POPCORN. It let people know how they were going to die.
The problem with the machine is that nobody really knew how it worked, which wouldn’t actually have been that much of a problem if the machine worked as well as we wished it would. But the machine was frustratingly vague in its predictions: dark, and seemingly delighting in the ambiguities of language. OLD AGE, it had already turned out, could mean either dying of natural causes, or shot by a bedridden man in a botched home invasion. The machine captured that old-world sense of irony in death — you can know how it’s going to happen, but you’ll still be surprised when it does.
~~~~~
Spontaneous Human Combustion.

He kept the slip of paper in his wallet. He'd kept it there for the last 7 years, ever since he first went to the The Machine. He'd done it on a dare, after a rousing series of bets at a bar between friends. They'd all been taking wagers on the ways they'd all end up dying. Strange things can happen when you start a conversation off with the pretense of death, and between the accusatory jokes and ruminations of deaths thrown around, eventually a real debate started up. From a simple statement made by his friend Phil, who in earnest claimed that talk was cheap, and if they all really wanted to make their bets and in turn, their lives count, they'd find out.

"Let's just do it then, Alex." 

Everyone knew what Phil meant when he said it back then. They'd been more or less ignoring the thought, despite it being on everyone's minds. The Machine's existence pretty much brought death to the forefront of every late night drunken bar conversation there was. But Phil was the first one to stop postulating the whys and could be's, and stood up saying he knew where the closest Machine was, and that furthermore, they could get to it in a few short hours. Alex thought back about how dumb that idea was back then. How he wished he had simply rebuffed Phil and told him to fuck off, or just stayed there and ordered another pint of lager. Instead, he held the slip of paper in his hand, looking at it, and remembered.
Phil's slip said two words: BLOOD LOSS.

Phil laughed it off back then, saying that it was stupid. He had bet he'd get cancer, or some kind of car accident. Phil was the kind of guy who'd always lived life to its fullest by any measurable standard, but never seemed to revel in it. For him life was simply a means for exploration. He'd pursue many avenues in life that others wouldn't either out of cowardice or apathy. More than that, he was a humanitarian, but also a force to be reckoned with when you got some alcohol in him. Phil was a man who'd look death in the face and spit at it.

Until two months later when he was found in his bathtub with both wrists slit. His note left was long, and detailed. He hadn't killed himself out of any sense of sadness or depression, but after using The Machine he saw his life up after that point entirely and wholly fated. Never being a man to leave things up to chance, he decided to willfully and purposely take his own life, in the very way The Machine said he would die. His note commented on the chicken/egg nature of his death and the nature of causality in itself. It was long, dense, and nigh impenetrable to read. Ultimately he'd decided to make the final jump into life's experiences, and finally see the great beyond, which for him was the last true thing to explore. Death, for Phil, was yet another adventure.

That night he'd also been at the bar with Dave. Dave being a man of voracious appetites and little to no self control, of course agreed to Phil's proposition. He was the kind of person who'd do what he felt, say what he'd think, and never, ever sincerely apologized for it. He was consistently burdened by the dual nature of his severe hostility, and amicable endearment to everyone around him. It wasn't really a surprise to Phil or Alex when he shoved them out of the way and jammed his finger into The Machine first. He had pretended to have a seizure, and started screaming.
"THIS FUCKING MACHINE IS KILLING ME, IT'S ALL A RUSE, IT DOESN'T TELL YOU HOW YOU DIE, IT JUST KILLS YOU! IT JUST KILLLLSSS YOUUUUUUU!!!!!"
At first, Alex thought Dave was joking. Then his own personal sense of doubt reverberated back and forth between his competing lackadaisical nature and genuine sense of worry for his friend. He let out a nervous laugh, followed by a genuine laugh, as he started thinking about how absurd it was to be laughing at his best friend's own death. After a few moments though, Dave yanked his finger out, flipped everyone the bird, and threw back another long swig of vodka. His slip of paper popped out, and its contents made everyone laugh. 

It said: ALCOHOL POISONING.

And boy did they all laugh. It was so wonderfully ironic it immediately took away from the mystique of The Machine. All of them knew how heavily Dave drank, and for him to die of alcohol poisoning would be like a snake handler dying from a snake bite. One of those entirely expected, but still somehow stupid and avoidable deaths that come with living a stupid profession. Drinking was half of Dave's job anyway, being a relatively famous published writer. He was the reason they had all been out celebrating to begin with, as he'd just been published in The New Yorker, for an article about how stupid and meaningless it was to be published in The New Yorker. Irony surrounded Dave's life. Irony and scorned, broken women. Women he'd often use, or be used by. It was an unspoken agreement between him and Them, and one he often contemplated the benefits of in between bouts of reckless, careless sex and self debauchery. His friends often told him he'd die alone and sad, with only vodka as his main lover. Little did they really know, this was already very obvious to Dave, who'd long married the alcohol in his mind. Made it his true love. For Dave, seeing those two words on that scrap of paper just confirmed yet another platitude in his life, that it would always be vodka. Vodka forever.

It was the most unfortunate and deeply saddening revelation, the day they all found out Dave had died. One of the women who'd been on the bad end of a particularly nasty bender Dave had gone on, was just too broken and maddened by callous, unloving men that she decided to take action. She made Dave a cocktail, diluted 9/10ths with a mixture of strychnine and arsenic. She'd been a chemist's assistant, and procured the poisons one night after calling Dave, begging him to stop ignoring her phone calls. In a stupor, he answered, belched at her, called her a stupidly tattooed cunt-whore from Babylon, and hung up. In two days he'd had no recollection, and thusly didn't expect any sort of animosity from her when she invited him over for a casual, late night tryst. His last words as he died were; 

"OH I GET IT! ALCOHOL POISONING! REAL FUNNY YOU WHORE!"

Dave's funeral was widely attended, because despite being an objectively terrible person, he still somehow, impossibly was very loved by many. The woman who killed him was sent to a life sentence in prison, and everyone mourned the loss of a dark poet too weird for the world to begin with.

The last person at the bar that night, was Marion.
Marion refused to use The Machine. She was too afraid, and instead opted to lose the bet by forfeit. For her, knowing something that unknowable on such a concrete term was too much for her to bear. Her life already was full of so many ups and downs, twists and turns, and adding death to it could only make it more complicated in every fashion. She'd often spent her life narrowing down all the details about herself, processing them internally. Yet with Alex, Dave and Phil she felt the most comfortable. They were all some bizarre mixture of the perfect friend for her, when she needed either of them. She knew they knew, but only wrote it down for them. Her whole life was writing anyway. It's what connected all four of them, and for her to have that one last thing written down, would be making it all too real for her. Death wasn't what she wanted in her life, because too many had already been lost to her. She'd ached from it for far too long, she didn't need to start mourning herself too. So she opted out. Alex and Dave prompted her over and over, egging her on to do it, if only to sate their curiosity. But Marion held resolute, and never succumbed to their drunken temptations to use The Machine. Phil simply smirked at her, and she told them all to go fuck themselves.
"I'll die on my own terms, and I'll have it be a surprise, fuck you very much."

Marion died in a car accident. It was sudden, and surprising, and came as a shock to all who knew her. Only Alex and Dave, who'd both repeatedly antagonized her for her ethnicity, blamed her death on her race. Both decrying her death by lamenting, crying shouts of "FUCKING ASIAN DRIVERS!", in between large gulps of alcohol. They knew it was what she would have wanted anyway. Their friendship was a strange one, difficult to explain to anyone outside of their group.

After all of that, what was left was Alex. Still holding his slip of paper in his wallet. Two whole years since Dave was killed, and seven since their encounter with The Machine. He would have never thought he would be the last, not in a million years. He'd never been a particularly healthy person, but his result from The Machine seemed just absurd.
It said: SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION.

It was a death so silly, so improbable, that it made all of them laugh that night when Alex received it as his slip. It was what made them write it all off as nonsense, and gladly turn over their money to Phil, who collected it and bought them all another round of drinks at a different bar. They all got obliterated, then headed back to their homes, each taking in the events of that night.

Alex was the last, and by any and all reasons, he couldn't understand how he was supposed to just suddenly burst into flames. A life expecting a heart attack, or diabetes, or cancer, as per the genetic likelihood of his family history, was what he had fully been expecting. Yet with each death he grew more wary of the nature of his slip. It's concrete importance to his life, and the deep, resolute meaning it held. He'd had it in his wallet from that night, and only remembered he'd first had it when Phil had taken his life. He kept it there on purpose from then on, and as the tragedies piled up, all detailing in exact precision to The Machine's predictions, he found himself continually dominated by thoughts of fear, and fire. 
After two years of his soul and mind being consumed by the fire he'd found himself outside of himself. Quite literally in fact. He'd been staring at the slip of paper, for so long he'd lost himself into it. Alex was watching himself watch the slip, and realized exactly what was happening. He'd only read about it before, back when he read about supernatural things on a daily basis. As a child he'd head to the library and read every single book on witches, demons, aliens, phenomena and the like. One book talked about astral projection, and how it was a state of consciousness where you leave your corporeal body. This is where he was now, looking down on himself. He saw himself clutching the slip in one hand, and a gun with the other. He watched himself load the pistol with a single round of ammunition. He watched himself place it to his temple. He watched himself pull the trigger. He watched the slip of paper fall to the ground, meeting the carpet and the blood.

He felt himself getting hotter. A smoldering feeling inside, as if ashes and soot were rising up from inside his non-corporeal form. He could feel the burning inside rise up and up, reaching his throat. He went to scream but couldn't, as he had no mouth. His eyes stung as the smoke reached up and into his sockets, and despite having no throat he still choked and felt the flames lick his feet. 

He looked down again, and saw Phil. Then he saw Dave. Behind them Marion stood. They were burning too. But they were smiling.

Mr. Rutherford sat inside his study, pouring over the major details of his most recent archeological find. It had been an arduous and long trek through the Lower West end of New Patriarchia, where upon Mr. Rutherford and his man-servant Constance found the fabled, and long thought mythical Temple of Oa Nroatihe, Father Of The Far Ones. Nearly 10 years work in the making. Long enough for Prohibition to pass by, making stateside celebration of his find possible to include alcohol, as so many of his upper classmen peers preferred to imbibe at all of his celebrations. Last night's was no different from all the rest, as he found it necessary to hide the true nature of his most recent discovery, for fear of theft or plagiarism. Instead he concocted an elaborate ruse, wherein he pretended to have discovered a living Manticore. The truth was that the temple he had found itself seemed no more peculiar than any other temple Mr. Rutherford had come across. Save for a few ancient inscriptions warning about entry, threatening the release of some dark force this, and the end of all humanity that, it seemed fairly normal. It was typical old world mysticism, and at worst just another thing to send Constance to copy down for later study.

But all of that plundering and exploring had been worth it, for Mr. Rutherford had finally found his crown jewel amongst the litany of finds in his long and illustrious career. This find was more important than all of them, even the Lost Severed Head of J'oneloke, or the Temporal Diary of Benjamin Faraday. But this would be the one find not only to bring him fame and fortune, but to seal his legacy and fate unto the very face of existence itself! Immortalized forever as the man who singlehandedly changed history with the mere flick of a page! This was the Nroatihan Tome. The source of Oa Nroatihe's power for reaching into this realm. Mr. Rutherford pensively licked his lips, and reached to open the book's cover. For a moment he fondled the tightly bound leather cover, made from human skin no doubt. He opened it to the first page, prepared Nroatihan codexes at his side, ready to begin translation of the books contents, but was surprised that the first page was blank. Perplexed but not discouraged he put down his notepad, magnifying glass and pen, and turned the page once more. Again, another blank page. He turned another page, and another in turn, all blank. After turning the page as carefully as possible, 39 times he was astonished to realize he was still only at the first page of the book.

"Curious" Mr. Rutherford said aloud, turning the cover back.

Indeed it was most certainly human skin bound to the cover, with white trim around the edges, looking to be made from carved bone. On closer inspection it was apparent it was human teeth, at least 3 mouths full. A grisly detail, but one not unfamiliar to Mr. Rutherford. Perhaps he was straining his mind, or perhaps it was the lingering stench of alcohol probing his mind from his celebration the night's passed, but he found himself pondering his objectivity. Being of sound scientific mind he called over his man-servant, to examine the book for him.

Constance walked over, bowed and asked Mr. Rutherford what was needed of him. Mr. Rutherford beckoned Constance to open the book, and turn to the first page. Constance was hesitant, but obeyed regardless. Upon opening the book, he was able to turn the pages, but encountered the same issue Mr. Rutherford did with never being bale to actually "turn" past the first page, which was blank.

"You don't notice anything… peculiar? Constance?" Mr. Rutherford said, inquisitively.

"No." Said Constance.

"You're not bothered by the pages being blank? Or the first page being the only page one can turn to, or through?"

"No." Said Constance.

"No to what, the pages being blank? Or your inability to turn past the first page?"

"No." Said Constance.

"Dammit you fool! You're trying my patience! I know your gimp nigger mind is feeble, but surely it's not that feeble! Explain yourself now!" Shouted Mr. Rutherford.

"NO." Said Constance, whose eyes rolled back into his head, bulged and then exploded into a blast of bloody ocular gore.

Constance's eyeball blood spattered on the book, which dropped to the floor along with Constance's body, which was now leaking a thick pink sludge out of it's ears.

Mr. Rutherford was shocked, but mostly furious. Constance had been his best man-servant yet, and his death by supernatural means was most frustrating, especially considering his apparent comprehension of the book, on whatever level those of an inferior race could understand literature. Undaunted, Mr. Rutherford picked up the copy of the Nroatihan tome, and laid it back down on his desk, opening the cover once more. It was with great joy he discovered, that the eye blood that had spattered onto the pages of the book, had revealed text hidden on the pages. At first Mr. Rutherford speculated it was some kind of iron based invisible ink, but that was disproven by his attempts to reveal more text with a solution of alcohol and iron filings. Being of the inquisitive mind, and never lacking the gall to explore what needed exploring, Mr. Rutherford took the initiative, and smeared more of Constance's blood onto the first page, until it was entirely covered in his crimson cypher. Mr. Rutherford then began to read the text in on the page to the best of his ability;

O N E O U N C E O F C O R I A N D E R

O N E Q U A R T E R T E A S P O O N O F T U R M E R I C

T W O T A B L E S P O O N S O F B U T T E R

F O U R C L O V E S O F G A R L I C

were the contents in entirety of the first page. Mr. Rutherford sat, utterly confounded. Had all of this work, dedication, now literal blood, sweat and tears been for naught? What had this supposedly dark tome been holding all this time? Mr. Rutherford grew enraged that this first page seemed to hold no true dark secrets, no ancient enochian revelations, nor some dark eldritch horrors of which to summon! After draining Constance's body of most of his blood, Mr. Rutherford went on a tear, madly spreading it on all the pages, finding one could only turn to the next page after fully covering it with blood, thusly revealing it's contents. Each page was formatted similarly in size and shape in regards to the text. Series of letters that translated directly to four lines of english, revealing themselves, impossibly, as a recipe for some sort of Indian dish. Mr. Rutherford hated Indian food, as his travels there, whereupon sampling their cuisine always left him in a more than uncomfortable digestive situation. However after reading through the entire book's contents, he couldn't help but let nagging thoughts linger. Thought's that rang into the back of his mind, particularly after he read the 111th page, which read:

O N E P O U N D O F C O N S T A N C E F L E S H F R E S H L Y H A R V E S T E D

C U T I N T O B I T E  S I Z E P I E C E S

He ruminated for a moment on if he had made a translation error, as they surely couldn't be referring to Constance, his man servant. A typographical error he had made perhaps? His speculation ended abruptly however, when he turned to the next page:

Y E S C O N S T A N C E Y O U R M A N - S E R V A N T

Y O U K N E W W H A T T H I S W A S

D O N T P L A Y D U M B W I T H U S

Feeling more than bit perturbed, his mind kept drifting back to those same thoughts. After finally translating the rest of the book into a word for word list and recipe, Mr. Rutherford went to his war room and retrieved his sharpest axe. His many classes on field dressing fresh kills from hunting came in handy, and he found Constance's body far easier to butcher and handle than he had anticipated. Upon quartering it, skinning it, removing the internal organs and sectioning off the bigger parts of meat, he placed it into his walk in ice-box. Being mindful of his Chef, he placed a note that the icebox was not to be disturbed, as a lingering deadly mold had taken to the wood and was soon going to be replaced. Happy with himself and feeling quite clever, he took his pieces of Constance to his Chef and ordered him to craft the dish for him posthaste. An hour or so later, his Chef came back, with a dish that very closely resembled many of the fine meals that had sought revenge on him previously.

While his conscious, logical mind reminded him that this was the poor body of Constance, and eating it would be an unforgivable sin, his beastial, impulsive mind gave in to the pure lust of temptation. He placed a spoon into the dish, and brought it to his lips, quivering with anticipation. It's taste was sweet, spicy, and creamy as one. Furthermore Constance's flesh had proven quite excellently rendered by his Chef, as no doubt his muscles had grown tough and stringy from a life's worth of manual labor.

"So whaddya call dat den?" His Chef spoke, in his ignorant New Yorker twang.

"Silence Chef, or I'll have you fired and your reputation run down for consorting with negroes in my walk in pantry. Leave now, or I'll think of something even worse, you understand?" Mr. Rutherford yelled.

The Chef left quickly, and Mr. Rutherford finished his dish, leaving the bowl in the kitchen for one of his chambermaids to clean up. While his meal was satisfying, he still had the residual disappointment of the Nroatihan tome turning out to be nothing more than some sort of dark cook book. Feeling full, albeit defeated, he retired to his bedroom, feeling the need to overcome his primal urge to feed, with his primal urge to procreate. His stomach rumbled, but he quieted it with a large swallow of brandy, and called for his concubine.

She entered the room wearing a flowing silk gown, nearly see through, hinting at her perfectly shaped body underneath. She sat down next to him, and began to stroke his burgeoning stubble, reminding him he needed to shave. He had no patience for this contemptuous foreplay, and abruptly interrupted her stroking by grabbing her arms and throwing her to his bed. He ripped open her gown, revealing her breasts, and began mashing them with his hands violently. She began to moan softly, as he pulled out his member and thrust into her fervently, seeking no reason to waste time with the dalliance of thought about pleasuring her in any form. Back and forth he thrusted, harder and harder, feeling himself ram up against her cervix, sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure through her body. Her moans grew louder and louder with each thrusting, as if he were trying to bore himself through her. Her eyes were rolling back in her head, and she seemed to be babbling in tongues. Mr. Rutherford had considered himself a connoisseur of the lusty ways, but never had She reacted in this fashion before.

It was then that he noticed his stomach began to rumble more, and a deep pain was brewing inside of him. By that time, he felt the dualing urges between his logical mind, and his instinctual mind once again. He knew he was feeling terrible, and should stop, but his desire to bring himself to conclusion was too great, and it seemed impossible for him to pull himself out of her to begin with. Each stroke into her sent bolts of pain up through his member, aching deep into his gut, and he felt the ache grow deeper and longer through his body. It started in his stomach and slowly went outwards, radiating through his penis, and slowly reaching all of his extremities as well. He began to feel panicked, as his heart was beating at a pace he was not familiar with ever before. She was gripping her legs from behind, spreading them on her own accord now, so as to accept him deeper into her womb. It was with horror then that Mr. Rutherford took a moment to look down at his manhood, watching it pump into her.

He saw his penis was bulging, swollen and purple beyond any measures he had ever seen in any of his worst medical textbooks. He noticed too that each stroke he made into Her was gaining in length, yet still never exposing the head of his penis. Her moans turned into screams, as she flailed wildly.

"Mr… Ruther…ford.. You… You're… Hurting… Me… " She said in gasps between pockets of pain and ecstasy.

"I CAN'T!" Mr. Rutherford screamed, as he watched his penis split open, revealing black scales underneath the flesh.

Mr. Rutherford's last screams were particularly loud, as the rest of his flesh split open as well, peeling line a banana to reveal the ancient horror underneath. Terrified, She tried to pull herself away from this hideous beast now buried inside of her. Her attempt was unsuccessful, and She gave into The Horror, as his stygian black seed emptied into her womb. It stung her from the inside, the way bee sting irritated the skin, and afterward She knelt at The Horror's feet.

"It's been a long time, Oa Nroatihe." She said.

"Too long, my queen." The Horror bellowed, his voice reeking of impossible and nightmares.

"This flesh is strong. It fought the urge to accept you." She said.

"Yes. It will prove worthy in being the host for your rebirth."

"Indeed." She said.

"Plus, that guy Rutherford was an asshole anyway." Said The Horror, who flicked his evil black cock with a swipe of his clawed hand, spattering some black, unearthly semen onto Mr. Rutherford's decapitated head.

The Bears attacked again this morning. Me and Sanders have spent the last 3 days without any real form of sleep. We take turns taking naps in between feverish fits of jerking each other off. It's the only way to stave off The Bear Plague, and the adrenaline and endorphins keep us alert. We've managed to hold them off with ample suppressive fire, but we're running low on munitions quickly, and at this rate we'll be defenseless in 2 days. Sanders has been working on making a prototype grenade to load into the mortars. Hopefully it'll thin out their numbers, but they've been hitting us relentlessly with wave after wave of pandas. It's almost like their inability to procreate or eat food properly fuels them to become the most efficient suicidal soldiers possible. I saw one take 2 full clips from a MP5 before finally going down.

I've been thinking about how the grenades are really less of a tactical weapon, and just a way to keep hope. Perhaps Sanders isn't working on anything at all. Perhaps it's all a ruse, meant to keep the rest of us believing in the fight. Watching Vapperelli slowly turn was a brutal blow to moral as well. Seeing a man, slowly turn over the course of one night. It did things to our platoon. Vapperelli wailed in pain for hours as the Bear Plague took him. The sound of his bones, slowly cracking into place to fit his shifting ursine frame, will stay with me for the rest of my life. Even his wailing slowly turned, from a long droning howl, to a deep, heavy growl, and towards the end, a full on roar. I don't know who put the bullet in his head. Nobody would admit to it, but whoever did, did him a kindness.

It's 3:33 am and I can see the Grizzly Brigade, across the field, slowly building their garrison. They're mustering their troops for a final charge. I have no doubt that this is where I'll die. They'll come, we'll fight, and we'll lose. Is it enough to die fighting? To sit and wait for the black paw of death to claw your face in? As I sit here, receiving yet another life preserving handjob from Sanders, I ponder if it's even worth it. They say that Man makes plans, while Bear God laughs. In the end, we're all sons of bitches anyway.

The Bear's War Drums are beating. Time to die.

In my opinion, love is illusive. Not in the cynical sense, that it's imaginary, but rather in an illusory, long sought after goal of mythical proportion. It's said to exist, and some swear it does, but finding it is tantamount to discovering real, actual magic. It's as special and hard to find as anything thought to exist solely on the outskirts of our dimension, drifting along the coast of imagination and reality. I've come to think this, because in my life, i've always felt that there are certain forces, divine, cosmological, spiritual or not, guiding me towards one person in particular. Some say that there's a concept, that a lot of people refer to as "The One", meaning there is one particular person out there, in the world, who is made for you. They're the perfect complement to your lifestyle, personality, emotional and physical needs, and if you only keep faith, you'll eventually find them.

Now most people consider this a load of bullshit. Generally, so do I, but I am a very literal person, and sometimes too many things happen that add up in a way that barely makes sense. For me, I know who my "One" is. I've met her many times in my dreams, and once in real life. Now the average person would say, hey, you've met her already dingus! Go get her! The only problem is I dreamt of her first, and met her after, in a way that I can't talk about without sounding crazy, so here goes.

Years ago, I remember the first time I saw her. I was dreaming I was back in High School, and she walked by with a group of people whose faces are now a distant hazy blur to me, but she stood out. She had firery red hair, pouty lips, green/blue eyes and a fairly pale complexion. She locked eyes with me, and I watched her walk by, and disappear into the crowd. It sounds like a fairly normal dream, and for all intents and purposes it was. But she stuck with me, because her beauty seemed so real, and so mesmerizing. Normally I would have forgotten that dream, if it wasn't for her consistently showing up now and again, each time bringing back the memory of the previous dream. For months at a time i'd forget about her, only to dream her again, and all the previous dreams would return with them. It'd seem that she was trying to get me to remember her, and was slowly making her way deeper and deeper into my subconscious.

Every time she returned to my dream state, she brought a sense of peace, tranquility, love and warmth with her. Every time I saw her, she was always identical, and I began to question the nature of my dreams as purely brain vomit, and looked into the study of dreams, and what dreams mean. The Aboriginal peoples of Australia believed in a concept called The Dreamtime, where all things that exist have existed before in The Dreamstate, and that all things before and after life come from and return to The Dreaming. The concept fascinated me, and became a fixation I held for a long time. What are dreams? Why do we have them? The philosophy behind dreams enraptured my attention, and the idea of dreaming being a state of reality just as real as the waking life, is one i've never dropped. While a lot of dreams meanings are more literal, such as the Teeth Falling Out dream being concerns over stress or actual tooth decay, the ones with her carried such emotion and resonance that they'd be stuck in my head all day. It even affected my writing, as most of the female characters i've written about tend to resemble her description. Every time i'd spent just long enough to forget about her, i'd dream her again, and all of it would come right back again, as if she had her own will, and didn't want to lose our connection.

Now, if I was a more fantastical man, i'd make some connection saying that she's some interdimensional entity communicating with me through my dreams, or a lover from a past life, or some residual psychic connection I have with someone out there, in this reality or the next, or maybe she's even someone who i've yet to connect with, or have, that is using The Dreaming to reach out to me.

But I'm not that man, so I chalked it up to my subconscious becoming fixed on itself, in a repeating loop, feeding off itself and perpetuating this mystery woman. I even remember reading somewhere that the brain doesn't create new faces, and that the subconscious carried a "library" of sorts, of all the people you've ever seen, and the people in your dreams are all different people you've met before and have consciously forgotten. Logically, I presumed this was the case, that she was someone i'd seen before, and have drawn a curious connection to in my dream state.

Then, I met her in real life. Now, what I'm about to describe, really happened. I swear to you. It is one of the most puzzling things to ever happen to me, and in my opinion, is far more meaningful and supernatural than any "ghost" apparition or sighting that many others seemingly have.

So, I am a bouncer. I worked at a club that was very popular with a largely Filipino crowd, and being a 6' 4" white man, I tended to stand out amongst the crowd, literally and figuratively. During my shift, I usually paced back and forth across the hallway, keeping it clear of people dancing or just loitering, in order to keep foot traffic up and regulate fire codes. It's kinda tedious, and it involves a lot of patience dealing with usually drunk, and mostly unhelpful people who don't understand why you need them to move. After spending nearly 2 1/2 hours doing this, I found myself feeling parched, but was unable to get to the bar and request a bottle of water, because of the aforementioned foot traffic. Occasionally you'll get blocked, and stuck in a rut where you're just yelling over very loud music, telling people to keep the walkway clear. It was then that I noticed her. Even though I had been pacing back and forth, and keeping an eye on the crowd at large, she suddenly appeared there, 3 feet in front of me.

Her hair was red, her eyes that same color, her lips as pouty, just as perfect and beautiful in real life as I remembered her being. She wore blue jeans that hugged her hips, and a long sleeved thin sweater that served as a shirt, low cut enough to just give a hint of her cleavage. She was literally the most beautiful woman i've ever seen in my life, and just like in my dream, I locked eyes with her, and her with mine. Then to my surprise, she approached me. I stood there, dumbfounded, until she walked right up, leaned in and said hello.

I responded weakly, and she asked if I was thirsty. I quickly said yes, and she walked over to the bar, asked for a bottle of water, and brought it to me. She placed it in my hand, put her hand on my shoulder, and kissed me on the cheek. She asked me my name, and I told her. She told me hers, but fore the life of me I cannot remember it. Then she whispered in my ear, and i'll never forget what she said.

"Nice to finally meet you Adam. I'll be seeing you real soon."

She then walked away, and disappeared from view into the crowd. After spending a few minutes dumbstruck, I tried walking a few laps around the bar, looking for her again, desperate to speak to her, or at least get her number, but to no avail. I then went and asked the bartender she got the water from, if he knew her, and he had no idea who I was talking about, nor did he claim to have even given out water at all that night.

But I had the bottle in my hand. Now empty.

After clean up, I asked every co-worker of mine if they knew her, and with increasing incredulity, began asking if they had even SEEN her. None had. None even claimed they saw me leave my post at the walkway, for the few minutes I spoke with her.

It'd seem, that to everyone else, she was never even there. I spent many weeks wondering what her words meant. It was just ambiguous enough to mean nothing and everything, and it plagued me. I kept the bottle for nearly 2 months, until I finally decided to throw it away, since its significance was of only to me, and my "proof" proved nothing to anyone else.

After "meeting" her in real life, our/my dreams became even more romantic, and no matter how much I thought about her before bed, or wished to will her into my dreams, she only came when she wanted. Every time I embraced her, and found myself longing to be with her longer and longer, and upon waking cursed my real life for intruding into my Dream World.

I hold onto the hope that one day, i'll meet her again, and that she'll know what I mean when I tell her that she's my dream girl. That she won't look at me as if I'm insane, but will instead let her eyes speak her thoughts to me, as she has so many times in my dreams. That she'll understand innately, and we'll both know that our love was actual destiny. That love is something nobody truly understands, and can span the entire spectrum of reality itself, to bring us together.

And then, we'll kiss.

Gerard Butler fought me today. I was minding my own business, buying a bucket of delicious fried chicken wings, and contemplating just how many biscuits to buy, when he bumped into me accidentally. I turned around, and reflexively, (even though it was his fault) apologized to him. He then grabbed my face with both of his hands, clasped around my temples, his fingers starting to dig into my ears and neck, and moved towards me. What happened next was almost in slow motion, and he opened his mouth, revealing his quivering, pink tongue, probing outward. In shock, my mouth opened, and he closed his mouth on mine, burying his tongue deep down my throat. I felt him lapping at my uvula like a hungry dog, licking behind the back of my molars, and wantonly slurping up the excess saliva being generated by our combined salivary glands. With a final loud slurp, he wrenched his lips off of mine, finally releasing the python like death grip his mouth had on mine, and smacked his lips greedily. His eyes burned like fire. His erection poked me in the stomach, and fear itself coursed through my veins. He leaned in again, and I winced, anticipating the worst. He got nearer, and put his lips near my ear, while simultaneously pulling out his thick veiny cock, now bulging and bright red. "This. Is Sparta." He whispered, and came on me profusely, squirting 9-12 thick hot jets of very yellow chunky semen. Then he put a card in my pocket, slapped me and took a piece of my chicken. He walked away sobbing openly.

I went into the bathroom, cleaned myself up the best I could, and returned home. The chicken was good, and I did my best to not think about it, but sometimes... Now, late at night...

I think I see him. In the darkness. In the moonlight. When the stars are right. He appears, cock in hand, and gazes longingly.

Perhaps one day, he'll return.