The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 8

Marshmallow Addie's unsuspecting mortal soul happily cruised a turnpike. It couldn't afford a state of rest because pigeons took an affinity to relaxing their bowels above it. And besides, there was little it enjoyed more than criss-crossing carelessly through mangled stretches of concrete and steel. Little did it know, that soon, when Addie found a home, it would be torn away from him and change hands. Addie was about to lose his soul.

He still searched for a home, though.

He'd missed the boat again. He'd missed five boats - all would have taken him back to languid shores. Back to his disurban wastage and conversations with Victor. All for a pint of Urban or two. It was doubleproof.

* * * * * *

It shivered and reared its ugly head again.

It was back.

Just when he thought the goodbye was final. Wait a minute. She was back. Not it. Maybe it too.

All sense of duality leapt out of the window. And flew like a bird into a violent death. Boundaries that seperated him from the rest of the universe uselessly fell away like impotent mists over a wallflower. Emotions were boring love songs. Memories became chocolate fudge guitars.

It throbbed. It rained down from a great height. From a great height. A dull throb. A slow flickering light. An anxiety attack. An arrhythmic heart as usual. His knee convulsed and knocked over the pearl alarm clock again. Deja Vu. The small bird flickered and flew around the sun. No one flies around the sun.

* * * * * *

An annoyed smoke ring, not yet blown, wiped off an annoying bead of perspiation. It was humid or land. Cohiba the Robust was lonely. Her time would come, though. She just had to wait for the sun to shine on Addie again. Shine on his summer moon.

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 7

Addie slept and slept (as usual), like pigs in a blanket. The minimalist fakeplastic decor of his surroundings was jarred by the animated suspension of the seething pearl alarm clock (it woke him up pearly in the morning). Soon, the vast expanses of decadence and filth that Addie so craved and loved would be cruelly snatched away from him.

Addie needed a home like a dog a bone. A shelter from flightless oysters. Maroon plumes of car exhaust (whom Addie called Victor) were permanent guests at his dinner table. They had fine wine and said the occasional hello to Uncle Tallwhisker. Ethyl and Methyl Johnny waved a small hand or two. Outside, McMansions were built and destroyed in the blink of an eye. Fat vehicles transported fatter occupants from Point A to Point A.... and made Victor fatter. Addie was content. Simple pleasures for a simple mind.

He consumed some factory manufactured uniform goo and gravitated towards the ladies room, where he spent several blissful days in an hour.

And then he slept.

Freeways zigzagged away like horizontal bottomless pits. The universe absorbed the apathy of vacuous minds and disintegrated routinely into a terrifying continuum. Reality asked itself questions about itself. Or maybe not. Addie blew a useless smoke ring. Reality checks again. A smoky face appeared slowly over the window. It didn't remember. Nothing could. Addie blew another useless smoke ring. Addie blew another useless smoke ring. Addie blew another smoke ring. It was good this time. No, cross that. It was useless as usual. Somewhere, a lung collapsed. A life became timeless. A heart became arrhythmic. A song became arrhythmic. A crescendo collapsed into a lung. Someone failed. Someone cried into a flute. A song sang itself backwards and haunting echoes made an oyster laugh out loud. And again and again.

Meanwhile, dissociated from most of these humourous battles, Addie's unsuspecting mortal soul happily cruised a turnpike.

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 6

Marshmallow Addie woke up sitting bolt upright and screaming. He had just realized he was a character assasin. A solitary bead of perspiration made its way slowly through the lard valleys on his forehead and dripped onto his arm, where it was absorbed by his syrupy-mucous adipoderma (sometimes his Vociferous Critics called it good skin).

Addie shook violently at the terror of his realization. His right knee convulsed and oscillated by a foot on either side until it knocked over the pearl alarm clock (which for some reason didn't have an hour hand) and it fell to the floor and startled the imaginary cat, which dissappeared into a puff of sawdust.

It all came back to Addie now. Everyone he had ever loved and cherished was being killed recursively by the faux-writer of his dreams. But they kept coming back and he kept killing them again. Blow after blow, stab after stab, one character assasinated after another. Beautiful memories that took extreme sorrow to construct were falling victims to schandenfreudian yesterdays. It must not end, sadly. The cookie crumbles.

* * * *

Wallflower the Hookah stood by a bare wall contemplating life's cruelty. Worlds had come and gone, smoke had flown, but some things couldn't change. What was glamour when the very essense of existence was absent? What were the mere thrills of craftsmanship in the face of this extreme tragedy?

Wallflower the Hookah was impotent.

Yellowbottom atleast knew where he stood (although sometimes solitary corners and stagnant water figured heavily in the scheme of things). Yellowbottom was a Genius.

* * * *

Somewhere, in a land so far away that Addie could barely smell the purpleness of the horizon in his mind, a solitary oyster quite pointlessly discovered the meaning of existence. It dreamt dreamy dreams of a different hue; That took it to lands that nobody knew; That took it to lands so barren and green; Nine dreamy dreams of a fusion machine.

The Curious Dreamlife of Marshmallow Addie - Volume 5

Oyster1 looked at oyster2 searchingly. "What do feel like right now?", it asked.

"Some champagne would be nice." came the reply.

"Well, we're some way away from the next oyster bar, so something more realistic would probably work", oyster1 said.

Oyster2 shrugged (insofar as an oyster can shrug). "Might as well dream of what might be."

Oyster1 looked away. It was going to be a long night.

A large oyster wave crashed against the grimy shore and receded back into the oyster sea. Little bits of ocean popped their heads out through the sea and then sunk back down to the bottom.

"You know," oyster1 said, "there's supposed to be a Primordial Oyster in our near vicinity."

This genuinely piqued the interest of oyster2. Primordial Oysters were found one in several million. Of course, there were billions and billions of regular oysters, so the chances of bumping into a Primordial Oyster were not entirely non-existent. But still, this was something oyster2 had only heard about in myths.

"So tell me something," he asked oyster2, "These are the ones with large shiny pearls in them, right?"

Oyster1 laughed. "Of course not! Those are a dime a dozen. Primordial Oysters contain entire universes within themselves."

"What sort of universes?"

"Ah, there I cannot help you, because I don't know myself. Probably their own, private universes."

"That's nothing. We contain ours too."

"Well, I suppose you could call a soft piece of meat eaten with a small fork a universe if you really wanted to. Something tells me that's not quite what they mean when they talk about Primordial Oysters, though."

"Well, good for them."

"You really want to make this a long night, don't you?"

"I am painless."

"And I'm an Abyssinian maid." Oyster1 sighed. Life ought to be a lot simpler.

Waves of black and lavender crashed gently against the pensively textured fractal shores. An unnamed creature crawled into its cubby hole. It was possibly inebriated on the lack of moonlight. Auroric crashes of thunder intermittently blew soft barbs. And the world became a mess. Again.

An idea particle stirred inside a slow brain. It glowed softly (insofar as an oyster can glow) and constructed itself between eternities. Because time is a whiff of impotent wallflowers on a languid Sunday evening. It is the rustle of dreamy oysters floating against a grim seascape.

A figure stirred inbetween two slumbers. It let out a small muffled groan and turned over discontentedly. Not particularly gainly or elegant. But marshmallows seldom are.