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(no title)

A Story by J. Foster

So I heard this quote the other day about dreams. After thinking about it later that day I wrote this short piece of fiction.


In ten separate futures, ten different outcomes rested on the fate of one destiny.


He was a microcosm of all those historical wrongdoers before him. He wasn’t inherently evil as you may suppose - rather the average Joe that humanity has leaned upon for centuries; he hasn’t let them down. He hasn’t let anyone down. Yet something still remained. Intangible as it was unrecognisable.


Equation left unsolved.




For lack of a better word. Nothing existed in this vast tapestry of flesh and carbon-based molecules for him. He existed for It. And It always held the best hand; for you see, It never loses. Not when people like he stand defiantly against the current. Not that he ever would. Or at least that’s what it wants him to think. When all is said and done, people like he fade away into obscurity, mere extras in the Blockbuster of life itself.


Cynical. Not usually his type. Yet who chose whose types belong to whom?


Mind rampaging with the nihilistic tendencies he had become so frequently acquainted with over his past life or two. Perpetual motion. Rather, the perpetual motion of life. Something It cannot control. Yet - he hopes. For against all the adversity, all the nonchalant injustices the world became notorious for, this was his sanctuary. His removal of himself from the tentacles of reality. It could have been removal. More - temporary relapse. Disconnected from one universe and thrust into the smouldering embers of another. Incomparable. In reality, nothing ever became of it - one reality anyway. Another minor episode in the ever-expanding canvas of the brain. Awakening himself to sleep. An example of It’s far-flung grasp protruding into his sanctified state once again? Probably not. It probably never is. Yet one time it could be. Potentially, it could be every time - infinitely repeating itself until he uncovers the true reality. He would never know whether it was the true reality or not in the end - truth does not exist. Another one of It’s constructions. Leaving him with nothing but an acidic combination of both resentment and intrigue: not as to how, what, who or when, but WHY? Why him? Why choose Herr Durschnitt in this eternal fiasco? Always part of It’s plan: It always has a plan, and remember, It also never fails, so he was doomed from the start. His fate was sealed to something he would never know and by someone he would never have the pleasure of meeting in the flesh. Or in what would be considered flesh - either way - true reality never existed, so it could appear to him in a whole matter of forms. He would never know, and It always knew, always knowing he would never know that It knew about him not knowing. Something like that, anyway. He would never know, so what difference would it make?


One perspective hopelessly transcends into ten more and ten more after that. He struggles to avoid the singularity he knows looms indefinitely ahead of him. Gradually moving closer. Although the closer he gets, the slower he approaches this brutal inevitability.




To the point where he almost lies completely stationary - motionless; fossilised in the infinitely dark void encapsulating him. Darkness - fear, apprehension, intrusive fright. Yet what is there to fear? Anything? Why would there be if reality did not exist? If truth did not exist? Let us dive headlong into the singularity; embrace it, frolic in its majesty, learn its accursed secrets hidden from the relentless grasp of human endeavour. And why should he not? After all, this is only one universally miniscule snapshot of a perceived reality: nothing more than any of those other relatively insignificant days that comes and goes in the lifetime of any human being. A million more of these events will come and go in his conscience’s existence - he knows. It knows. And It knowing is really starting to bug him. It’s presence around him at all hours, seconds, microseconds... Intrusive. Yet unstoppable. No one could just tell It to stop. Not without drastic consequences. He never questioned It " he just rolled along with the rest of the herd, unwitting pawns in It’s life-long game of chess.


Forget it all. All knowledge of his past, his present, his future - erased.


One episode has just come to an end; who knows how many else will follow? And anyway, why would it matter? Any one could potentially throw a limitless amount of wealth, power and status unto his lap. Any. Yet still none such of the aforementioned criteria have surfaced. Why? Because It never loses, remember. It chooses everything. It knows every possible mathematical outcome. It controls every parameter. He has no say. He may never do. Where he is right now, anyway, he certainly doesn’t. Endlessly cascading through the multiverse of the subconscious - endlessly - a psychotic nomad, condemned to an existence he would never truly understand or be truly integrated within. Destined to traverse the landscapes of It’s imagination; inescapable as it is confusing.

© 2012 J. Foster

Author's Note

J. Foster
marks out of 10? is the concept any good?

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Added on January 29, 2012
Last Updated on March 1, 2012
Tags: dream, psychotic, subconscious, story, fiction, postmodern, science, bizarre, surreal, experimental, bradford, west yorkshire, united kingdom, 2012, psychedelic, psychedelia


J. Foster
J. Foster

Bradford, West Yorkshire, United Kingdom

I am 18 and I am currently studying English Literature as part of my A-levels; I have only just started writing my own fiction, as I thought it would be good to start jotting down a few ideas for a sh.. more..