The Dream Keeper

W H   E N Morning finally came, Jack had laid at the dead fire and tried to keep the scent of the ashes on his mind and not the scent of the black-heads. It was still there, thought they weren’t. They were nocturnal animals and they wouldn’t come back until tonight. “Would they?” He asked himself. If nobody was around to hear him, he might as well talk to himself. It would either keep him sane, or drive him crazy. But these were both the least of his problems. “Were they thinking animals?” He asked nobody. “Because it seemed like it. Distracting, whooping…” He was reading too much into it. Jurassic Park had been re-run too many times in his childhood. No, they were not giant super-intelligent ground-eagles, they were just giant ground-eagles. Still, not good, but not quite as bad as JP’s exaggerated problem-solvers. Only as bad as very well-equipped lions, he decided. He walked out into the Sunlight. In this totally foreign world, the sun was the only familiar f...

J A   C K scaled the rest of the miniature plateau, falling twice and hitting the same outcropping he’d hid from the ‘triceratops’ on, and when he made it to the top he found a small cave. About twenty feet wide, and twelve feet high at its tallest. Angular, some rocks about half his height off the ground. One wide enough for him to sleep on. He got some of the tall, straight plants – hard-barked, black, some nine feet tall near the river but the ones near the cave no taller than him – and built a fire. He cut his hand, and it was exhausting, and he only had success after the sun had already gone down. But now, at least, he could keep away the bugs. He’d only had to kill one – a two-foot centipede. The others were all small enough for him not to notice, or scared away. There was a puddle in the corner of the cave. Six feet around and three deep. He submerged himself in it, the closest to a bath he’d get here. He’d drank some scummy, opaque water from it. It tasted li...

B L A C K    skies stretched as far as he could see. There was no horizon. There were no stars. He could look around only as far as ten feet in front of him, while he kept running. White trees like pillars seemed to hold up the blanket of moist darkness around him. Trees that spread out long, straight branches of spiky, dripping leaves. Treeswith bark dented, broken and scratched from a thousand conflicts long ended. Testimony to a thousand lives the trees had survived, to a time long forgotten. Perhaps one that should not be. He tried to walk, and the soil cracked and creaked like paper. The ferns beneath him were long and sinister, like the claws of darkness. They seeped in and out of the night as he ran as though they were trying to flee from him. Long, thick creepers and vines stretched between the awful trees and out of the water that flowed through the cracks in the Earth beneath him. Sounds like long, high-pitched echoes – almost like Whale Calls – mourn...

The Cryptid Menagerie actually happened. Well, except without Cryptids. Shame, that would've made one Hell of a News Story . . . . . http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2050778/Ohio-animals-killed-Lions-tigers-shot-dead-escaping-US-zoo.html