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[In_Dreams: The_Pool]

by Mimi Jones-Taylor


            One drop means nothing.  I can sleep through one …


            Two, okay, I can sleep through two.  I’m too tired to get up and turn off the faucet.


            Three is getting annoying.  Maybe if I just breathe loudly I can drown out the sound.  Siiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.  Nothing?  Good.  I’ll just turn over, pull up the duvet over my ear, and…


            Hmmm…they sound like they’re in a pattern.  Maybe I can write a song while I lie here.  I’ll use the drops as a beat. 


            Shit, I’m wide awake now.  Where’s that fucking pencil?  I always leave it beside the bed and…


            Oh fuck, that fell on my hand.  It’s not the faucet; it's the ceiling.



            Where the hell is that coming from?  A burst pipe.  Great.  Fucking cheap ass four star hotels.  Why couldn’t they book me in at the Plaza like I asked?

            Ring, ring.  Ring, ring. 


            “Front Desk.  How can we help you this evening, Mr. Austin?”

            “Yeah, um, water is dripping from my ceiling onto my bed.  The night table, actually.  I think there’s a leaky pipe or something.”

            “Oh dear, I’m so sorry about that.  We’ll send someone up right away.”

            “Yeah, fine, thanks, but in the meantime, I really need to get some sleep.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, but we are fully booked this evening.”

            “Listen, do you know how much I’m paying to stay here?  I have a fucking suite, okay?  As your paying customer, you had better find me another room, without a leak, as soon as possible, or I will tell everyone I know to book their accommodations at the Plaza.”

            “Give me about ten minutes, sir.”  Click.


            Fucking hell, next time it’s the fucking Plaza.  They don’t have fucking…


            “Oh would you just fucking stop…”

            Drip…crinkle crinkle, craaaack…

            “Oh shit.”

            Drip…craaack.  Crinckle criiiick…craaack…crumble crumble…

            “Fuck this, I’m outta here…”

            CRASH…SPLASH…glug glug glug crumble crick crack trumble…

            Knock knock knock.

            “Mr. Austin?”

            Tumble lock twist turn.


            “Oh dear.”

            “Yeah, well, as you can see, the leak just got a whole lot worse.”

            “On behalf of the Inter-Continental, I truly apologize, sir.  This has never happened before in the history of the hotel.  And I honestly do not understand…oh my goodness.”

            “What?  What do you see up there…oh.”

            “It’s completely rusted out.”

            “Holy shit.  Oh fuck, my clothes…”

            “Don’t worry, sir, we will pay for anything that gets damaged or ruined as a result of this leak.  In the meantime, won’t you please be our guest at the bar while we move your things to a new suite.”

            “The Front Desk said there were no suites.”

            “I’m sure we can find something for you.  Now, it’s not safe for you to be here, sir.  Please make your way to the bar, and…”

            “Like this?  In my robe?”

            “Would you prefer to sit near the pool lounge?  Most people are in robes up there.”

            “Where’s that?”

            “Thirty-fourth floor.  Use your key card to enter.  The code is four five two one.  And let them know that you’re Mr. Austin from suite seven forty-two.  Anything you’d like, sir, food, drinks, everything is completely on the house.  We will come and get you when your room is ready.”

            “Thanks, but I could really just use some sleep.”

            “There are lounge chairs up there for you to relax in.”


            Pad pad pad pad pad…

            “Fucking idiots.  Why the fuck did I even let them talk me into staying here?  Fucking hell.  Now I have to sleep by the fucking pool.  Fuck this…”


            Pad pad pad…click.

            Oh my God. 

            “Ha ha ha ha ha!!” 

            They’ve made a muzak version of Miss World.  That little fucking twat sellout.  Bitch. 

            “La la la la la la la la…fuuuck, heh.”





            “Welcome to the party, dude.”

            “Um, yeah.  I figured I could either swim in my room, or swim in the pool.”


            “Yeah, my ceiling caved in, and now I have a fucking waterbed.  Cheap ass fucking hotel.”

            “Dude, that’s harsh.  Hey, everybody, look who showed up!”


            Fuck, pools do really fucking echo…

            “So, you wearing a bathing suit under that?”

            “No, I’m…hey!”

            SPLASH…rumble rumble creeeee sploosh rumble rumble…

            “Ha ha ha ha…nice one, Jeordie.”

            “Hey Trent!  Stop fucking around, dude.  Get out of the pool!”

            “Fuck, man, he’s not moving.”

            SPLASH…glug glug glug rumble rumble sploosh…gaaaaasp.

            “Help me get him out.”

            “Turn his face sideways to get the water out.”

            Cough cough cough…paaa-tooie.

            Trent looked up at their faces.  They were all opening their mouths to form words without sounds.

            “Oh you guys, stop fucking around…”

            Trent could hear the voice in his head, but nothing emitted from his throat.  He could hear nothing.  No churning of the pool.  No screams from Aaron’s frustrated lips.  No footsteps approaching.


            Trent tried to scream, but its sound was pulled into the void along with all the other sounds of the room.


            Trent cocked his head sideways as he finally hears a sound.


            Trent bolts upright in bed, panting from fright.  The room is dark except for a small stream of light shining on the vent on the floor underneath the heavy hotel curtains.



            His voice fills the silent room.


            “Fucking faucet.”

            Trent swings his legs out of the bed and marches towards the bathroom.  Flicking on all of the lights, including the heat lamp, Trent inspects every single faucet inside of the luxurious white marble water closet.  He holds his hands underneath every tap.  They are all dry.  His hair, however, drips onto his bare shoulders.


            “Oh no…”

            Trent flicks on every single light in the suite, inspecting the ceiling as best as he can  from his height.

            “Not even a crack.”

            Trent collapses on the bed with a heavy sigh.




            “Would someone please just tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Posted by Mimi Jones-Taylor in tales_of_terror | Permalink


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It just keeps getting more and more strange... which is a good thing. =P

Anyway, lovely use of onomatopoeia. Update again soon!

Posted by: Kim | Aug 7, 2005 2:08:39 PM

ROCK! OMFG, Poor Trent! When will it end?

Posted by: Dierdre | Aug 7, 2005 2:21:02 PM

Why do I think Trent's going to run into the Mystery Man that Robert Blake played in Lost Highway soon?

Mimi, you rule!

Posted by: Gabriel | Aug 7, 2005 5:06:42 PM


I go away for a few weeks and WTC has descended even further in that pit from which it must look up to see hell.

Posted by: MM | Aug 7, 2005 5:30:28 PM

That's right, MM, you did disappear for a while, didn't you?

I was wondering why it smelled so nice around here...

Posted by: Gabriel | Aug 7, 2005 7:39:16 PM

Merci, tout le monde. And don't worry, Kim and Dierdre, the end will come soon enough, but not too soon. Do not fret for our protagonist -- he will end up right where he belongs.

Posted by: Mimi | Aug 7, 2005 7:54:40 PM

In my bed? AWESOME!

Posted by: Dierdre | Aug 8, 2005 1:34:35 AM

LMAO Dierdre. Nice one. :P

Posted by: Kim | Aug 8, 2005 10:42:20 AM

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