Ok this is a dream sequence i'm thinking of using to open a story but i would like some opinions on:
A) should you start a story with a dream sequence, and
B) does it make you want to continue reading because lets face it if it doesn't it would be a pretty shit start to a story.
Anyway I loved writing this because you can do what ever you want ina dream so you can create some really cool and sureal stuff, enough babbling from me, read it and advise please, i'm talking to you Hay, i'm sure your the only one who reads this shit haha.
“A sterile room with bright white walls that make you wince if you look at them for to long. It could only be a hospital waiting room but what kind of hospital and what exactly was wrong with me, I feel fine so I must be there for some one else. I look around the room as I wait. The entrance is at my back, two thick double doors shut tight, I want to get up and check they are unlocked but I resist the impulse. At the other end of the room there are another set of double doors but these are swing doors with circular windows cut out in top. To the right of the door the wall is lined with grey filing cabinets right up to the corner of the room. Just in front of the filing cabinets was an unoccupied desk that was immaculate, not so much as a pen was out of place but yet on the corner of the desk something broke the order. One of those tacky dancing flowers, the type that sings when some body claps, the petals were a bright red that stood out against the plain room it inhabited as if it were the last rebellion of a beaten soul. I find myself staring into the colours, not at the flower but actually into the colours. Somehow they surround me until all I can see was that deep red. Still it goes deeper, boring into my very core almost as if I am absorbing the colour itself. Things seem almost clearer now; I see everything as an absolute truth for the first time. I see things, visions that come from inside me out of the colour figures evolve. My wife smiles at me radiantly, her once auburn hair now shines like a ruby with such colour it seems impossible, her soft skin that once was deliciously creamy now took on the colour of blood. The crimson figure morphs, slowly changing before my eyes and some of the colour melts away to nowhere to reveal a shorter figure. I feel as though I am about to make a realisation, a moment of clarity hidden in a moment of madness. Its almost there, I can feel the truth as it approaches. I want it to find me but before it can the colour fades lighter and lighter until I’m back in the same white room only this time I’m not alone. In front of me a man in a white lab coat is staring at me in silence. I look up into his eyes and I see nothing living. Soulless eyes stare blankly back at me without blinking and the head rotates stiffly towards the double doors on the back wall. I stand up unable to stop my self, in fact I make a conscious effort to sit back down but an unseen force props me up and my legs mechanically guide me to the doors. The closer I get to the doors the more uneasy I become; I have a definite sense of dread about what I will be awaiting me. When I’m almost within reaching distance the doors swing open with a creak and a long hallway stretches out before me. My legs keep going as if I’m being sucked in. Once I am inside the hallway I hear the doors crash shut behind me and without pausing for a moment I continue on. It’s as sterilized in here as it was in the waiting room. Just as this becomes a thought in my head colours spring up on the walls. Pictures push there way out of the walls. All the way down the hall they appear as I walk past and all of them are stills taken from my life. My parents are in one, stood outside my boyhood home, in another I’m a boy in team photo from my old football squad. The first time I saw my wife, our wedding day and the birth of my son are all there for me to relive. I’m studying these pictures so intently as I pass them by that I don’t notice the end of the hallway approaching fast, bringing me to another set of doors. These doors however aren’t white; they are made out of a picture of my son walking on the other side of a road. He’s wearing his football kit sodden with mud and clutching a medal in his little hands. I stop abruptly and excruciatingly slowly a black line appears down the middle of the photograph as the doors creep open. Then just like that I am awake in my bed and soaked in sweat.”
“Hmmm, now how do these dreams make you feel?”
