… in the distance, a terse clamor of noise emanates from a gaussian dome of pulsating phantasms where the host of this erratic, heady illusion of horror could manifest its insatiable grip. I think I can see a stage and …

Could it be that deep inside my consciousness the fool of me has already quickened this nausea to the state of believing a collective ‘disbelief’?

Dubious, at best.

Even just the thought of another ‘show’ prompts the bile to rise. All those scripts to follow, all that costumage, all those ‘window-dressers’ and ‘stage-hands’.

‘Ladies and gents, the show is about to begin!’ And the band jams on …

Is all of this ‘real’? Or, some secret performance to which I was given the ticket, but cannot enter.

I see a screen, but can’t seem to get any true reception.

It figures, seeing as only those of the cast can attend the after-party.

As I awoke with a mouthful of sand and the sound of my own choking from oxygen depravation, I suddenly found myself belly down, lying in sand next to the ocean. There was an empty stage there where a ravenous crowd had whittled down its grandure to nothingness. It was night-time and every star in the sky seemed to be present, engaged in a twinkling conversion that has been on-going for an eternity. Odd how they allow me to listen in at this very moment, this moment of silence, confusion and fragility. I start to slowly pass out, again … feeling safe that when I awoke, everything would just be a ‘dream’.

Man, I used to ‘party’ a lot …

Phantomoshop Phiction
by John Jenson

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