Non-ECCC Story

Dream 7/2/22: Baba Yaga

Joshua Cannon

Jul 2, 2022 • 6 min read

I ate objects, perhaps food and maybe even living creatures in a sort of putrid eating contest, in which I had to forcibly vomit the contents of my stomach after each round. When I ate in that contest, it felt like I was drowning, or was I the one being eaten?

There was an airport, and my sister was coming home. She would be in Mississippi, Georgia.

I was in Mississippi, Georgia in my car. There were billboards all over the place. Some of them were warning about the dangers of different sections of the city. Section 5 had a gun gang that would kill you on sight. Section 7 was overrun by cannibals. Wild animals had taken Section 6. And Section 3 had trouble with a drug cartel. I was looking through all sorts of maps, trying to find a safe route to the airport to pick up my sister. If I went through the territories of any such dangerous environments, I was sure to die. Then I found some glasses that color-coded the billboards to the territories they were referring to, making it much easier to identify the dangers. Red was the color of Section 5, the gun gang, for example.

I ask my parents about a sort of strange eating contest that I had vague memories of participating in. They show me a picture of a house that I had been to and perhaps attended a contest at.

I call my sister, telling her that I’m on my way to the airport. She is waiting for me there. I head towards the airport on the route I had planned, but as I am headed that way, I describe how close I am by referring to landmarks. “I’ve just passed Section 7, I’m in the concrete jungle of Section 8.” My sister expresses confusion. She doesn’t recognize my voice. As we talk more, her voice begins to subtly change, sounding less and less like my sister, and more and more like an irate old woman. As I begin to wonder if this is really my sister, she accuses me of prank calling her and hangs up. I go to Find My Friends on my phone and discover that I had not actually called my sister, but rather a different person with the same name. And my real sister is in Georgia, Mississippi, not Mississippi, Georgia. I’m not just in the wrong city, I’m in a whole different state!

The opponent in the eating contest is scaring me. Those dark pits for eyes have a hunger. Everytime that being looks in my direction, I fear that I might be next on its menu.

At church in the Chapel in Super Smash Brothers Brawl, I choose Ganondorf and am surprised when my player selection is indeed Ganondorf instead of a randomly chosen character.

By the bed in the bedroom, I learn a secret.

It’s early in the morning; no one else can hear it.

What you eat determines your appetite.

Plastic trash fills the gaps, but you have more bite with organic life.

And it’s such a terrible secret that it’s almost cheating.

If you eat something alive it will eat what you’re eating.

But don’t settle for tapeworms or common parasites.

Go for intelligent prey, sapience in your sight.

Such thoughts are what help me to vomit each round.

I can eat quite a lot, but I can’t keep it down.

And I see others following this new policy.

But if this is the rule, I fear I must leave.

I’ve made it to Georgia, Mississippi. I pick up my sister and get back on the road.

The road. The road. The road.

The street I walk down as I reminisce

On Minecraft Youtubers that don’t really exist.

A furnace for a face, those creatures combine

In collabs of escape room videos online.

Gargling marbles.

I can’t do it anymore!

It makes my stomach growl

And leaves my lunch on the floor.

I leave the contest,

But this is dangerous.

For if I’m not a contestant,

I’m a victim.

How to escape? How to escape?

There is a group of people with me,

And we all want to leave.

The only problem is that we all picked up keys.

We don’t know the order. We don’t know the order.

If we use the wrong key, the alarm will sound.

There are so many doors–Look what I’ve found!

I picked my keys up first, I have the first three doors.

But some doors are floating sideways, overlapping one another.

And that door parallel to the ground opens to drop a ladder.

Climb up to jump from door to parkour.

Up this ledge we’re almost there.

A slide to the exit past the massive window.

But why are we so small? Why are we so small?

The size of mice we appear in this giant home.

These doors are our size, but not the kitchen counter.

I know I shouldn’t worry, but who lives here I wonder.

You there, you’re turn. Use your keys.

No not on that section! On this door, please.

No, now it’s someone else’s turn, you pick your key up second to last.

Wait, where did he go? I guess you’re the only one left.

Blaring red lights, I’m screaming

“Wrong Key! Wrong Key!”

Too late to change our response

Unlucky! Unlucky!

And I hear the footsteps of approach,

On the floor down below they’re pounding.

And I hear the cackling roar as all sight goes black.

Lightning strikes.

I’ve got twelve lives.

But they only countdown

When I’m electrified.

Lightning strikes.

I’m hanging from a branch.

I look down at my silhouette.

I’m surprised to find that I’m a woman.

Lightning strikes.

I turn off the lights

In a foolish attempt

To make the way open.

But they found us.

They found us.

The witches in the black.

And worst of all, their leader.

Baba Yaga is the head!

Lightning Strikes.

I’m not alone yet,

But every time I die,

My group thins.

Lightning strikes.

Climb the tree to the window.

So far, yet so close,

How much longer can I hold?

Lightning strikes.

It’s a time loop.

This massive kitchen has trees

The forest grows thicker, each crackle of blue.

Lightning strikes.

There are witches hunting us.

They lick their lips

Because we’re their lunch.

Lightning strikes.

Why must I climb so high?

I can’t get to the window before

The storm cracks down from the sky.

Lightning strikes.

A perpetual rain.

Baba Yaga follows me,

And she keeps me detained.

Lightning strikes.

I no longer climb up the trees.

The windows not an options

Now that we’re down to three.

Lightning strikes.

There is only one other man left.

Little does he know

He is as good as dead.

Lightning Strikes.

I’m all on my own.

I won’t back my pursuer

To see faces stitched in her clothes.

Her face in my face.

Her rotting teeth.

Her mouth gapes

To consume me.

I’ve run for so long.

I ran out of chances.

But I wake up in the woods,

Not in a house or a kitchen.

Where is Baba Yaga?

I begin to wonder.

What was the cube-pit

Under her furnace?

Where were the children

In her box burning

Beneath the oven

You can hear their screams echoing.

It’s stuck in my mind

And I can’t forget

And so I sit there for hours,

And mull through it.

But as I finally feel that I’ve come to peace

I see a metal rim, a wheel,

Approaching from the forest.

The Wild Witch of the East.

Baba Yaga returns

In the form of a circle.

I can’t outrun her,

But I give a good struggle.

I hide behind a tree,

And she rolls past.

I’m finally free.

Who knows how long that will last.

I find myself in the parking lot

Of a stranger’s house.

In a neighborhood of children

I ask around.

“I’m stuck in a time loop.

Can anyone help me?

I’m being chased by Baba Yaga.

I need some advice, please.”

Two girls on the sidewalk walking home from school

Tell me that if I’m stuck in a time loop,

There is nothing that I can do.

I storm away to find someone new.

But that’s when I notice

A page posted to a tree.

In roman numerals,

A single digit seen.

Then I see another,

It counts to two,

And another to three,

Is that what I should do?

I search the trees for numbers

I wander the grounds.

Sometimes I stop to ask

If others know where some are.

And they do, they recognize

The importance of numerals.

They point me in the right direction,

They’ve been most helpful.

But as I reach XII,

I realize I’ve been duped.

The number for twelve lives

Isn’t what I had hoped.

I’m on the top of my bunk bed.

On the ceiling are plastic bottles.

But instead of water,

They hold orange liquid inside them.

Hanging down from the ceiling

Like cavernous stalactites.

A sticky liquid slowly dripping

Down to make me need cleaning wipes.

I try to reach them,

But they move

The slide inches away,

Leaving behind a sticky glue.

As I struggle to reach them,

They are soon empty.

They fall from the roof

From a worn out adhesive.

I try to stick them back up,

But they fall back down.

I’m certain I can’t give up,

But my efforts leave me with nothing but doubt.

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