Italy's dream

Italy opened his brown eyes and yawned. He stretched his arms out. He saw that he was sitting on a puffy white cloud that was very comfortable. Italy was confused.

"How did I get here?" he wondered. He looked down under the cloud and found that he was high above his country. A sweat fell from his face. If he fell...

Italy stood up and was surprise he could stand on the clouds. He saw a golden gate in front of him. There was a symbol of pasta on the gates. Italy stared at it, mesmerized. The gates opened and Italy stepped through. On the other side of the gates, Italy saw countless bowls of pasta. Italy ran to each one and tried taking a bite out of them. But as he bit on a noodle, it tasted like hair and was hard to chew. He didn't understand why. But a bright light broke through the clouds and Italy blocked his eyes from the light. When he could see again, his eyes grew in shock. A giant bowl of pasta floated towards him. In the back round you could hear a choir sing. It was at least as big as the Pictonian mother ship. A big smile slowly spread across his face.

"Veeeeeeeee," he said, completely hypnotized. He spread his arms out and ran towards the bowl. Drool fell from his mouth like a dog hanging his head out the window of a moving car. He was about to leap and grab it, but a voice shouting, 'Italy, vake up!', interrupted his focus. He felt himself being dragged away from the bowl as a huge gust of wind blew him away. Italy tried running towards the pasta. He started to cry.

"NOOOOO! Don't kick me out! I didn't do anything wrong!" he said as the gates closed behind him. The pasta disappeared from his view. He felt someone shaking him.

"Italy, vake up now!" came a German accent. Italy opened his eyes and saw a angry Germany glaring at him. His face looked like it was rained on and his hair was a mess. Italy's eyes grew into focus.

"Oh, Germany. Are you here in pasta heaven, too?" he asked him as he rubbed his tired, brown eyes. Germany glared at him.

"Nein, I'm on earth. Just like you," he told him. Italy hung his head in disappointment.

"Oh..."

"You were trying to eat mein hair, you drooled all over me, und you were tryink to hug me," Germany told him. Italy thought for a moment.

"It was only a dream? Oh, no wonder those noodles were hard to chew,"

"Noodles?" Germany sighed and put a hand over his face, "you were dreaming of pasta, weren't you?" Italy nodded.

"Si, I was'a dreaming about pasta heaven. It was a good dream," Italy said, a little disappointed.

"You sounded like you were in a trance," Germany said. Italy hung his head. The he started pouncing the pillow.

"Why don't those dreams ever last?!" he cried, then he looked at Germany with sad, hurtful eyes, "Why did you have to wake me up, Germany?!" Germany couldn't stay mad with him. He put a hand on Italy's head.

"I'm sorry I voke you," he tried to apologize. Italy only nodded, looking more sad than angry.

"It'sa okay. You didn't know," he said. Germany felt a little sorry for him. He often had good dreams, too. Italy jumped up and did a fist pump.

"Well, I can still make'a pasta!" he squealed excitedly and dashed out the room. Germany stared after him.

"He never can stay mad, can he?" he said to himself. Then he realized that Italy needed the kitchen to make pasta. He ran after him and screamed, "Italy!"

To be continued maybe?