The mysterious sekret mastermind behind the Silence Without blog is offering up more of the dreams? visions? micro-fictions? that I find so imaginative. When there’s enough of these things, someone ought to publish them.
The government put a lock on teleportation. They couldnâ€™t have people popping in and out all over the place as they pleased. There would be no control left, the nation would fall apart with people popping over to Ayers Rock or Great Kepple Island in their tea breaks, in their smokos.
Am I glowing? I feel like Iâ€™m glowing. I should be glowing, but when I wave my hand around, thereâ€™s a lack of pretty light trails. No wonder plants flower so violently. I feel drunk and fat and glorious. I want to bloom, right here on the street. How indecent of me!
For a Tree to Climb
Soon I loose sight of the ground entirely, and after a token nod at hesitation I keep going. And going. And going. There must be something up there, somewhere. Giant trees to not just appear without there being something special at the top. Treasure. Kingdoms. Giants. A once in a lifetime view of the horizon.
For Them to Finally Drop the Bomb
It starts as a letter to my family, a last good bye before they cut the power and concrete the lockdown, but the truth will out, and out, and out, and it grows to be a letter to everyone, then a blog post, then a forum post, on every forum, in every journal, anywhere I can say- They dropped the bomb. The world is changing. My eyes are changing the world. Iâ€™m already dead, I just havenâ€™t stopped moving.
For Real True Amazing Sleep
Sitting on the edge of the bed, scrunching my toes in the carpet, I read the pamphlet. Miracles and wonders. They make it sound like the second coming, for all possible meanings of the word coming. A sleep to revitalise you. A sleep to recharge you to full capacity. A sleep to make you Superman.
For a Day…Only Allowed to Talk to Strangers
At work, I have a question. It drives me from my desk, out of the office, down the corridor, onto different floors and into new departments, to find a new and unknown person.
For a Pony
No, wait. For a triceratops. With a comfy saddle. I could ride him all over town. Like the maharaja and his elephant, me and my triceratops. Itâ€™d have to be a fancy saddle. With sequins and ribbons. Probably glitter on velvet. We could paint his frills, put tassels on his horns. His name would be something stalwart and resistant, like, oh, I donâ€™t know, Bert. Bert the drag queen triceratops. Heâ€™d live on a farm. A dairy farm, with the cows. Theyâ€™d get used to him. Theyâ€™d love him.
For a Day When Gravity Is Turned Upside Down
A day of walking on the moon, for everyone. Forget lack of fitness, dodgy hips and no co-ordination, today everyone leaps and bounds like the first issue of Superman. Everyone outside and moving, just for the joy of it. A Sunday, to make the most of it. No cars on the roads, no trains and trams on the rails. Elbow pads and knee pads and helmets for the cautious. Skirts for those with nothing to hide.