Archive for the ‘Trent Walters’ Category
Dream
Friday, October 12th, 2007
“Wake up, sleepyhead. Do you remember your dream? You squeezed your pillow awful tight. Was the dream of me?”
“I don’t think I dream. I never remember them.”
“Everybody dreams. Maybe they’re nightmares, so you block them.”
“I’d remember a nightmare.”
“Maybe your dreams have nothing to say. We only remember the memorable, holding on to the relevant.”
“Mmmaybe.”
#
“Wake up, Love.”
“What a strange dream. I dreamed I said I don’t remember dreams, but I do–to the minutest detail: my day-old perfume mingled with your scent on my lace pillow, the brush of cotton sheets against my legs and the heat of your face hovering over mine, the sound of your voice cracked and scratchy as if you were getting over a cold and it made me a little tingly down there, and my mouth sour from the alcohol of the night before. I don’t even drink. My dream-me implied dreams mean nothing, but they mean the world. Why would I say something that I don’t believe if it was my dream? Do you think some being hijacked my mind?”
“Being? Do you mean aliens or chimpanzees?”
“I’m serious. God could be trying to tell me something. Or our mitochondria are trying to warn of impending catastrophe. Or you, even: You’re making me dream.”
“Possibly. Could also be that someone who needs your help sends you the dreams–someone in another dimension. Or else you dream of the life you live in a parallel universe.”
“I hope I’d have more sense than that. An inability to see meaning shows a distinct lack of imagination.”
#
“Pay attention, Mabel! You’re always daydreaming in my class.”
#
“Wake up, oh god, wake up! Don’t die on me–god please no. If you leave me this way, I’ll never forgive you. Please. Breathe. Oh baby. Breathe. The CPS will send out their investigator again, and she won’t believe me. Not a third accident.”
#
“Why won’t you wake up?”
“You ruined my dream of flight over the ocean where the sea met sky–no up or… What’s that smell?”
“The house is on fire, you fool. We have to get out of this place.”
#
“Despierta, mi cielito.”
“¡Mamá Mar! ¡Acabo de soñar que hablo inglés pero no hablo inglés pero yo estaba hablando inglés!”
“¿Qué dijiste en tu sueño?”
“No sé. No hablo Inglés.”
“Espero que fuera bueno.”
“¡Claro que sí!”
#
“Wake up!”
“No.”
Parthenia Rook, episode VI: The World’s Fair
Wednesday, September 26th, 2007
For previous episodes in Parthenia Rook, see the archive.
Parthenia, in her shiny leather pants and pineapple sunglasses for a disguise, scanned the crowds for signs of a barefoot chimpanzee in an Italian suit made out of chitin. The digital displays that flowed down the sides of her sunglasses assured her no zombie photographers slouched in the vicinity.
An anonymous tip had warned that the Bonobo King would “arrive today to rain on the world’s parade,” and Parthenia believed it. The Bonobo King always emailed his anonymous threats in assonance.
However, there was no hint of clouds in the pale sky above Vörpalsberg. Only the bittersweet scent of coffee wafted up from the four hundred cafes–reminding her of wasted kirchenstreuselkuchen.
Her stomach rumbled at the loss. No, it wasn’t her stomach, or else her stomach was making the silverware rattle and the dishes clatter. Earthquake? Probably more like the overgrown earthworms that Dr. Mandril had genetically engineered to attack Manhattan.
That’s when Parthenia saw the swift-moving cloud, the tail end of which twinkled like stars on a humid night. Parthenia turned her sunglasses to the dark mass, to allow the pineapples (actually, radar dishes with astounding pick-up) a chance to bounce and receive beams off the disturbance, but Dr. Mandril must have either devised a cloaking device or come up with something more sinister.
A plague of locusts? Not the Bonobo King’s style.
A gust of wind jostled the crowd. They looked up. That’s when Parthenia felt a lump in her throat. Dr. Mandril had engineered a Zemeros giganticus. A giant butterfly. Gorgeous. Parthenia stood paralyzed with awe.
But the twinkling that trailed the butterfly snapped her out of her reverie. Their plan was for Parthenia, the world-famous lepidotrist, to fall so in love that she wouldn’t protect the world from the Bonobo King and his minions. It might have worked if the Bonobo King’s zombies, harnessed in anti-grav devices, didn’t have to photograph the fair before wrecking ruin. Parthenia Rook tapped her platform heels to jet–Kung Fu fists first–into the butterfly’s maw.