Allister rarely dreamt in normal life. And, when he did, his dreams lacked panache. No dragons, no princesses, no talking rocking chairs, no adventure or bizarre convolution. His dreams were merely a continuation of the day before.
But there was one day that came before another day and after another day, where Allister found himself in a park on a hill looking to see if he could find the curve of the world. Per usual, he could not find it.
Moments before, though, the sky had opened and relentlessly poured water. Someone up high had been hell-bent on drowning all-people, puppies, pebbles, and park benches. Luckily for people and puppies, the sky realized that pebbles and park benches would survive a drowning. So it was, in a matter of minutes, the storm pulled back.
But, the flash pour had caught Allister with nowhere to go. For, by the time he reached shelter, the storm would have ended. And, so it was, that in the moments after the clouds had wrung out their last drops, Allister’s fingertips rained the last rain that had rained from his sleeves that had rained from the sky onto the grassy hill.
And there he stood.
There he stood with the idea (no, the lack of idea that left him immobile) and hoped to dry. And let’s not say hoped because Allister knew he would be dry. Let’s say waited because Allister did not know when. So, Allister stood and listened to the tweets of the birds and felt the pokings of the sun and gargled the remaining moisture in the air.
He felt cleansed.
He thought about what it would be like if everyone suddenly rotated around him. Him standing still and sturdy. A monument like the sun. And people walking away would be drawn back, would find a place in the collective circling that had begun around him.
And the birds would come back, swirling overhead of the orbiting people that had now collected puppies and squirrels and rats and cats and rabbits and deer and maybe the occasional park bear. All swirling, all orbiting.
And, though the spectacle did not need it, he thought how nice it would be if the tweet of the birds trickled down and inspired the orbiting creatures below to contribute to the song until it burst forth like a full-blown Busby Berkeley musical number.
And the cool, damp air from the rainstorm would dry. The tempo of the number would pick up to that point where Busby would have everyone kicking high and still higher. And the air would become warm with the high kicks.
Swirling warm air.
And, in the center, Allister closed his eyes for but a moment and opened them to find himself dry.
Yep, though Allister did not usually dream, he was always dreaming.
But there was one day that came before another day and after another day, where Allister found himself in a park on a hill looking to see if he could find the curve of the world. Per usual, he could not find it.
Moments before, though, the sky had opened and relentlessly poured water. Someone up high had been hell-bent on drowning all-people, puppies, pebbles, and park benches. Luckily for people and puppies, the sky realized that pebbles and park benches would survive a drowning. So it was, in a matter of minutes, the storm pulled back.
But, the flash pour had caught Allister with nowhere to go. For, by the time he reached shelter, the storm would have ended. And, so it was, that in the moments after the clouds had wrung out their last drops, Allister’s fingertips rained the last rain that had rained from his sleeves that had rained from the sky onto the grassy hill.
And there he stood.
There he stood with the idea (no, the lack of idea that left him immobile) and hoped to dry. And let’s not say hoped because Allister knew he would be dry. Let’s say waited because Allister did not know when. So, Allister stood and listened to the tweets of the birds and felt the pokings of the sun and gargled the remaining moisture in the air.
He felt cleansed.
He thought about what it would be like if everyone suddenly rotated around him. Him standing still and sturdy. A monument like the sun. And people walking away would be drawn back, would find a place in the collective circling that had begun around him.
And the birds would come back, swirling overhead of the orbiting people that had now collected puppies and squirrels and rats and cats and rabbits and deer and maybe the occasional park bear. All swirling, all orbiting.
And, though the spectacle did not need it, he thought how nice it would be if the tweet of the birds trickled down and inspired the orbiting creatures below to contribute to the song until it burst forth like a full-blown Busby Berkeley musical number.
And the cool, damp air from the rainstorm would dry. The tempo of the number would pick up to that point where Busby would have everyone kicking high and still higher. And the air would become warm with the high kicks.
Swirling warm air.
And, in the center, Allister closed his eyes for but a moment and opened them to find himself dry.
Yep, though Allister did not usually dream, he was always dreaming.
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