Get that phony foam phone away from me, since I gotta call Frank in Philadelphia, on a real phone. We’re supposed to go fishing on Phil’s farm. Where’s my cell phone? I put it here a minute ago. You didn’t sell it, did you? Frankly, I don’t know what the heck you’re doing with that goofy phony foam phone anyway.
Grown-ups have more power than children in making many decisions — like where to live — and some grown-ups have a great deal of power — like a captain in the military — but a child can have the power to conjure fantastical creatures and talk with them, creatures inspired by the fairy tales she loves to read: printed words peel off pages then flit around then transform into a faun, greedy toad, monster with eyes on his hands, which caused me to wonder why the girl would imagine such creatures and not an array of friendly ones (graceful unicorn and teasing, loving wood sprites), but then I realized she is following the pattern of fairy tales, which don’t describe kids floating on ice-cream clouds of easy lives, but who need to face nasty witches and trolls — so the girl would create similar tests for herself, offering the chance to become the brave heroine who deals with nasty creatures by besting them or eluding them.
The nightmare embraces her regularly, a lover she does not want, nor does she ever want the beast of the dream to catch her: its thrashing in the forest is so loud she can hardly hear the heaving of her breath as she runs/stumbles/careens around trees, always hoping to find a safe place, but the only thing seen are the beast’s glowing green eyes when she glances back which makes her speed up in the retreat into darkness.
Signs of emptiness and destruction increased as they approached the city burned cars houses of broken windows and open doors. People in masses had fled for what seemed safer places. “The worst is yet to come,” the group’s leader said, and the followers were on greater alert for the swift and deadly creatures.
heart thumping, she’s a living ghost invisible in her sidewalk and subway commute to work, barely visible at work lonely in her fortress of shyness not wanting to be seen and heard except by a tender person who would understand.
Along the coasts, factories churn day and night to filter plastic trash from seawater, remove salt, pump the clean water through miles of pipelines to provide water to parched areas while trying to lower sea levels.
With a very, very long spoon, we could take a scoop of the moon. Then we’d enjoy a delicious treat, a taste that can’t be beat. The moon’s not really made of cheese, as people in olden days used to believe. Any astronaut worth their mustard will tell you the moon is made of custard.
Three dots in a queue, as if waiting for a turn to gaze into the white abyss of the page or screen.
What will emerge from the depths of that milken sea? Friendly or raging faces? A hand to grab my throat, or one to give me a high five? A digital guide to take me into the world of bytes, or a digital moper complaining about working hard from the many requests of users like me?
Our imaginations can rush into wild visions, from realistic to impossible (or nearly so).
Like when you’re strolling in a new strange bustling city, and despite your smartphone smartly showing you the map of streets, it can’t show you what walks (or slithers stomps creeps) on those streets, so as you turn the corner at each intersection, you could stand face to face with…
Down the sidewalk from my house, a few blocks away, a boat rests on a trailer next to a truck parked in the driveway.
I guess the neighbor bought the boat from a boat store, but I like to imagine a massive wave carried the boat from the lake and left it here.
Of course, no fishes or people were harmed in the wave’s crash. The fishes that were in the wave took a bus back to the lake. I doubt they had money for bus fare, so maybe fish can ride buses for free.