dreamstate writing 15 June 2017

A female companion and I went into a towering house of glass to play her favorite game. Its top two floors had metal siding on them but the stories below them, where her game was located, had glass walls. We slid along glass-bottomed and rainbow-walled sky ramps in time to the game’s music while I struggled to read along with the conversations transcribed onto a LCD screen tethered to our face. My companion then flipped on her back and cranked the game’s speed up so fast that everything on the screen went blurry. I shot off the track and fell past many loops of sky ramp before hitting the forcefield at the bottom of the gaming chamber, which looked like an onyx expanse of outer space but was really a big, bouncy net.
 
While my companion was racing along the sky ramps, I explored an area below the central chamber that was walled off with tall glass panels. Various computers and screens were set up there, with different games loaded onto them. Into the area’s far wall, this one made of drywall, was built a control booth in which two men sat monitoring screens. They glanced at me when I came in but didn’t say anything as I walked around looking at the other games on offer. One of them featured a black-haired woman clad in black leather who was fighting hordes of football-sized scrabbling aliens with a complex and heavy-looking pistol in each hand. Finding little of interest, I went outside.
 
It was daytime and I was standing on a slope of grass. Behind me was the towering house of glass. To my left across a flat, fenced-in field the size of a football pitch was a sinkhole that had recently opened into a low hill, a circle of reddish-orange soil full of large rocks. In front of me, but on the other side of the chainlink fence, was a building bisected by an old carriage run, a portal from which a group of screaming schoolchildren came running. One child, a girl wearing a puffy jacket and scarf of dark colors, ran over to the sinkhole and started kicking at snowdrifts that had accumulated there. I saw then that both the field and the slope were covered with what looked like a thin layer of frost, or ice. At that point I realized that some of the children had made it as far as where I was standing, and that one boy had in fact grabbed my right leg and was yanking it toward him. Surprised and shocked, I kicked, sending him flying. I watched him hit the slope, bounce, and come to rest in a clump of arms and legs. He was groaning and complaining but not seriously injured.
 
He kept talking but I started to back away from him, rounding the towering house of glass until it was between me and the frost-covered slope. Looking up I discovered that most of the glass was gone and that the sky ramps had rusted badly, their rainbow walls and glass bottoms gone. At that point I entered a door at the bottom of the tower to my right. I found myself in the darkened basement of the tower and immediately started to climb a central flight of stairs. The walls and stairs seem to have been recently painted white, and bags of white rags or clothing littered every step and platform, with only a small area cleared through them. I reached a higher storey and went through the white door. Inside, I started hitting buttons on what looked like waiting elevators but what turned out to be the light-switches for a row of gleaming walk-in showers set deep into the darkened walls. I was heading for the next flight of stairs when I awoke.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

signals and tones

Stuck there in the firmament jagged and vast is a foreign object whose mere presence casts the story of mankind the story of We into much confusion doubt controversy. The Black Knight was spoke of by Tesla The Wise who'd peer to the heavens with augmented eyes who claimed that he heard from it signals and tones which proved that we're not in this quadrant alone. The Ynki they filmed it and Rus he did too this satellite that's neither ancient nor new that flies high above us without pause or spin that sits there like waiting for us to begin to shed our warlike and too-greedy ways and live out in peace-love the rest of our days. Will it soon awaken from its hearty slumber and show us its great and vast technical wonder or will it stay quiet and not move an hair just basking in northern lights and solar flares? There's no one among us who has any answers with a solid theory or a truthful stanza so let's just ignore it a little bit more until its wee aliens pound on the door.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Romney's hair quits

Following the failure of its host to gain the U.S. presidency, the alien hairpiece known to its fellow space-faring coiffures as ch'ch'iibuk violated the terms of its contract by leaving early. 'This blows – I'm outsville,' is the last verified written message ch'ch'iibuk left for the Republican challenger before vanishing as if into a puff of smoke. (In reality, it sealed itself into a box of cheap, processed sausages and re-gifted trinkets that the Romney family then sent to the White House as a congratulatory gift; ch'ch'iibuk fled in hopes of supplanting the toupee of one of president Obama's lesser aides.)

“That god-damn motherfucker,” governor Romney said while tearing through his Massachusetts home in search of the missing wig, his scalp pale and oddly barren. “That piece of shit motherfucked me! Outright motherfucked me. How dare he violate his contract?! If I have to go back to wearing that scratchy old... the Council of Intergalactic Species Relations [CISR] will hear of this in about 3 minutes. Honey – where's my phone?” Instead of replying that the device was on the couch next to her, Ann Romney broke down and started to cry. “There it is,” Mr. Romney said upon finding his mobile. “Would you lay off with the fucking tears already? Fuck, Annie, you've been crying since election night. I have a hairpiece crisis on my hands, just two days before meeting those Russian investors our son arranged for his upcoming real estate deal, just one week before having my picture taken signing the paperwork that will ship all those high-paying American jobs overseas, and all you can do is weep? Go iron my pleated jeans or bake a log of cookies – something, anything, but please make it appear as if you were of some use around here.”

When the CISR finally managed to track ch'ch'iibuk down (after failing to find a good hiding place atop a person close to Mr. Obama, it had hitched a ride upon a scabrous truck driver and merged with Karl Rove's mane of pubic hair), the hairpiece-from-outer-space defended its decision to flee, stating, according to official transcripts: “I stayed on Mitt's head for the duration of his campaign; I was never out of place or under-waxed; I was always wavy, making sure to show just the right amount of gray on his temples to convey the agree-upon level of seniority; I let myself be combed and washed and snipped and touched by all those worthless fucking barbers, and then, when I take off two weeks before the end of my contract, y'all send out a fucking ART [Alien Recovery Team] to bring me in? This new spot is kind of nice – it's real warm and sweaty, and I only get washed once in a fortnight. Could you please just leave me here?” After having been removed from the nether regions of Mr. Rove, ch'ch'iibuk was forced to merge with an old, rat-eaten, lice-infested bear skin shoved under a shed next to Mr. Romney's second vacation home out in southern Utah, where it remained until the beginning of January.

© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)