The Ruby Trees
The wind whistled through the clear red leaves. It spoke softly and slowly. Too patient for anger it was kind to all. The tree was as old as the world, some thought older. It would talk of lands no explorer had ever seen despite the last blank gaps in the map closing in. It’s kin slept more and spoke less. They would interject in stories where they knew ore or otherwise. The villagers regarded them as friends and came to them with questions when they needed help. Children played with their reflections in the glistening trees and the trees would play along.
I turned away from the children’s show and turned the page. Channels would have worked like that I guess. If I was older I might remember when they were stuck on stiff screens. The folds show on my page, it is old and worn. The stuff inside did not react well to chippie sauce. The colours are all off where the sauce was spilt. I wont throw it away despite all of that, maybe I should. I was given it by a friend I lost. When the relocation happened she chose another city and I haven’t seen her since.
She couldn’t listen to it, such nonsense in a time of war. Idle speculation on a future that might never be. The bombs were sinking all around leaving craters worthy of the moon in the sea bed. The foundations of the settlement shook when a bomb went off nearby and the civilians would scream, like that helped anything. Posters reminded them to black out outer rooms during the night. She hoped the bombing would end when the harsh winter came and the rebellion cells were activated. The rebels had to wait for the cold to freeze the engines of the war machines designed to work at higher temperatures.
The pitch wasn’t going well. No one wanted so eclectic a story for their film. He could never settle on one subject, his interest spanned all subjects sadly more than those who might have read his scripts. He would wander off during a pitch and scribble new ideas across the unnecessary contracts. He would make it big someday, if he took an interest. If.
A Game of Broken Patience
The main character was too much like her son, too apathetic to apply the talents he was born with and now he was waging war through a screen. Game testing, what kind of job was that? He could have been an architect or a spaceman but instead he wore ridiculous glasses. He made subconscious gunfire noises like a small child playing. She put down the book for another.
Worlds in Dreams
He couldn’t stand that type of film, boring people doing boring things in the past. No matter where he walked within those spaces nothing was happening that he considered as interesting as his job exploring the edges of the solar system. The basic architecture of the outer reaches was known but men like him were still paid vast sums to find hidden dangers and potential new resources. The films were a fine way to spend sleeping hours and learn during inactive time. He could wander around in the worlds of the story where they interested him. As of yet there was no menu function, if he chose a dull film he was stuck.
Are You Buying Our Story?
And that’s just the average plot depth you can expect here on deep narrative television where our story is the only one worth your time. For an appropriate price we customise all plotlines to meet your wants and needs. Follow multiple paths expressing alternative possibilities for only the smallest of top up fees.
Inescapable Product Placement
Adverts, I hate them. I just can’t take the endless, incessant drone of one after the other beamed right into my brain. What right have they? I don’t have the time or money to buy half of the stuff they’re trying to sell me. Who does? If only tinfoil hats actually worked. It’s no wonder the transmitters are vandalised so often.
And this is all he does you see. He Writes these stories which have no singular plotline or central character and jump sporadically to a new perspective. I recommend extensive psychiatric help effective immediately to avoid a complete disconnection from reality.
What’s so good about reality I ask? I show a little imagination and they put me in here saying I’m crazy. I was just bored. Now I’m stuck in this stupid house and I think I like it more. Some of the locals are scary but at least they’re interesting. At least they do their own thing. They don’t spend their days sifting through dirt for technology thrown away by our forebears. What do my parents think they’ll find? They may have been arrogant but our parental race were not stupid. The bridge over the sky valley was their last gift to us and the only useful one I’d say.
She let her mind rest after all the writing. The software minimised as she lay on her bed and considered where it might go next. She stood and paced laps of her room before deciding to go for a walk. The other rooms had their doors closed and most were dark. She checked twice that her door was locked and encrypted before strolling down her street. There were four rooms in her section of that street and one hundred rooms on that street in total. The kitchens were all over the city but only open during certain hours depending on designation. She wanted to look out of a window it was a long way to either line of them on her level. She passed an inspector checking for leaks and told him about the hissing on her street. He took a note and headed there straight away. From the window she saw the vast darkness of space. She saw a gas nebula made visible by the light of a star behind as it mutated like the clouds in her stories. That was the life of her people, just drifting along looking for a world.
He’s Different Now
He used to love stories like that, all space and vast machines. It’s all about work now for him. Plant life for military research! Is he going to make Venus man traps? Maybe he’ll create nettles that’ll paralyse people instead of hurting them…
I hate people having a conversation when I’m trying to get home. If her son’s doing military research shouldn’t she shut up about it? Stupid woman. If I had an E.M.P cap (I don’t care that they’re illegal) I’d happily set it off to shut her up. My own earpiece would be as useless as hers but at least I might have silence.
From Banal To…
Is that really what I dream about now? Are bitchy loners that important to me? There were other dreams before that, hopefully more epic. I had an amazing dream about an army of magical creatures once. They were all hybrids of one form or another. I wasn’t one of them myself, just floating above as they marched. I could take in details from any angle and stare without them looking at me. Another dream made me a master of my own world as I moved but not by my own efforts but by manipulating the world to move for me. Buildings leapt out of my way as roads like treadmills carried me as and where I wished.
Dreams have that power don’t they? To take us anywhere be it conscious or subconscious. That is the subject of this piece however well realised. We can be taken, whole, into any reality in no time at all.
I wouldn’t say that. Definitely not. There is the potential for an infinite variation of realities but within the confines of the individual’s imagination.