He fell asleep on the couch and dreamed of going to an island. Once he got there, he looked around. He saw trees he couldn’t name, sand so bright he felt ashamed walking across it, back in in the weedy scrub leavings of campfires from beings he sensed were human but not-quite, or maybe human but more-so—there was, along with the sulfurous traces of the embers, another smell, a sharp but sweet odor he could not quite describe, but that he instinctively believed came from elsewhere in the galaxy, and maybe elsewhen, a word that made him chuckle aloud. The sound of his laughter scared a brilliant purple bird from a nearby bush. Its wings opened up like a new idea. Dusk came and then night. He fell asleep on the edge of the beach, still unwilling to step onto the sand, and woke up back on the couch. Spaghetti-O’s were burbling on the stovetop. His heart was frozen at the farce of it all.
©2020 Ben Greenman / Stupid Ideas
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