A Dream After A Stormy Night.( March 20, 2003 ) by John Namest

I was at a party and I start talking to this attractive women sitting across from me or it was she that started talking to me. Her face told me her sad tale with a complexion slightly mottled, browner in some parts than others, well-shaped, it's centerpiece a pair of haunted eyes that singularity-like drew me in, but the story came mostly from her lips or maybe I told her my sad story first of which she responded most appropriately at the times where she was to act impressed or sympathetically saddened.

I was foolishly trying to impress her with a feat of mental manipulation of some cake she offered me. It was no better than David Blaine trying to pick up women at a party. I suppose it's why they call them parlor tricks. They don't belong in casual encounters. The piece of chocolate cake floated to my hands and as I chewed I could only taste how unimpressed she was. I excused myself to the restroom.

There was a large man there. He was large in that he loomed well over 7 feet with tattoos somehow bigger than himself. He was handsome and boisterous in the most agreeable manner imaginable. We greeted each other as old friends. The restroom where no one rested long was a multi-stalled affair like one you would find in a large and elegant restaurant. But this was definitely someone's house.

A man stood on the side as if supporting the wall. His face was round, bald, and had some red to it. He was dressed entirely in slightly soiled white material. He starred at us wordlessly with apprehension or hate in his eyes that slowly seeped into his face or it was there all along. I pretended not to notice him even though, since my friend had his back to him, I can recall only staring into his round red face. He was on his way out so my friend invited me to meet his friends on the balcony. He left me with more impression than identity and I know we had never met before, but we were good friends.

I gently sailed up there in an attempt to make a grand entrance. I was greeted by friendly and sporadic drunk mutterings and shouts that continued for several minutes after I had already landed a seat. My friend introduced me. I declare, which would be redundant if it wasn't incorrect, that I had telepathy and winced immediately as the words reached my own ears. Someone from the back called out, "It's telekinesis, I wouldn't let you in otherwise." in a helpful manner. A gorgeous woman of dark skin and straight hair was leaning affectionately towards me without moving while playing with the hair of someone next to her that was sitting so still that I could not see her face. She confides, "No one wants their mind read at this party."

The rest of the party is a blur.

I guess I had spent the night. I was in the backyard and it was early morning. It's a fenced off, rectangular yard exactly like that of the neighbor's and like that of the large majority of yards I have ever seen in life. The neighbors were out collecting eggs from small coups at the far side of their yards. We exchanged a series of silent waves. The yard I was in was quite different. It had the look of a shooting range, but there were no targets at the back of the yard. The area where the shooter would lie was a small hay covered enclosure for one person that transitioned to a natural slope with the rest of the lawn There were at least a dozen of these private places and as I gazed at them from the patio I recalled their purpose. The memory of their function rose out of a mismatched haze of recollections. Each of these places had a full computer and monitor. They were connected to each other and the Internet. They were set up for chatting via text, voice, and video. They were used imaginatively for that purpose at the party.

I leave eventually without seeing my host. I am soon walking downtown. It's the downtown of a large city on uneven ground.

There is so much rain.

Too much and evacuation of the city is called for. Some levy has broken and the rush of water intends to consume the city. I make hurried progress towards the transit station joined by a desperate crowd.

We arrive only to hear that the water is coming down the tracks of the subway and will arrive at the station on time. The station is at the transition from subway to above ground and past the station the tracks follow the terrain and turn down the hill into the heart of the city where the tracks become elevated like those of the Chicago L. I can see that the water will naturally follow the route of the tracks and crush the city. If the water were not to take that turn, but flow straight off and down the other side of this hill it would join a lake instead.

There was a slender bridge that went up and across the mouth of the tunnel. I climbed up. I centered myself there and tried to relax. The sound of the water made itself heard. It was the sound of a great number of drummers pounding low and rapid beats. The sound grew louder as if more musicians had joined this soggy symphony. I reached out to it. It's hard to hold water, even with the mind. Thankfully, water distinguished itself from everything around it from its motion, its energy. It stood out. It demanded to be heard and it would not be denied by me or anything. To attempt to control it would be folly. In such a situation as this it would be far worse than mere folly. I could only suggest a route. So I persuaded the land, which enjoyed height, but loved falling more. A friendly push was all it required. I gave it readily. A ragged scar was left on the face of the hill. The path was set.

The water arrived with all its terrible force. All I could do was hold on to that bridge and make the bridge hold on to the station. It passed and leapt into the waiting lake below to rest. I finally relaxed.

I arrived at home. Many people were there, both friends and family a party. I was tired. I made short work of small talk. Then these words came to mind more clearly than to my ears, "The postulant child."