susan marie loehe
There are no dreams
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Karo, named for the sweet clear bronze elixir to be poured over your biscuits, considers this thoughtfully for a fraction of a second, then shuts her mouth. She closes her eyes for a long moment. No one can see your dreams either, girl. No one can know your thoughts. No one can feel with your hands. No one can see with your eyes, or hear with your ears, or speak with your voice. This is your kingdom, any agreement with outside forces mythical, at best. Pull yourself together.
He burps an acidic mouthful, and reaches for his pocket hankerchief to spit out the offending matter. He realizes with a brief yet jarring crush that he is not wearing his suit coat; that in fact he is nearly stark naked, excepting the soft sarong tied around his waist. Swallowing the bile with a sharp inhalation, he throws both hands out to the his sides in alarm and coughs, gulping for air. He is sitting on a minutely suspended cushion of very large size, reaching nearly the sides of the carriage, rocking slightly back and forth with the motion and sound of a train all around him.
1. He is startled awake in total darkness, the surge and noise of the train he rides instantly familiar. In the dark tunnel, he feels the soreness of his shoulder where it has rested deadweight on the ledge of the sliding window while he slept. He has a feeling of disorientation for a second, allthough the act of awakening is uninterrupted and familiar, and he is alert. Vague memories of extreme drunkeness assail him, and he can taste and smell the odor of vomit. Sudden brightness floods the train as it exits the curving tunnel and emerges into the light beyond. The train tilts and screeches alarmingly, and slips the tracks, flying off the mountain pass trestles into the sky.