I love creating worlds. I spend hours mapping out the details of the world my friends will explore after school. I am the Dungeon Master. I have control over everything that happens. My friends roll the dice, but I have already planned for all the possible outcomes.
Editor’s note: This is probably a work of fiction. In any case, none of us here at Daisybrain condone violence or look down upon people for their beliefs. We thought it import to publish this story because we found it in a capsule and it appears to be a work of historical fiction written in the future.
Ever since the Government mandated that all citizens carry guns, Eric enthusiastically complied. For as long as he could remember, at least the last 70 years, he had been a disciple of nonviolence. He had marched in countless peace demonstrations, protesting each generation’s pointless war, and was an active member of the Resistance. But, when the Lower House of Trump passed the mandatory carry law, something finally snapped.
He’d been getting underground Crisper treatments for years. Maybe his new friends didn’t suspect, but I knew Elray back in the 90s, when I was in high school and he was pushing 40. He should have been in his late 70s, but with a full head of jet black hair and athletic build, he looked younger than when I hung out with him. Plus he had to be eight inches taller. He was all brilliant white smiles as he walked up to me in his signature black tuxedo, through the crowd of retro-punks and retro-mods.
There’s some kind of leak between my dreams and my so-called reality. It used to be one way, the normal way: bits and pieces of my life show up randomly in dreams. You know, your dog is in your dream, giving you advice, and she’s also your mother. But ever since April 13th, dream-stuff has been appearing in my waking world. For example, as I am writing this, I’m sitting in a café in Vermont, and on the chalk-written menu is raisin-flavored kombucha. Yes, Vermont is full of the hippy probiotic drink kombucha. But nobody really makes raison-flavored kombucha. It’s something I dreamed last night, along with the kombucha-flavored, vegan, raw chocolate cream pie, which I just noticed is also on display here in this café. It makes me wonder what else I’m seeing that I forget I dreamed up.
The Internet is Broken! Here’s proof:
- “I don’t care about pandas” receives 21,300 results on Google, whereas “I care about pandas” receives five. That’s right, 5!!!!!
There is a pair of delicate purple tulips, with just a few inches of stem, in a small glass tea cup with a handle. The cup is filled about one third with water, leaving no doubt as to the authenticity of the flowers. At least the flowers are real. The same can’t be said for the slice of Boston creme pie on my plate. The diner was honest enough to spell it as “creme” since it obviously has no real cream in it. It is quite a beautiful imitation of a dessert. I guess that’s why I got a slice, after seeing its radiant beauty in the display case. But I wouldn’t dare destroy this work of art with a fork. I know that it would taste like artificially sweetened coagulated grease. And besides, just look at it – it’s a perfect, idealized replica of a real Boston cream pie.