The Dreamfields

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Something had struck the earth and it wouldn’t stop ringing. Or so it seemed. Ralph Metric took another pull at the beer can sweating in his hand and watched the heat waves shimmer on the rocks and sand beyond the glass. Below the glaring window the air conditioner whined.

“I just think it’s kind of strange,” came Stimmitz’s voice again. It cut through the aural haze produced by Bach cantatas dribbling into the room at low volume. “Don’t you? Strange, a little?”

“Huh?” Ralph turned, from the window. A phantom desert in green and purple slowly ebbed from his vision, revealing Stimmitz sitting in the dark end of the room. On one of the bookshelves behind him the reels of his tape deck inexorably rotated.

“Strange.” The too-angular legs shifted their positions, like some part of a mantis flexing. “Don’t you think it is?”

Somehow I got lost here, thought Ralph. While I was looking out the window? I can’t even remember what we were talking about. “Strange?”

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