The horseless carriages were coming straight toward me at a high velocity. I instinctively flung myself out of the way just in time, as they rushed past me in a blur.
Picking myself off the asphalt, I wondered where I was and how I got here. The last thing I recalled from the night before was debating whether just one more glass of absinthe was a good idea and deciding that it couldn't hurt...until the next morning, at least. Now I was in this bright place. My head was clear, which I ordinarily would think was a positive development, but today it was a bit too clear, in the sense that I couldn't recall anything since that last drink.
On the positive side, I was still wearing all the clothes I started with, and everything appeared to be in its proper place.
I looked about. More carriages, in all colors and styles! People stood and chatted on the sidewalk, dressed most oddly. The women almost all wore trousers. Their footwear was unspeakable.
The brightness at night was disorienting. Was this from a thousand gas lamps? The color seemed very wrong. The moving pictures were entirely baffling.
I closed my eyes to shut out the light, and willed myself to ignore the din. Out of desperation more than anything, I clicked my toes together three times while saying "There's no place like home" each time. The scene changed:
That was certainly a change for the better, but not home. Perhaps I did it incorrectly. I clicked my heels this time, repeating the mantra, and found myself safely back home, with a horrible hangover and a feeling that, indeed, there was no place like home.
2 comments:
I think your dystopian visions were a warning of how hellish the world would become if women discarded bustles and men attempted to travel faster than a canter. Having now seen the horror, it is of course unimaginable that we would ever be so deranged as to bring it about.
Wisdom indeed, Mr. Magellan. Still, I have suggested to sister that she cut back on the absinthe cocktails just a wee bit.
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