10,000 Words: 4950-5415
When I was a kid I had a recurring dream that I could travel on my farts. Like, I’d be able to hover in the air and even fly powered entirely by farts. I’d be able to fart my way across oceans and travel the world. I could go anywhere. There was actually a bit of a narrative to these dreams, and they developed over the years. Initially, I hovered on my farts, cross-legged like an Indian guru. People came to me to seek advice since, obviously, I had a very special power. From atop my column of constant farts I would bless children, heal the sick, and advise world leaders.
But, eventually, I made it to England. At the time, in my mind’s eye, England was comprised of either quarries and industrial buildings from British sci-fi, or the idyllic, hazy countryside of Robin of Sherwood and Survivors. So, in my dreams, I was on those sets, buzzing over those same filming locations. I was visiting Portmeirion, the setting for The Prisoner, or I was moving through suburban neighborhoods inspired by dozens of Britcoms.
My farts took me other places, too. I saw the Taj Mahal, Red Square, the pyramids, the Nazca lines… Sometimes I relaxed in a pub, or on a beach. Sometimes I would spend weeks or months in one location, once again settling yogi-like on a column of farts to receive supplicants.
The dreams stopped when I decided to see if I could leave the planet. If I could fart my way through the sea of stars and explore new worlds. It was actually quite sad. I wanted to leave the Earth. Why would the dreams stop when I was just about to try out the ultimate adventure?
They say you can’t die in your dreams. That you’ll wake up before that happens. I’ve wondered, in recent years, if, for several months during my childhood, I had a prolonged series of dreams where I was dying of farting.