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Morocco, Algeria, Libya, Tunisia, Egypt, Djibouti, Yemen, Bahrain, Iran – have we missed many?
Please read our mockoposts since 31 January 2011 and check our predictions out, as they slowly but surely come true, leading towards the Third World War and the New World Order.
Night 3
What are we writing about? Are we writing the wishing thing? Please don’t write down everything I say. OK.
On planet Go-to-Bed people don’t throw coins into the wishing well, they throw cows, but of course there are no cows on that planet, so they have to wait for space ships from Earth to bring a cow or two every now and then. This is why Faruno Abalgandon Vextraliensis wanted to become a captain, so he could travel to other planets and get more cows. He was hoping that more and more people on planet Go-to-Bed will be able to make wishes, although it didn’t really matter for Faruno if those wishes came true. He didn’t even care whether he was going to bring back home cows or elephants. Of course it is much harder to throw an elephant into a wishing well that was made mostly for cows. However, elephants like water so they could live happily on planet Go-to-Bed, if not piled up too many on the same well.
Prior to becoming a captain, Faruno had to go to university, then school and, finally, to kindergarten. Only the best students ever went to maternity, to be born again. The best captains were chosen among those because when you get re-born, you may not look like other people on your planet, but you may even look like a human, with only two legs, a single nose and maybe a funny hat.
Now mum wants us to go to bed so we may not become space ship captains tonight.
(Later in that flight)
No wonder I couldn’t read the secret meaning of her bracelets. Something was terribly wrong! And it wasn’t then, no, then it was just beautiful, the comfort of the guilty feeling when you know for sure you can’t be guilty at all. The wrong part only comes now, as I write: I have just realized that it takes a wee bit of Dali and quite a strong dose of Picasso to make the hand and arm of the English girl in the KLM flight perfectly match the described position with her book, blue jeans, white fingers and the arm rest of my seat. She was young, all right. Attractive over the limit, all right (in a 22-hour one-stop flight who wouldn’t be?). But contortionist, no way! Russian ballerina, no way! How was she, actually?
Now, as I remember, she was asleep. Or so she seemed.
She moved slightly as the plane shook from some lateral wind and the light dimmed and most kids cried but only a few mums shushed. Her left leg crossed over my right one, which was a severe violation of my private economy class space but I could see no air marshals or even better looking hostesses, so I chose not to induce any panic on board and I did not complain. The light got dimmer but not fast enough to prevent me from seeing her fragile, almost argyle, agile, ankle. A while.
She was wearing sandals: vandal’s teeth marks, shark’s in her flesh, fresh. I didn’t like her much. So I didn’t touch. I looked at my watch. There was NO time. Just a chime. We were stopping soon, in Bangkok, at noon.
——
NOTE: By mistake or just randomly chosen, the airliners featuring in this post and the previous one replace British Airways and its partners, with whom indeed I flew. This is thanks to a charge they applied to my MasterCard for trying to contact over their satellite (?) phone a number on the ground, as I was flying over. It was something like 30 US a minute for NOT getting through. I wrote to British Airways and that letter came back at some expense, too. But never mind, the girl was real. I just picture her in a plane belonging to a company I am more comfortable with.
A True Story
I was first abducted by a long-haired alien when I was a young bull with no brain between my horns, just having managed to survive the compulsory army camp all Soviet boys had to go through. I was a sitting duck when the she alien landed in my neighborhood.
She was long and svelte, yet short and curvy and her beauty was leaving behind a comet’s trail of hair that could be red had it not been exo-green. She smiled on occasions and cried a lot. Her language was odd and I never tried to understand it more than a never-ending chant. She scribbled little funny dots and lines that looked more like seafood then letters. She smelled of disaster and grapes. Holding her hand was like falling in a crevasse, as our fingers would never want to stay still and the History of the Universe was at crossroads when we were walking together had in hand in that muddy reality. We became stars.
Or did we?
That she alien was slowly absorbing me and taking me into a dimension I couldn’t understood, so I fought back. And back fought I the more, the more she wanted me to slip for good into her uncharted world.
We mingled among students in a huge university cut out of grey stone in the midst of a dark city of two million and soon found our own retreat underground. There was a small window at the pavement level but time itself was mainly night, as fragile creatures visiting our cruel world can’t stand our Sun when playing games of power and desire. We shared a table, a chair, a cupboard and a bed. Had books. Had dreams. Had each other.
In summertime we would go hiding badly in places where anyone could see how beautiful we were. This photo was taken then to serve as a sample on board her mother ship as the experiment progressed.
In our bunker we had a tin pot for brewing coffee, cooking Earth roots and warming water to wash our time travel fluids with. I was hoping for the American bomb to flash us still out of that life and print us together onto the basement’s wall. She hoped for her I-never-knew-what.
One day she was gone.
The abduction was over and I dropped to the floor. Almost dead, yet safe from her witchcraft. I pulled myself together and I learned to forgive and forget. I lived.
I lived perhaps to the edge of my grave only to find out that all this time I’ve been watched, monitored, tested through my soul implants, maybe even loved by that incarnation that’s now nowhere to be seen, yet still holds my life in her beautiful alien palm. Should I fear a second abduction?