Good Evening, Everybun!
Charlie loafed in front of a small cup of some green liquid.
“Dandelion juice?! How did you get your paws on that?” asked the hoomin.
“Friends in high places, Mr. Hoomin. Isn’t that what Spressos would call you?”
“He would,” said the hoomin and looked at Charlie’s cup again. “Is that ..., it can’t be ...” he mumbled.
“An Absinthinie? Well, it should be. I also need something in my paw, like a mini catnip stogie or something. The smoke would snake and rise through my hair. And you couldn’t tell where the dream ends, and I begin.” quipped Charlie. The hoomin furrowed his brows.
Charlie went on, “I think we need a new scene. This whole “gulag fantasy,” the censors, the sweet-n-low, it has to go.”
“Right,” said the hoomin.
Charlie started giggling, “That drinking and smoking in the stories - that’s why they don’t read them to the little kids! Let’s give them something they can use, something educational, like the ‘tragedy of the compass.’”
Charlie sat up and slurped some more of the green stuff. She licked her lips and went on, “Maybe how the compass got faulted for its natural behavior and was forced to fit its three-dimensional nature into a two-dimensional delusion of ‘how things ought to be?’”
She plopped, stretched, took a deep breath, and sighed, “And in the end, the compass gets its revenge. The magnetic field disappears from the planet for some reason, and the solar radiation has its way with the world.”
Good night, and good luck!