A fork, a radio, full moon and a dump truck all flashed through my mind the other night. I'm not getting a lot of sleep but lying in bed, words flow like bioluminescence. I don't have the energy to write them all down but they soothe me to sleep. Eventually.
Sometimes they prompt scenes. This one started out as radio silence spoke volumes but morphed into something a bit more adventurous.
The brilliance of the full moon in August shone a spotlight on the dump truck parked beneath the bedroom window. Filled to the brim with an old battered couch and an abundance of cushions buried beneath tattered clothes, a broken radio and a drawer of cutlery missing all the forks, the truck looked as out-of-place as a rocketship in a lion's pen. The window on the far left of the second storey opened with a screech and muttered curse. One bare leg thrust through the opening to be quickly followed by a second leg then the rest of the body. With a rolling dive that would make Greg Louganis proud, the gangly teenager landed in the back of the dump trunk. After a brief fist pump, he folded his skinny arms and legs around his body and sank beneath the cushions.
With a soft crunch over branches on the back lawn the dump truck made its way to its next destination. To pick up the next runaway. It pulled onto the county road, just another working vehicle transporting its cargo to the space station down the road. There the contents would be sorted into trash to be burned and organic materials for biodiesel. The teenager's dream of space travel would be realized.