Tag: memory

Dreamthief

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People are stealing my dreams and posting them online.
I have no idea who is doing it or how they are doing it, but the dreams I have while I’m asleep appear on the Internet the next morning.
The more vivid the dream, the more vivid the form in which it appears.
For a while, I wondered how they did it. I tore apart pillows, alarm clocks, my ceiling lamp… anything a mind-reading sensor or recorder could conceivably be hidden in.
I never found any.
Maybe this podcasted story is one of my dreams, stolen and posted online?
Thieving bastards.

The Roar

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All he could remember from the speech was saying “Thank you” and descending the steps from the stage.
“Great speech!” said his assistant. “Inspiring!”
He thought for a moment. Still a blank.
“What speech?”
The audience, applauding even louder, shouted for more.
He looked at his notes.
Blank.
“Go ahead,” said his assistant, pressing a sheaf of paper in his hand. “Give them an encore.”
“An encore of what?”
He looked at the new set of notes.
Also blank.
He shrugged, stood up, and raised his fist in the air as he walked back up the stairs to the stage.

Pace it again, Sam

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Dr. Franklin laughed.
“Sam is so gullible, you can drop him in a padded round room, tell him the door out is right around the corner, and he’ll wear himself out looking for it.”
Dr. Franklin turned on the speaker for the chamber’s locked hatch. “Found it yet, Sam?”
I tapped Dr. Franklin on the shoulder. “I think so.”
Dr. Franklin gasped. “But… how… Sam… did… where…”
“Look for yourself,” I said.
Dr Franklin spent the next six years pacing that round room. “I know it’s here somewhere, Sam.”
I’d show him, but it would only make him even crazier.

Firewall

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I don’t remember dreams. I wish I could, but I can’t.
You see, Symantec was beta-testing a firewall product, and I fell asleep with my face on the keyboard. Somehow, my brain downloaded the firewall, and I blocked my dreams out with an iptables rule.
Oh, they’re still there. Just blocked.
So I called Symantec, and forty minutes later I’m talking to some Indian:
“How am be helping you?” he says.
“I firewalled my brain,” I said. “I’m blocking my dreams now.”
“My dreams dot com?” he asks. “Dot net? Dot org?”
In the end, I was told to reboot.

And the last to leave the scene of the crime

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I have no memory of Venice.
I’ve been told that I’ve been there. Twice. But aside from this pair of scars on my temple and two receipts from Lethe Incorporated, I really can’t tell you anything about it.
However, every time I see the Rialto or St. Marks in a movie or in an article I’m looking up, I get that odd sense of familiarity. As familiar as my own breathing.
And I want to go back. For the first time. Again.
Confusing, right?
You know, there’s that hotel in Vegas that looks like Venice.
I should go there instead.