Outside, in a city – maybe a U.S. suburb – at a broad intersection along under clear blue skies. I fart without warning. It’s not a large thing, just a sort of sharp, “Pop,” but with it, I take off perhaps fifty feet into the air and travel several hundred feet. Then, in dream fashion, I’m at the same point, and in quick succession, it happens twice more.
On the fourth time, I kept wind of what was happening (yeah, sorry, had to put it in). I asked myself, how can a fart like that propel me so high and far? There had to be another cause, like weather. I crane all around for what could be behind my flights. Then I fart again, launching anew, traveling the same path, height, and distance.
It must be the farts, I conclude, and wonder what I ate to give me such prodigiously powerful gas. Time is spent pondering that but I’m back on the corner, releasing without warning one more fart.
This time, I think, try to take advantage of it. I spread my arms like wings and flatten my body into a plan and lean forward. Doing this, I catch a breeze, traveling further and higher than before.
Back at my original spot, I’m laughing at events. I fly via a fart. If I learned what was fueling me, maybe I could go further. Then again, I’m always back at the same place, like some perverse Groundhog Day twist.
End dream.
Michael Seidel, writer 