Guitar picks and a blizzard
Apr. 16th, 2022 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
boccaderlupoI dreamed I was now piloting one of those same thin spaceships I had seen in my dream the other night. They resembled huge cherry blossoms or perhaps moreso flying guitar picks; they were about 12 feet tall and four or five feet wide, tapering at the back, made of metal. Inside was a closet-shaped cockpit, where the pilot was required to stand; passengers (the wife and kids were riding along) sat in a straight line behind, and there was weird overhead room for storage, though it was not a spacious and luxurious setup.
I piloted the ship along the snarl of roadway near Route 23, Route 46, and Route 80. A blizzard loomed ahead, blocking the path. Traffic—it was hundreds and hundreds of other ships such as mine—came to a sudden halt. We apparently couldn't fly through the storm, which blanketed the road in front of us.
They were sending these large, galleon-style hovercrafts to the rescue that would apparently take us further east. These giant vessels would stop and load up scores of the guitar pick ships and then barrel through the swirling winds and snow.
I disembarked to see what was going on. A lady pilot of one such hovercraft, its captain, had pulled up in front of us, and people were hurriedly boarding their ships. I ran on board and called to her that my wife and kids were in a ship a few rows back, could I bring them on? She gestured hurriedly, sure. I turned only to find my family right behind me, and the ship's hatch closing. They had disembarked with me and didn't know what was going on. Our ship, meanwhile, was still out on the roadway.
I hooted and hollered to catch the captain's attention, but she had already taken off through the drifting snow. I settled down in a seat, immensely frustrated. How would we ever get back to reclaim our ship?
When we arrived at our destination, the back hatch of the hovercraft opened and we began to exit with everybody else. But there at the back was our ship after all; somehow the captain had managed to salvage it and pull it on board, although we hadn't witnessed this. She gave us a thumbs up, and I waved sheepishly as we departed the craft.
I piloted the ship along the snarl of roadway near Route 23, Route 46, and Route 80. A blizzard loomed ahead, blocking the path. Traffic—it was hundreds and hundreds of other ships such as mine—came to a sudden halt. We apparently couldn't fly through the storm, which blanketed the road in front of us.
They were sending these large, galleon-style hovercrafts to the rescue that would apparently take us further east. These giant vessels would stop and load up scores of the guitar pick ships and then barrel through the swirling winds and snow.
I disembarked to see what was going on. A lady pilot of one such hovercraft, its captain, had pulled up in front of us, and people were hurriedly boarding their ships. I ran on board and called to her that my wife and kids were in a ship a few rows back, could I bring them on? She gestured hurriedly, sure. I turned only to find my family right behind me, and the ship's hatch closing. They had disembarked with me and didn't know what was going on. Our ship, meanwhile, was still out on the roadway.
I hooted and hollered to catch the captain's attention, but she had already taken off through the drifting snow. I settled down in a seat, immensely frustrated. How would we ever get back to reclaim our ship?
When we arrived at our destination, the back hatch of the hovercraft opened and we began to exit with everybody else. But there at the back was our ship after all; somehow the captain had managed to salvage it and pull it on board, although we hadn't witnessed this. She gave us a thumbs up, and I waved sheepishly as we departed the craft.
