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Do Dead People Go to Heaven?

The Electric Whisper

By Dean MoriartyPublished 7 years ago 4 min read
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This dream is about the dream of a dream we dream while dreaming in the spirit world.

“Psst,” said the electric whisper ever so quietly from the dark doorway of a street of wandering.

“What?” said the wind as it was passing.

“I have a tale I want you to spread about,” said the electric whisper.

“Oh,” said the wind and began to listen to the tale being told:

The double life of an echo on a mission came about when the sigh frog exploded into nervous apprehension in the twisted fate coming its way and startled the blarney dog to run away with itself, quick-like and making yelp-like squeals that settled in the bottom of the postman’s bag and hid there out of sight for a while.

This is when the big scream from the fairground put in an appearance and jangled the nerves of the electric whisper on a tea break.

“That’ll be a shilling then,” said the waitress who couldn’t be moved to come any lower and was holding on to her dreams tightly in case something funny happened out of the blue and made her want to escape to anywhere to escape.

Over in the snatches for dinner where the cows never came home ole warble twisted foot was using loud language to get his point across and was just about to launch into a rendition of hurray, ups a daisy when his wife came in and threatened everyone into silence with her broomstick that was playing up for want of a service.

“That’ll be two and six,” said the waitress hoping to restore world peace with her asking.

No one paid her any mind, maybe because they didn’t have one between them or perhaps it was because of the electric whisper that was sighing to the sigh frog a faithless doom that touched the bottom of any spirit within range.

The double life of an echo on a mission pulled the common denominator switch out of its pocket and flicked it on and pretty soon a whirling mist was there and out jumped the dancing girls and the band struck up a rousing tune, the beer flowed and all was well again but not counting what couldn’t be counted in the well that ran deep and was snoring away upstairs and didn’t hear a thing even though Iron the Eileen’s ghost was doing her best to arouse the dead from their death and was growing dizzy with her efforts.

The parliamentary election came along and handed out flyers and hugged small children that were in short supply just then, and their promises were most splendid as they were heaved through the door back out into the street where they belonged.

The reactionary platitude that had relieved itself from the other side was being drip-fed coffee under the wardrobe that was creaking with the weight of too many late night stands and yet was perfectly happy to be where it was, for who needs to wander when everything you want is right where you are.

In the backroom of guarded secrecy no longer secret rusty diamonds were being exchanged for dirty gold and vice versa, ad infinitum, and as the clock on the wall was broken everyone was happy there too.

An ache where no ache should be was chained and bound to this idea and so couldn’t get away to pursue anything else, which is often the case in the spirit world where nothing can be said to make any sense; unless it’s encased in two feet thick of ice, and even then it tends to wander.

After an ageless age the blarney dog pulled itself out of the postman’s bag and made a run for it like a blue streak on the existential level until it went round the bend and there on a wall was the legend: Is laughter a derivative of your unease? Do you use it to fill in the discomfort of silence? Perhaps you need unlimited responsibility.

“Not me,” said the blarney dog and shot off to disappear down a rabbit hole to write a postcard that said: “I will come back when I’m not here and then I shall see what can’t be seen and know that though there’s nothing to be known, I shall know because I’ve found what can’t be found in the place that isn’t.”

The electric neon rose to the sky then and said: “I came from somewhere to here with the volume full on; which made perfect sense to the blathering gathering milling about waiting for the chicken shop to open.

Half an ounce later everything fell into the hole of where it used to be and the five fingered hand indicated to carry on unless it was finishing time.

“Ah, rocket science,” said the electric whisper as it pulled into a dark doorway to wait for the wind to come along.

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Dean Moriarty

writer, artist, musician and photographer

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