Current mood: Bullplop
In a future distant, the ether will be the undiscovered country. The element that fills all space above the sphere of the moon will beckon those who are open to it. Those who scream in asylums, or view the world through water with rocks in their pockets, or those that blink before lying, or those that want to experience weightless, bodiless flight. The ether will call, electromagnetic waves piercing soft human matter.
And some, who are light of materials, shall flow easily into the air, off the dirt, through the outer atmosphere and out of range. The destination is everywhere but here, straight lines drawn out of a circle. Some other will be tied as if by rope to their homes, and they will be angry, shaking fists at the air, shiny watches with hands that swish not tick, snapping with the force, cracking off flawless cement.
But some, perhaps the unlucky few, will be trapped in the in between, bouncing, infinitively elastic, a pull holding them to the planet, a pull snatching them away. Birds squawk as they fly by, south for the winter, south for the warmth. And these few will scream and shudder, unsure of what to do. Military suit types, with the power to pervade human morals to mechanical means, send planes with guns to dispatch the unlucky few to an end by means justified. What is life, if you should be dead? Moist skeletons hang in the air, to remind those left behind.