DREAM 111 Ó JJ Kelly 2011
Youth is the Lord of Life.
Youth has a kingdom waiting for it.
Oscar Wilde
Soho City, West London.
July 5th 2662:
Trocadero Tower Point soared 3000 feet above the city streets of Soho City. The tip of its sleek, tapering, aluminium profile gashed the sky like a silver sword. Vast sheaths of glass that framed the Southwest wing of the Apex Suites burst into flames of tinted scarlet and sharp acid-green as the light of a dipping mid-summer sun washed over the Sky-Cutters of Soho City.
A million specs of humanity shifted across the filthy-grey streets of New-Age London. The subclasses lived on the smog lined mean-street levels - modern homosapien with limited lifespans of 110 to 120 years. The immaculate cobalt-blue skies were reserved for an all-powerful, all-knowing and exceedingly opulent elite.
These people represented ‘mankind in its glory’ – through the miracles of modern science their lives had been telescoped into a future that would, in all probability, stretch out to eternity. However; there was one small price to pay for eternal life on earth – or at least the version that was manufactured by humans. The price was – Dream 111.
“I could feel the weight of the weapon – I could see the star-points of light glinting off the tip of the silver blade! I felt in control again Doc; that feeling of power – it was coursing through my veins!”
“That’s very interesting Jack. Carry on; what happened next?” said Doctor Philip Leech, caught in mid-yawn.
“Well, there I was, back in the National Gallery… ”
“May I interrupt Jack?” said the doctor, ‘The Laughing Cavalier’ - the painting you leapt out of - was painted in 1624 by Franz Hals and hangs in the Wallace Collection, not the National!” whispered Leech, smugly. Jack Flashman’s world-weary umber coloured eyes practically bulged out of their Australian sockets.
“For God’s sake!” he squawked, “The President of the world’s biggest Networking Empire – I am. One of the richest men on earth – I am. But I am not - a dammed art historian! Now are you going to analyse my dreams or not?”
“I’m sorry Jack… ” murmured Leech, quaking in his well-heeled, shiny leather brogues, “Carry on!”
“Damned know it all!” cursed Flashman under his hot Melbourne breath; “Anyway - as I was saying - I was standing in the dead centre of this stuffy old English’ art gallery, when I became aware of a faint breeze on the back of my neck. The powerful, bracing smell of seaweed and saltwater piqued my nostrils. I turned about and caught sight of that painting - what’s it called - the one with the raft?”
“It’s called the Raft of the Medusa, Jack. You mentioned it during your last dream session! It was painted by Theodore Gericault in… ”
“O.K O.K!” bawled the President in his usual thick Aussie drawl; “That’s enough! Now where was I?” He wagged an authoritative gold ringed finger into the air and returned to a horizontal aspect. “I was standing in front of this - Raft of the Medusa - with a gale force nine blowin’ – are you listen’n Leech?” he barked. The doctor’s narrow eyelids snapped open to attention. He wedged an antique Lewis Waterman fountain pen between his fat, stubby little fingers and hovered the bone-dry nib across the surface of a sheet of snow-white writing paper.
