“What is an ideal world?” began Del in one of his tuned-out philosophy lectures. “Utopia, the unseen land of blissfulness. To each their own taste, but to all a common need: acceptance. In an ideal world, everyone will be accepted, every life will be precious, every voice equal. Such a world does not exist, or so it doesn’t yet. What will become of this dream then, should we continue ignoring it thusly? Will it crumble as does our nightmares? Or will it blossom unexpectedly during afternoon tea? What is an ideal world? How will it survive? How will ours become it? Class, you have twenty minutes to answer these questions.” Following the order was a chaotic moment of mad scribbling and scratching as a hundred or so students tugged on their togas and scratched their head while tearing out their hair etched ink into skin.
Meanwhile, Ctrl and Um were having a deep conversation on the mechanics of politics.
“The way I see things, the people should choose what they want to do, that way people will be happier, and so the standard of living will be better,” argued Ctrl.
Um shook his head, “No no, mage. That will not work. If the people do whatever they want, how do we make sure there are people to do some jobs? Or if there are enough people for some job or too many for others? Besides… time is valuable.”
“Only to you unskilled in the arts of magic,” retorted Ctrl. “Wizards who have mastered the world can alter time; slow it down or speed it up… wizards can have all the time they want.”
“How can you trust such power?” asked Um. “We mortals have limited abilities so that we cannot become so powerful to go extinct because of a mistake.”
“Mages follow a very strict hierarchy… somebody will be able to prevent disasters.”
Um laughed, “See? Shouldn’t that be how it is for everybody else too?”
“No… each person needs to find creativity.”
“That will only get you into trouble.”
“No it won’t”
“Yes it will”
“No”
“Yes”
“No”
“Yes”…
They continued to argue back and forth until Alt woke up on the back of Um’s horse.
“Sleeping ugly awakes from heat exhaustion, I see,” pointed out Um.
Alt realized his presence wasn’t very welcomed, so he fell back asleep. He started dreaming….
“Alt! your assignment is due!” said Alt
“What do you mean, Alt?” Alt replied
“thirty minutes left. Where did you put the homework?”
“over there,” he pointed to the large pile of papers named Homework
“well get it then, don’t you want to catch the latest episode of The Simpsons?”
Alt moved his hands for the homework, but they won’t budge. He felt something crawl up his leg… a lot of something, it felt like. He heard tiny trumpets and drum beats. He also heard the ice cream truck and its ever annoying jingle. They really should change it up a bit. On the other hand, if they changed it then the kids won’t know its ice cream. Or, perhaps if the kids become accustomed to the new tune, then they’ll have two sets of reminders for ice cream. What a waste on dental bills!
Anyway, Alt felt something(s) move up his leg, across his stomach, and onto his arm. He looked down, and saw a mite. Or rather, a mite followed by a million mites.
“Don’t you dare touch the Homework,” the mite with the trumpet blasted out in Morse Code. Now, since Alt didn’t understand Morse Code, he looked at the trumpeter mite puzzled. The trumpeter turned to face his mites, played out a short tune that sounded kind of like jingle bells, and the mites rearranged themselves to spell it out.
Alt was annoyed, it was his homework after all.
“Failure to do so will result in your death,” the mites replied in Times font size 32.
Alt brought the trumpeter mite close to his face, examined its long pointy legs and puny size, then squashed it. A second mite picked up the fallen trumpet, and played a quick three notes before he too was squashed. Then the mites charged, they surrounded Alt’s neck, and poked his forehead…
Alt woke up to Ctrl’s poking. “About time you woke up, alien.” Alt tried to move his arms but he couldn’t. His world was upside down. He looked up, and realized he was bounded and hanging from a tree branch.
“What happened? Get me down!” demanded Alt.
“I’m afraid I cannot allow that,” replied Ctrl, quivering. “You can bring great harm to us.”
“What are you jabbering about?!”
“Sir Um said he looked into the future, and saw aliens that would one day destroy the world. You are from the future therefore you must be an alien.”
“What kind of logic is that?”
“Look Alt, you are an alien. Accept it! See? You even have a horn on your head!” Ctrl rubbed a little more past at the end of a cone and stuck it on Alt’s head.
“You put that there!”
“Well yeah, but you’re still an alien!”
Alt shook his head frantically, causing the ‘horn’ to stick to Ctrl’s head.
“AHHH!” Ctrl screamed, “I’ve been alienated!”
Just then, like a miracle, Sir Um came bustling through the bushes.
“What is this nonsense?” he mumbled through his scarf.
“Say what?” replied Ctrl.
Um undid his scarf and repeated, “I say what is this nonsense!”
“Alien! He’s an alien!” Ctrl explained. Alt rolled his eyes.
“Is he now?” Uhm examined the Alt. He scrutinized every hair, and ten hours later was three quarter of the way done. Ctrl was entertaining himself with making smoke rings, and Alt was fast asleep.
“Aha!” exclaimed Uhm, jolting Alt from sleep and making Ctrl incinerate a nearby bush. “The hair of an alien! you sir, are not human!” Uhm plucked the hair and displayed it in front of Alt. It was green.
“Prepare to meet thy death!” proclaimed Ctrl.
“It’s doom, ” corrected Uhm. He then turned to face the quivering Alt while he unsheathed his dagger. Alt tried to speak, but was speechless and confused. Ctrl hid behind a rock, wondering what was going to happen. It’s not everyday you see somebody stab an alien, he thought to himself.
“Oh please Del, help me… help me please!”
Del projected a hologram; with big friendly letters: DON’T PANIC
Alt instantly calmed down. Perhaps too calmed down, he started seeing circles, then swirls of colours, and little blue aliens poking him, then a talking cannon shot a black cannon ball at him… he ducked.
“Foul!” yelled the referee. Alt was in a basketball court. “You all right there, son?”
That voice was familiar… sounded like his high school coach, Mr. Carter. He hated this man, Coach Carter was 8 feet tall, and smelled like, well, basketballs.
“Change the channel! Change the channel!” Alt screamed in his head. Coach Carted spat as he talked, the cataract forced Alt into fetal position. He shut his eyes tight, and again saw weird colours. He opened his eyes a bit, and a fish fell on it.
“ARGH!!!” yelled Alt.
“He’s back!” sceamed Ctrl.
“Yay…” said Um, sarcastic.
“Welcome back buddy,” said Ctrl. He hugged Alt and spoke to Um, “You were right, spit up the nose DOES give life!”
Alt was still bedazzled from his dream. Confused and unable to hear things, he smiled back.
