I just awakened from one of the strangest dreams ever. I don’t know how I can even try to explain this, but in my dream some of the short stories I have written (here in reality) were made into ductwork for handling air instead of being published in any written form. I kid you not. As the author (?) of the duct, I was allowed to tour the building in which ducts were installed high above.
I stood below my work in awe. Elaborate transitions that switched air flow directions, sweeps, twisting sections, spiral ducts strung off seemingly to infinity. Layers over layers. Perhaps more amazingly, I never questioned that the things I have written might be so handily transformed into something of such utility. As I stood admiring one of the more complex fittings, I underwent an epiphany of some scale, realizing that my writing works much better as ducts than it does as literature.
I stood below my work in awe. Elaborate transitions that switched air flow directions, sweeps, twisting sections, spiral ducts strung off seemingly to infinity. Layers over layers. Perhaps more amazingly, I never questioned that the things I have written might be so handily transformed into something of such utility. As I stood admiring one of the more complex fittings, I underwent an epiphany of some scale, realizing that my writing works much better as ducts than it does as literature.
--Mitchell Hegman
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