Another one from the archives: a flash fiction prompt we did a few years ago.
I am paddling this canoe and thinking all the while how my paddle is my magic wand. No one would ever suspect that is what it is.
For if I were to stop paddling, I would soon be lost under the rapids; therefore everyone will think the paddle is an essential part of my sports equipment and nothing more. I can hide the magic I am doing with it. Be careful not to offend me, otherwise I will wave my paddle over you, and then it will be a wave over you all right!
I can also slice the paddle through the water at all different angles, each of which has a meaning as I chop it here and there. A loaf of many slices, with which I feed the world around me exactly what I think it deserves at any given moment. It can melt into sugar in your mouth or it can block up your throat. In every case, I’ll decide.
What dream is this? It must be the restful dream sent to the weary, in which we lie back and drift in a boat on a lake. I know I’ve dreamed about this lake before and I remember something white: something to do with swans or clouds. But the details have gone in a puff: a powder puff bursting, so the air is full of powder and everything obscured, the way my memory so often is now.
Maybe other memories, both pleasant and jangled, have crowded out this boat and the mental picture of my head reclining back on wood while the oars drag lazily at my arms on either side. It has become faded and yellowed, like old paper. But once again the boat draws near.