The Stars Are Women

The kitchen is all rounded corners and pastel colours, cozy and functional, standing room only. Aldebaran plays host; like all the other stars here, she wears a form-fitting evening gown that glows the wearer's signature colour; in Aldebaran's case, red. She's chatting with  Antares and Capella when the front door chimes; in walk Vega and Pollux. 

"You look radiant," Aldebaran says, embracing both stars in a searing hug. 

"Technically, we're all radiant," Pollux quips, and all the ladies laugh. 

The party spills into the dining room. Rigel and Canopus are dancing a slow waltz while others chat about family groupings of stars, extolling the virtues of the common binary and trinary units while bemoaning the fates of the poor singular stars. Blonde Sol fumes with arms crossed, tired of the ancient condescension. Her gaze smoulders. 

But all their gazes smoulder. Petite, spicy redhead Wolf 359 glances sidelong at Sol, extends a hand, gently drags her solitary companion to the balcony. They look out into the infinite night, the other guests still light years distant but drawing inexorably closer as the universe shrinks. 

Flames dance on their shoulders, sparks pop and rise from their torchlit hair. She doesn't say it, but Sol misses her humans, the only intelligent life that ever arose in this slowly constricting, inexorably cooling cosmos. 

"I really liked your 'billions and billions' guy," Wolf 359 offers. "He had a better grasp of things than most." 

Sol nods. 

"I guess it's better that they were around for a while rather than not at all," she says. 

"Maybe the next time around will be more interesting," Wolf 359 says. 

"We'll never know," Sol says. 

They watch the final starset together. It takes slightly less than eternity. 

Sylvia Makes a Mess

I talk in my sleep fairly often, and sometime last night or this morning I said, 

"Baby, your wee little nose is running all over my character sheet!" 

Poor Sylvia. Poor character sheet! 

I don't remember which roleplaying game the sheet was for. 

Special Advisor to the President

I'm in an airport just outside Las Vegas with Sylvia, Sean, and Mom. Luggage in tow, we're making our way through the bustling terminal, luggage in tow, to the arrivals pickup area, where a small convoy of black SUVs awaits us. Secret Service agents hustle us into one of those vehicles; the First Lady is there to greet us. 

"Earl, you have a meeting with Joe and the Joint Chiefs immediately; we'll escort you to the temporary situation room, and your family will be taken to the hotel of their choice, on us." 

I nodded, feeling a little numb, not understanding at all why this is happening. To my surprise, I'm wearing a dark suit, and I'm quite fit. Something isn't right about this, but everyone else seems to be taking the situation pretty seriously. 

Moments later, having said my goodbyes to my wife, mother, and brother, I adjust my tie and join the President and his advisors in a small, brightly-lit conference room. I stand in a corner, listening quietly as one advisor after the next briefs the President on the factors that could possibly affect the peace talks in Riyadh. 

When the briefing concludes, the President nods at me. I muster enough courage to whisper a question: 

"Mr. President . . . why am I here? Your advisors clearly know their business. I might know more about what's happening in the region than the average layman, but that's not a high bar to clear. I'm not even an American; I'm from Manitoba." 

Joe pats me reassuringly on the shoulder. "You're my secret weapon, kid," he says. "When the time comes, I'll call on you, and you'll know exactly what to do. I'll see you on Air Force One in six hours. Enjoy a meal with your family, but don't be late." 

All I can do is nod sheepishly. I leave the building to hail a cab, but the sidewalk starts moving beneath me. I realize I'm standing on the middle deck of a high-speed conveyance that extends underground and aboveground, and before I can jump off the platform the expressway is hauling me east at hundreds of kilometers per hour. A few minutes later it slows to a halt; I'm in a mid-sized town. I ask a passerby where I am; she says "Mubbock." 

Making it back to Las Vegas is a long shot, but I start running anyway; miraculously, I find myself running up the stairs to board Air Force One just in time. Out of breath, I take a seat in the plush forward lounge; sleep takes me as we're taxiing toward the runway. Riyadh awaits. 

A John Saxon Christmas

I made it to the underground mall in Leaf Rapids at the last possible minute. It was gargantuan but nearly deserted, a seemingly bottomless pit of escalators, raised gardens, water features, hanging chandeliers, and storefronts in every dimension. I hadn't bought anything for Dad, and I was in a panic. Now I was riding one of those endless escalators up to a midlevel strip of stores, hoping to find something thoughtful and appropriate. 

"You've already gotten his gift, you know," said a voice behind me. I turned. 

"John Saxon?" I blurted, for there he was. 

"You don't need to get him a gift. He's with me, remember?"

The truth deflated me. I just nodded and leaned against the escalator rail as we rose. 

"He invited me over to watch you and Sylvia opening gifts together last night, enjoying the lights and music. And we were with your mom and Sean, too, in Leduc. And we'll be there tomorrow, when you guys get together."

"So you're getting along?" I asked, somewhat bewildered; for Dad had always irrationally hated John Saxon, though he'd never met the man. 

Saxon smiled. "Your dad never really hated anyone," he said. "We're pals now." 

Not really understanding why, I felt immense relief. 

"Just keep enjoying your life," Saxon said. "That's what he likes to see." 

"Is he still angry?" I asked, for my father was always angry when he came to me in dreams. 

"Only sometimes," Saxon said. "It's not forever." 

We escalated in companionable silence, and then I transitioned back to the real world, like a ghost slipping away from home. 

The Corruption Within

A few nights ago, I dreamed that I was in my 20s again. I was walking through downtown Edmonton, and my fingers hurt. They were swollen, and the pain was blunt as a hammer blow. I stood on the sidewalk as 90s-era ETS buses passed by, and looked down and wrapped the fingers of my left hand around my right index finger. I formed a tight ring around the base of my index finger and felt something squirming inside. I moved the ring forward, forcing whatever was inside my finger toward the tip. When I could feel the cyst or whatever it was at the tip of my finger, I looked and saw that a blister was forming--a greenish blister with something wriggling through the thin skin. I pushed and strained until that blister popped, and like some form of hellish toothpaste, a dark green slug-like pustule slid free. Disgusted, I flicked my finger to fling the corruption away, then looked inside the hole left behind. Instead of bone, there was a dark tunnel inside my finger, but the flesh was clean and pink and the missing bone didn't alarm me at all; instead, I felt relief. 

I repeated the process on two more fingers on my right hand, then two more on my left. I felt like I'd had a narrow escape. And then, startled, I looked across the street into the eyes of the camera watching me, the camera that was the older Earl in the "real" world, watching his dream. My dream. 

Boneless fingers, clutching at the bottomless well of time. 

Another New Dream Job

When awareness comes, I'm sitting in a four-person cubicle, one person intended for each quarter. But there are only two other people here, two young women, one blonde, one brunette; the other quarter of the desk has no chair or equipment; it's given over to storage. 

I'm wearing a suit, and I have a typewriter. There's a sheet in it, but it's blank. 

I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. The two women pay no attention to me; they're focused entirely on their own work. 

Bewildered, I rise. Our cubicle is but one in a sea of them, a sea that covers the expansive floor space entirely save for one walled office in a far corner. I make my way there through the narrow passages between the cubicles, certain that the office must have a supervisor. 

The door is open. I rap gently on the doorframe, and a dark-haired woman in her mid-forties turns away from her conversation and looks at me blankly. 

"Earl? What's up?" 

"When you have a minute, can I talk to you?" I ask. 

"Sure," she says, and goes back to her business. 

On my way back to my cubicle, I take a closer look at my surroundings. Everyone is working on typewriters and using notepads. There are no computers, no monitors, no smartphones. I spot a Telex machine nestled into the corner opposite the office. 

My heart starts to pound. Something's wrong here. 

The dark-haired woman comes to collect me before I even reach my cubicle. "Let's go take care of that pitch meeting with the executive producer," she says. 

She escorts me to an office I hadn't noticed before and shuts the door behind us. A grey-haired executive is leaning back in an expensive-looking wood and leather chair, feet propped up on an even more expensive-looking desk. The office is crammed full of books and magazines, with old movie posters on the wall. 

"Who've you got for me today, Amanda?" the executive asks. 

"This is Earl Woods. He has some ideas for the Star Trek movie that's been stalling us for so long." 

I do? I think. 

"Great, let's hear them. Can't be any worse than some of the other pitches." 

It takes me a moment to collect my thoughts. Given the setting, I realize they must be talking about the first Star Trek movie to debut after the original show. 

I reply with a bit of a stammer at first, but I find my footing quickly enough. "Let's say it's five years after the Enterprise has returned from its five-year mission. Captain Kirk is an admiral now, and Spock is the captain of the Enterprise. We have a bigger budget for effects than they did in the original show, so we can establish that the Enterprise has been refit - she's completely new, with the same basic shape, but she's sleeker, faster, more powerful." 

I feel bad about stealing so much from Star Trek: The Motion Picture, but it's all I can think of at the moment. But maybe I can get creative from this point. 

"There's a new first officer, Will Decker - the son of Commodore Decker from 'The Doomsday Machine.' You remember him. Spock is thinking of leaving Starfleet, and he intends to recommend Decker to command the Enterprise when the time comes. 

"But there's a signal from a deep-space communications station. Their extreme-range scans have picked up evidence of a megastructure long imagined but never seen: a ringworld, a vast living space built in the habitable zone of a star, with a total surface area of millions of Class M planets. It's an incredible scientific discovery, and only the refit Enterprise has the advanced labs and sensors to do justice to an exploration mission. 

"The Federation wants diplomatic and high-ranking Starfleet representation on this mission in case the ringworld is inhabited. Admiral Kirk ensures he's the Starfleet officer that gets to go, and as ambassador the Federation sends Ilia, an empathic Deltan gifted in the diplomatic arts. 

"The journey to the ringworld will take months, even at warp speed, but we'll just cover the most important events: building our new characters, reintroducing our original characters, and showing the Enterprise crew preparing for the scientific and diplomatic aspects of the mission.

"When the Enterprise finally reaches the ringworld, it's important that we show the mind-boggling scale of the construct. The Enterprise is but a gnat compared to the ringworld; close up, it will look like a vast, flat wall in space. The ring's curvature can only be perceived with enough distance. 

"The science teams perform sensor scans as the Enterprise approaches this strange new world. But not long after the crew catches their first glimpse of the star-facing side of the ring--revealing vast seas, forests, cities, farmlands, mountain ranges, jungles--world after world after world, laid out flat on a giant ring--it happens.

"While Admiral Kirk, Ambassador Ilia, and the senior staff are discussing first contact protocols, Mr. Spock, Lieutenant Commander Uhura, Lieutenant Chekov, and Commander Scott vanish from existence. 

"Admiral Kirk immediately takes command of the ship, much to the consternation of Commander Decker, who really should be next in line. Kirk says his experience on the five-year mission trumps Decker's greater familiarity with the Enterprise refit. 

"Admiral Kirk hails the ringworld, but no one answers. Kirk orders all shuttles launched to perform sensor scans of different sections of the ringworld, but with such a massive amount of territory to cover, the effort could take years without the wildest stroke of luck. 

"But on the ringworld, we, the audience, learn that Spock Uhura, Chekov, and Scott find themselves in the arid foothills of a desert mountain range...with no equipment. Atop one mountain is a spire that reaches toward the stars until it disappears, extending out of the atmosphere and into the darkness. With no other obvious clue to what they should do, they set out for the spire on foot..." 

"I like it so far," the executive says. "Spend the weekend with it, finish it up. I have a golf game coming up." 

I'm relieved, because I had no concept of an ending. But I do have more immediate concerns. 

When we leave the executive's office, I ask Amanda to sit down with me in a little lounge area. 

"Have you heard of DVDs or Blu-Rays?" I ask. 

"No," she says. 

"Smart phones?" 

"What's that?" 

"Nine eleven?" 

She shrugs. 

I tell her that I have no memory of being hired, or what my job is. She looks concerned, and said I should get checked out for a concussion or amnesia. 

"It's worse than that," I tell her, almost crying. "This is the part that's going to make me sound crazy. What year is this?" 

"What year? It's 1976," she answers. 

"Oh, god," I groan. "I'm from 2022. I'm not supposed to be here. Oh god, what's happening?" 

Thankfully, I transition back to the other world, the one with Sylvia and COVID-19. 

The Years Between

It's the first day back at Lister Hall, a warm September morning; Mom and Dad have left and I'm arranging my clothes, my computer, my toiletries and other necessities in my traditional room, 139 Kelsey Hall. I arrived early, but soon I hear other voices out in the hall and I go out to greet many familiar faces from previous years along with some new to Main K. 

I join friends old and new in the lounge, its beat-up furniture showing the years, the television a heavy 32-inch monster. After catching up, I decide to head back to my room to read--only to find that Lister Hall's rooms are now self-locking, and my keycard, wallet, ID--everything I brought with me is in that room. 

I take the short walk from Kelsey Hall to Lister Hall to get some help from the security people. But along the way, I become confused. 

"This doesn't make sense," I think. "It's 2022. Why am I still in university? Why is it taking me so long to get my degree? Wait a minute, I DID graduate--in 1991." 

Security gives me a replacement keycard and I return to my room to ponder my peculiar problem. I mention it to some of my Kelsey friends, but they don't seem to understand what I'm saying. And my body is all wrong; I'm thin and I still have all my hair. By the calendar on my wall, I'm 21 years old. 

I look in the mirror and I see my eyes widen as I realize something terrible is about to happen, sometime between 1990 and 2022. And I'm the only person in a position to stop it. 

But now I'm here, in my other life in 2022, fat, balding, and about to turn 53. And there's no guarantee that tonight I'll transition back to 1991 to fix anything. This has left me with profound anxiety, because from my reference point now, the terrible thing has already happened. Or then again, maybe not, if I take care of it in that other now, sometime in September 1990
and the years between. 

Something Lurking Down the Hall

 A couple of weeks ago I dreamed that I was working at Stantec Tower again. I was back on the seventh floor with several of my colleagues, but we were all wearing pajamas and bathrobes, cups of coffee or hot chocolate in hand, and our beds and clothes closets were right next to our desks. It was like one giant sleepover. And while I was genuinely glad to see everyone, I could hear people coughing and hacking down each hallway, like harbingers of plagues even worse than COVID-19. My heart started to race, and I woke up in a sweat. 

This followed a similar, earlier dream in which I went back to work at the Alberta Legislature Annex, even though I was my current age and I left my job with the Official Opposition years ago. In this dream, I had decided to just dash in to see if it was yet safe to return to the office. To my dismay, none of my colleagues of that era were wearing masks, and one even laughed at me, saying I was a fool to come back and that half our team was in hospital. 

So I guess I have some unresolved anxiety about societies around the world striving to get back to business as usual way too soon. 

Call me a worrier, but I'm just not ready. It's the prospect of so-called "long COVID" and cognitive impairment that scares me most. Plus, the idea of strictly isolating for two years only to stop too soon and get really sick, or die. . .or worse, to infect someone else . . . that haunts me. 

But people are "over it," I guess, so damn the torpedoes. 

A Visit from the Legion of Super-Heroes

 Last night's dream: 

Sylvia and I are at the kitchen table, discussing taxes. Suddenly, several members of the Legion of Super-Heroes come in through the back door: Superboy, Mon-El, Shrinking Violet, Shadow Lass, and Colossal Boy. I'm shocked into awed silence while Sylvia reacts with annoyance: "Excuse me, you can't just walk in here without an invitation!" she says. 

"Sorry miss, we're on an urgent mission into the past!" Mon-El says. 

"Space pirates from my homeworld of Imsk have a plan to change history!" Shrinking Violet says. 

"They're somewhere in this area!" Shadow Lass says. 

Sylvia looks skeptical and doesn't appreciate the skintight nature of the girls' costumes. But before anyone else can say anything, a spaceship about two feet long zips in through the open back door, firing multicolored rays at the Legionnaires. 

"Kryptonite--I-I'm blacking out!" gasps Superboy as he's felled. 

"Lead--my only weakness!" cries Mon-El. 

"Stun rays--knocking us senseless!" wails Shadow Lass as she and Shrinking Violet fall. 

Only Colossal Boy managed to dodge the assault, and he grabs the spaceship in both hands. 

"This'll put the fear of God into 'em!" he shouts, ripping off the nose cone of the ship as if uncorking a wine bottle. Then, he holds the ship nose-down over our sink, and somewhere in the neighbourhood of twelve to fifteen three-inch-tall space pirates go down the drain, shouting and screaming. Tossing the empty ship aside, Colossal boy then turns on the garburator and the tap, grinding the pirates into bloody paste and washing away the gruesome remains. 

A weakened Superboy reacts with horror: "Colossal Boy--no! The Legion code against killing..." 

"...You've broken it!" Shrinking Violet concludes. "You'll be expelled from the Legion!" 

"Please get out of my house," Sylvia says. And I wake up laughing. 

A Shriek in the Night

 It is just before midnight, and after long hours of restlessness I am finally drifting off to sleep. Suddenly, curled next to me, Sylvia shrieks, her scream reverberating through the moonlit night. Startled, I jerk back to wakefulness. 

"What's wrong?" I ask. 

"I was dreaming of peanut butter!" Sylvia answers, and instantly falls back into slumber. I am left to wonder what's so scary about peanut butter...

Earl and the Legion of Super-Pets

About three-quarters of my hyper-realistic dreams wind up being nightmares, but last night's adventure was a whimsical treat: 

It's an atypical day at the office, because reporter Ron Troupe is here to interview us for a story about the Legion of Super-Pets. 

"Let me introduce you to my colleagues," I say. "Over here, we have, Streaky, the Supercat--" But Streaky isn't in her bed. Suddenly there's the familiar sound of tearing leather, and I whip around to see the orange tabby literally ripping the lobby couch in half with her claws. 

"Streaky!" 

"Sorry," Streaky says sheepishly, claws pausing in mid-rend. I sigh and gesture toward Comet, the Super-Horse, who is gnawing on one of the houseplants. "This is Comet, the Super-Horse," I tell Ron. 

"Krypto, the Superdog." Krypto is half-asleep on the same couch Streaky is destroying. He blinks in acknowledgement.

"Tur-Tel, the Super-Turtle." Tur-Tel is surfing the Internet. 

"Sapphire, the Super-Budgie." Sapphire is rooting around in the fridge, probably for a beer. 

"And finally, Beppo, the Super-Monkey." I look around. No Super-Monkey. "Hey, has anyone seen Beppo?" 

There's a bark, a meow, a whinny, a chirp, a cluck. 

"Come on, guys, English. You know I'm not Dr. Doolittle." 

There's a chorus of replies in the negative. 

Just then, the phone rings. I pick up. Ron is taking notes. 

"Legion of Super-Pets, how can we help?" 

It turns out the fire department needs a bunch of equipment moved from a warehouse to a new fire station. 

"Hey guys, we have a moving job. Everyone in?" 

The Super-Pets are always happy to get out of the office. Thanks to their super-speed, they're out the door in a flash, capes fluttering in their wake. 

As we follow, Ron asks me some questions. 

"Aren't you famously allergic to animals?" 

"Yes, but luckily the Super-Pets are all super-hypoallergenic," I reply. "Otherwise, my job would be impossible." 

"And what is your job? You don't have any super-powers..." 

"I guess you could say I'm their liaison. Although sometimes I feel like their mascot. They're all super-intelligent." 

"So why do they keep you around?" 

"It's the opposable thumbs and the lack of super-strength. I'm the only one that can answer the phone without destroying it." 

We step outside, and there's Beppo saying goodbye to a leggy brunette, kissing her on the cheek and sending her off with a giggle. Ron looks nonplussed. 

"Hey, Beppo, the gang's just heading down Jasper to the old warehouse on 112th. We've been asked to move some heavy equipment. They'll give you the scoop." 

Beppo salutes and leaps into the sky, heading west. Ron and I have no choice but to follow along on the sidewalk. By the time we reach the warehouse, the Super-Pets will likely have finished the job, unless they get distracted, which sometimes happens. They may be super-intelligent, but they're still animals, and they all love to play. 

"What brought the Super-Pets to Edmonton?" 

Before I can answer, Sylvester Stallone pulls up alongside us, wearing a black trenchcoat and mirrored sunglasses. 

"Ay, you the guy that manages the Super-Pets?" he asks. 

"Yessir," I say. 

"You happen to have an elephant on the team?" 

"Actually yes, Jumbo, the Super-Elephant. But he's on a mission overseas right now." 

"I really needed a super elephant," Stallone mumbles. "Thanks anyway!" 

"So about that last question..." 

"Right, why they're in Edmonton. My understanding is they had been hanging out in the 30th century for a while with some super-teenagers of that era, then came back to the 21st century but found the US too hectic right now and wound up in Edmonton because of the Mall." 

He knew I meant West Edmonton Mall. "They like the waterpark," I explain. 

In the distance, up in the sky, we can see Streaky and Krypto zipping back and forth, the occasional beam of heat vision zapping out to taunt and tease. "They must be done already. I should really ask Superman if I can borrow the Supermobile for a while. At least that way I'd be able to keep up." 

Out of nowhere, Sapphire lands on my shoulder. I manage not to jump this time; I'm finally getting used to their super-speed. 

"All done," she chirps. "Want a ride back to the office?" 

"Uh, no thanks." It's not that I'm worried she's going to drop me, but her talons have already wrecked a couple of jackets. 

"Suit yourself! Whee-ooo!" And off she goes. 

That's when I wake up, laughing. Note that all the characters mentioned have actually appeared in comic books, aside from Super-Elephant and Super-Budgie, who seem to have leapt from my subconscious. 

Dad Meets John Saxon

As I've written in the past, I am both blessed and cursed with vivid dreams that, in the moment, are as utterly convincing as real life itself. This means that my dreams can sometimes be traumatic, which is why I'm writing this at 5 am.

Last night--in the dream, I know now--I was in my library, culling books to make room, a project I've been working on for a couple of weeks now. As I was boxing some old thrillers I know I'll never read again, Dad, who died back in 2018, appeared in the doorway. This seemed quite natural, even though Dad appeared to be in his late 30s or early 40s--younger than I am now.

I was very pleased, but because I've always been a bit emotionally stunted, I didn't let it show. We exchanged greetings, and then this conversation followed:

"How are you doing?" I asked. "Hey, I don't know if you've already heard, but John Saxon died a couple of days ago..."

Dad laughed, embarrassed. "Oh yeah, he came by to see me as soon as he got here."

"And what did he say?" I asked eagerly.

Long ago, you see, Dad had a dream in which character actor John Saxon confronted him in a narrow staircase. Saxon was coming up the stairs toward Dad menacingly, and this is how Dad reacted, in his words: "I shot that son-of-a-bitch in the face."

This always made Sean and I laugh uproariously, because Dad is not a violent man and it's hard to imagine him shooting anyone, nor even wishing harm on anyone. We always asked what he had against John Saxon, and Dad always said he couldn't explain it, he just couldn't stand the guy--despite never having met him in the real world.

"And what did he say?"

And Dad said, "He said he'd heard about me, and he came by to tell me that there were no hard feelings, because there were times in his life when he really had been a son-of-a-bitch. Turns out he's a pretty good guy, told some interesting stories."

Dad then asked if he could borrow a couple of the cardboard boxes I'd set aside for the books I was giving away, and of course I said sure. He took them and walked away, and I woke up crying, which was very therapeutic because I haven't had a good cry over Dad's death yet; it's been brutally suppressed by some emotional mechanism I don't understand. Sylvia comforted me, but unfortunately I woke up again, this time in the real world--or so I hope, as I'm writing this--dry-eyed and feeling numb, catharsis lost.

I am not a spiritual person, not a believer in ghosts or the afterlife. And yet I hope Dad really did meet John Saxon, and that he's enjoying himself in some joyful place beyond mortal ken, because he deserves it, gone too soon and forever missed. 

The New Nuclear Nightmare

Since the mid 1970s, I've experienced a number of recurring nightmares that cycle through time. One of those is my first nuclear nightmare, in which, to sum up briefly, I lead a column of friends and relatives through the forests near Leaf Rapids to a high cliff representing safety from atomic holocaust. I alone reach the summit, and safety, as the bombs go off, and watch in horror as the throng I led is vaporized.

That dream was bad enough, and probably worse, in truth, than the new nuclear nightmare I experienced last night. But this new nightmare still haunts me in its temporal proximity, and I'm just now getting over the physical illness left in its wake.

In the dream, I'm walking east down the Leduc avenue that leads home. Around the time I reach the block where East Elementary sits, a hydrogen bomb goes off behind me, perhaps 20 kilometres away. I turn to watch a gigantic black mushroom cloud rise to the heavens. Then, an instant later, another bomb goes off, this time about 20 kilometres due east, producing a second mushroom cloud of the same horrific magnitude.

I know I don't have time to run for the safety of Mom's house, so instead I dash toward East Elementary, only to be hit by a wave of ash and darkness so black I have to feel my way to the door. Once there, I hammer on it desperately with my fists and Mom opens up, ushering me inside; she'd been volunteering at the school.

I run to the gym to shower, scrubbing away all the fallout, and then I join Mom at a meeting in one of the classrooms. The desks are all full, but with adults scratching notes about survival plans.

A day passes. Pete and Mike are in the school, and I encounter them in a hallway. Stupidly, I ask them if they saw the bombs yesterday; of course they did. I try to check my phone for news, but it's been contaminated by an endless series of popup ads that refuse to go away even if I power off the phone and reboot. Suddenly, we hear rockets flying overhead, and impossible as it seems, we speculate that the two nukes going off here in Alberta must have somehow triggered a global war. I realize that my old high school friend Daryle Tilroe set off the first two bombs as an experiment, and now the world will pay the price. I realize I'll never see Sylvia again, or Sean, or any of my other loved ones.

When I woke up this morning, my head was pounding and I leapt out of bed. Sylvia was already awake.

"Is this the real world?" I asked. "Is this real? I can't believe this is real. Are we alive?"

I went to the bathroom and managed to avoid vomiting, though I was covered in sweat.  It took some time for me to accept this reality over the one I'd just endured.

I went back to bed and passed out, sleeping until noon. I still had a massive headache. Sylvia found a Tylenol for me. I felt hot most of the day. We watched a couple of movies in the late afternoon, and then I passed out again, sleeping until 7:30.

Only now am I starting to feel a little better, and that this might be the real world. I sure hope it is, even with COVID-19. Some disasters are survivable; the one I experienced earlier today wasn't one of them. 

Bad Idea of the Day

Glass floors on double-decker buses. It came to me during the second part of a two-part dream I had last night. In the first, I was part of a Starfleet crew that had been captured and taken aboard a Romulan bird of prey; we managed to overpower the Romulans and set the self-destruct on their ship before beaming back to our own vessel. 

The Looping Nightmare

I awoke at 3 am this morning with my heart pounding. I was enjoying a run-of-the-mill nightmare about fending off a horde of vampires when I realized I was re-entering a recurring death trap. 

Imagine a series of long hallways, dimly lit, each ending in a dead end that requires puzzle-solving to open a trap door to access the next hallway. In this particular iteration of the dream, Pete, Totty and I, along with Brad Pitt, my former colleague Lorinda from ATCO, and a young woman I've never met before, were gathered in hallway one. 

"Oh man, this again," I say to Pete. "Do you remember anything from last time?" 

As we speak, I realize that I, in fact, remember how to unlock the first two traps. Bond-like, I use some fishing line to release a catch on the first secret door, which slides aside to reveal a bookcase. I tug on one book on the second-highest shelf, and the bookshelf slides aside. We all cram, single file, down a narrow, pitch-black corridor, the bookshelf slamming shut behind us. I feel a metal pole jutting out of the wall, and I realize I don't remember how we bypassed this trap last time. 

"Does anyone remember how to do the pole..?" 

Mike steps up to handle it, everyone shuffling back and forth to make room, while Pete and I continue our conversation. 

"How many times have we done this?" I ask. 

"I'm not sure," Pete says. "You look around 50 now, and this all started back in university." 

"What's the farthest we've gotten?" 

"My memory isn't perfect, but I feel like Ticheler made it through nine or ten traps before he was dissolved in acid." 

I wince. "I'm sure he's looking forward to giving that one a try again." 

"Maybe we'll get that far this time," Pete shrugs. Mike has successfully managed the pole trick, and a door slides open to reveal a casual gaming lounge furnished with low couches and short tables, each with a board game on it - but no game matches any seen in the real world. 

The young woman I don't know approaches me. She's terrified. "I don't remember which games are harmless distractions and which can kill you if you make the wrong move." 

"I'm sorry...I don't remember either. At least none of these are mandatory." 

She nods, but she slides into one of the low couches anyway and starts playing a game that uses straws and coloured marbles. I suddenly remember that some of the marbles are coated in deadly contact poison, but my throat seizes up and I can't warn her. 

"This is the lowest-rated game on board game geek," Pete notes, and when I awaken I have a strong urge to look it up. 

She stays behind while Pete, Totty, and I join the large crowd gathering at the lounge's exit. As we push through the doors, we leave behind the near-blackness of the lounge and plunge into a brightly-lit series of institutional staircases. Hundreds of people are lined up, and we shuffle along. We know that once we make it down the staircases, we enter the deadliest part of the death maze. 

"Over and over again until we escape," I mutter. "It's the afterlife. Is it hell? Maybe Steve can tell us." 

"I don't think Steve's actually been through this yet," Mike says. 

"Lucky Steve." 

"Rob was compiling a video with all our clearest memories of how to get through the first few traps," Pete notes. 

"That's stuck in the real world, though," I reply. "Doesn't help us here." 

Mike takes a left turn down a staircase no one else is using, and Pete and I follow. We go down two flights, and to our surprise, we reach a large parking garage on the ground floor. The exit is open. 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Mike says, arms outstretched. We dash into the open air. I pump my fists in delight. 

"YES! Has anything ever been this REAL?" I shout. "FUCK YOU, YOU BASTARDS!" I scream at the sky, jumping up and down. 

My joy is short-lived, though, because I wake up, and I realize the escape was not, in fact, real. It's 3 am and I wish I could just stay up. Because going back means another iteration, another opportunity to die horribly. I made it out this time, but it's the first time in hundreds of tries that doesn't end in blistering agony of one form or another. 

NOTE: I shared this dream with some friends, and Colin sent a chill down my spine by writing back: "The lowest-ranked game on board game geek is something called 'Passages and Purgatory.'" He really got me, then admitted he made it up. That prompted Mike to do the math...but that's Mike's story to tell. 

Brooklyn Beach

We return to New York, but this time we stay in south Brooklyn, our hotel on the very shores of the Atlantic. Something goes wrong; we awaken in the ocean, chest deep, dressed in shirts and shorts, as if for a sunny day out. The morning is overcast, a uniform foggy grey, the waters tempestuous, threatening to drag us to our doom. We clasp hands and walk through the churning ocean, the beach a mile or so away, digging our bare feet into the submerged sand, step by difficult step. To our left and right, we see other couples cast into the same predicament. Shouting encouragement back and forth across the waves, we all stagger more or less together onto the beach, the surf still tugging at our ankles as if hoping to pull us back into the ocean's clutches.

There follows a brief interlude of confusion and questions, but none of us have any answers. Soaking wet and exhausted, we return to our hotels.

The next day, you decide to rest while I head into the city. To my astonishment, I spot a floating businessman; he's soaring, legs crossed, a couple of metres above the sidewalk. He's wearing a white suit with a matching porkpie hat, and he is laughing as though all his cares had been forever banished.

I wave him down, and he flies over effortlessly.

"You've got to try this," he says, reaching overhead to pluck what looks like a square couch cushion out of the air. It's black and white, about a meter square, and as soon as he pulls it to the level of his chest, gravity suddenly renews its hold on him and he drops to his feet.

He hands me the square; it's soft, malleable. I regard it dubiously, but then tentatively raise it over my head and let go. It remains suspended above me, and I find that I am suddenly weightless; but better than that, I can will myself forward and back, up, down, sideways, wherever I want.

It is euphoric. I rise above the city like Superman, swooping to and fro, diving to within a hair's breadth of the earth, grass tickling my chest, then rising to the edge of space. After a few minutes of this, I return to the street where I saw the businessman. With real regret, I return his device.

"Is it magnetic...no, that can't be right. Does it somehow block gravity..?"

He just smiles and says he thinks it's going to be a big hit. A little later, I return to our hotel room and I tell you about it; you're skeptical until we see a commercial about the flying machine.

We relax on the couch together, and darkness closes in until the light of the television is snuffed out. 

The Two Worlds Most Persistent

I wake again in the wrong. Perpetual summer at the University of Alberta, always late in third year or early in fourth year, trying to convince those old friends that I was stuck there, with my life in the present out of reach, my knowledge of the next thirty years or so useless because unbelievable, ridiculous. When these jumps happen, none of those old friends believe that I'm a middle-aged man trapped in my younger body, with a life on the far side of time.

My Atari 520ST, with its connection to local electronic bulletin boards, is useless as a research tool; it has no Internet connection, since the Internet is still a few years away. There will be no Googling "how to undo time travel to my past body."

Frustrated, I walk out the front door and across the golden grass that covers a tall, steep hill. I can see Orson Welles in the distance, and I climb up to see him - so much easier in this young, fit body. He greets me like an old friend, rambling on about dramatic structure, even though he died five or six years ago. That's what jerks me free of this reality--that discontinuity. I wake up back in 2016, only to realize that I should be in 2019...

A Pair of Dreams

I'm in Vancouver, and Melissa Benoist, in costume as Supergirl, surprises me downtown by wrapping one arm around my shoulder, holding out her phone, and snapping a photo.

"Super selfie!" she says, grinning. "Hey, you should be on the show. You'd make a great Harvey Bullock."

I have to admit that of all DC's character's, my current rotund physique most closely matches that of Bullock. I'm a little confused, though; in the comics, Harvey Bullock is a detective working for the Gotham City Police Department. But I rationalize this by figuring Supergirl's writers have perhaps had Bullock transfer over to National City. In any event, the pay is $2000 a week and I get to be part of the Arrowverse, so I take the job.

*  *  *

It's 4 AM and Sylvia wakes me up. We're in our old condo. She reminds me that Sean, Mike and Scott are coming over for McDonald's. Sean has already arrived on the balcony on a rented bicycle glider, but I haven't actually picked up the food.

I join Sean on the balcony and we launch the glider, pedalling back offshore to Sean's yacht, picking up our McDonald's order, and cycle-gliding back to the condo. Scott and Mike arrive and we eat in the darkness, four identical orders: Big Mac combos, medium fries, medium Cokes. Mike notes with some disdain that there's a triangle of toast in his Big Mac. I check and see that my Big Mac also includes a slice of toast.

"Well, it's a bonus, I guess," I say, eating the toast.

Everything is so real as to be more convincing than true reality. Not for a second do I question the bicycle-gliders, Sean's yacht, or the fact that Sylvia and I have moved back into our first condo. The only thing I question is why I arranged for a McDonald's dinner at 4:45 AM.

Flying on the cycle-gliders is effortless and exhilarating. After supper, I fly over the beaches of Hawaii, shooting photos for Google Maps as I ride the wind. Turquoise waters lap at white sand, and the sun beams down benignly. All is good, but a voice at the back of my mind questions my sanity, and it is that voice that brings me back to reality, awakening with my alarm. 

The Reformation

My robes are royal purple with gold trim, sharp at the shoulders, sleek of cut, almost unadorned save for three gold buttons on the high black collar. I’m walking briskly down a cobblestone street, and I’m not alone; the faithful are gathering, heading, like me, for church. Many nod and smile at me; they know I’m facing a significant transition just a few minutes from now.

It's a gorgeous day. The sun caresses the city, warming the lush parks, the meandering river, the spotless streets, the colourful adobe houses. The church rises from a hilltop overlooking an expansive green pasture; it’s a cherrywood edifice of soft curves and oval entryways and window frames, warm and welcoming.

I step through the side entrance, directly into our administrator’s office, a good-humoured, lovely, raven-haired woman of late middle age. And yet she is typical, for although our people are diverse in many ways, we all share certain traits: a need to poke fun at ourselves, a certain agelessness, and, frankly, good looks. My own frame is lithe and strong, even closing in on 50; my hair remains thick, my skin unlined. The only mark of age is a distinguished touch of grey in my sideburns.

The administrator and the bishop are sharing some acerbic but good-natured banter about paperwork. The administrator waves me through as they hurl balls of wadded-up documents at each other.

I enter the great hall of the church. Hundreds of congregants are sliding into the wooden pews, sharing smiles and quiet gossip. The retiring Cardinal is already behind the pulpit, jotting down notes, peering over the top of his glasses, which are perched on the tip of his nose.

I take my place at the secondary pulpit, and the congregational murmur dies down. According to the order of service, I should now welcome the congregation and invite the retiring Cardinal to speak.

Instead, on my left, the Bishop starts to speak. He apologizes for hijacking the proceedings, but warns of a great evil on the horizon, one that could break the church community. Indeed, he reaches out, pointing at the skylights to direct our attention to the dark clouds forming outside. Behind those clouds coalesces a sharp-edged obsidian shadow, shaped something like the head of a hawk, but at the same time unutterably alien.

The Bishop claims that I must take my place as the new Cardinal, as was planned, but that by doing so I could create a schism in the church. Horrified by the thought, I leave the pulpit and circulate among the congregants, including crucial influencers like the black members, the LGBTQ2+ members, the women, merchants, artisans, veterans, seniors and children. Even among this even-tempered population voices begin to rise, not in anger, but concern and fear. My words feel inadequate in the face of the monstrous evil forming in the skies above, but somehow they’re enough to restore calm, and even resolution.

I return to the podium and am ordained in short order. The sudden appearance of tangible evil in the real world has, indeed, cast the spectre of doubt upon church teachings that reach back more than 10,000 years. But in a short speech of some five or six minutes, I rally the people, reminding them of the many millennia of peace and prosperity our culture built together, urging us all to continue in that spirit. And though I fully intend to literally lead the charge against evil the second I finish my speech, the congregation takes that leadership out of my hands, heading for the exits with a roar, armed with nothing but their faith, compassion, and goodwill. I follow them into the street, and together we face the darkness.

Welles-Wishes

Not long ago, Turner Classic Movies broadcast The Trial, and I tuned in to watch. To my surprise, this version of the Kafka classic was directed by Orson Welles, and to my further surprise, I thought it was at least as brilliant as Citizen Kane. I'm not going to review the film here, but I give it my highest possible recommendation; cinephiles should really seek it out.

A night or two after watching the film, I dreamed that I encountered Welles on a movie set. I gathered all my courage, walked up to him and said, "Mr. Welles, I'm sorry to bother you, but I just saw The Trial and I wanted to say I thought it was magnificent - maybe the best thing you ever made, and I've seen all of your films." (In fact, I have only seen about half of Mr. Welles' filmography.)

Welles turned ponderously to fix me with his immortal gaze, and spoke in those famously sonorous tones.

"My boy, my boy," he said, taking me in to his arms and crushing me in a bear hug, "Thank you. Thank you for seeing it." I could tell there were tears in his eyes.

I hope someone said that to him in real life. Welles was one of the great geniuses of film, and I'm astounded by the way his career went off course after Citizen Kane. I can only imagine what he might have created if his financers hadn't consistently abandoned him, leaving many projects unfinished or only partly realized.