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—Dream time again. Two of them actually. I didn’t have any conscious awareness of the first until I drove down Spruce Drive last week. Then it came back. Normally I would be anxious to get this down quickly – in case it fades – but there is some tangible property to this. It’s persistent. It wants to be alive.

Riding a bus route —I can see the vehicles —I can see the people —my purpose is clear.  The stops are known – the route is familiar, but I’m concerned with either exact change, stop selection or time; it’s never clear which but there is always an issue.

It seems that I’ve been having these dreams for my whole life – every couple of days – they are as familiar and comfortable as an old friend. There are remembrances of conversations with other passengers, moments waiting at stops, impatient minutes spent wondering about schedules, and even solid memories of driving and managing traffic. Sometimes my role is uncertain.

We climb the slope of Windermere Road and pause, then turn right on to Spruce Drive. It’s my stop! This first one, and it’s exciting. Every time. The curve at the bottom and the slow run past the elementary school always happens on the same day at the same time —there is a thick blue cloud off to the west, but for now the sun is shining brightly on the grass and on the grinning yellow faces of the dandelions.

These impressions are as clear as day to me at this instant, and I feel as if I could fall into a moment like this at my whim. There are so many of them – all contained in the same dream. But yesterday, I had no recollection whatsoever of any single part of this universe.

This is the second one. 

There are three locomotives – train engines – standing abreast on a platform spanning a huge deck that stands out into the roadway from the rails their entire collective girth, like a ship of engines being hauled impossibly forward, and lengths of great stretched orbs – black oil cars and rusted boxcars tethered backward forever from the driving of it.

All of this mass and gravity inching up-slope tenuous and horrific – I can sense the impossibility. Its very existence is a warning; I feel that it’s possible my apprehension or disbelief could be a trigger and I try to think around it.

Surely, the whole thing slides and shifts and begins its backward ride into calamity – upended, side-thrust screaming – jack-knifed hell coming toward me – carriers and wheels thrown up and appearing above the tree line and the tops of distant trees whipping and splitting in the tornado of whole train pieces and then the bridge wide span of that engine-deck with its three-across dead-weight locomotives ass-on and unstoppable plowing earth and trees and wind directly at the locus of my vision and through both sides peripheral.

It’s a four engine train wreck and there is nowhere to run.

Short Stories