Under no moon

George wakes up after a dream. It's 4:37. The night is cold and clear - stars but no moon. The temperature has fallen from above zero to minus 15. That's what they'd predicted, that's what happened. Under no moon. If I were brave now, he thinks, I'd get up and start writing. I'd write down this dream. I'd start with the large two-and-a-half-storey clapboard siding house with the veranda, and the family of five living in it. The trusting community wherein no one locks doors and the psychotic killer finds a place to wage his campaign of terror. The scene wherein the young girl, the middle daughter, cowers in the bathtub only to be found and without hesitation or soundtrack of warning sliced and hacked by the killer's strangely small sickle-shaped blade, her face and neck bearing the brunt of it, the blood minimalist in this scene as she kneels before him and then, still moaning despite the near complete removal of her face, falls forward on all fours at the killer's feet. Meanwhile the rest of the family, without George of course, has fled the house and stands in front of it, on the lawn, as though it were aflame, hugging one another, waiting. For what? The dream gives him this image as it closes, and he awakens: his wife and two daughters huddled in terror before his house while he, presumably from the front door, under cover of the veranda, exits. Who is the killer? he wonders. 

If he gets up now to write he'll make good use of the day. The dream is a gift. The exit at the end an obvious entrance into story. Into writing. You'd be reading it right now if George had heeded his own best advice. Rather though, he sighs, gets up and goes to the toilet, relieves himself, and returns to bed, the sheets damp from his sweat. Chilled now he pulls the comforter closer. He was hot, now he's cold. Beside him Rebecca awakens and says, "Can't sleep?"

"Dream," he says. "Nightmare. Stupid. A slasher."

"Ouch," she says. 

"You?" he says.

"No, just my neck. I slept funny I think."

"I should get up now," he says.

"Time?" she says, looking up. "Oh! It's almost five!"

"Yeah, I could get up."

"I can't," she says, "I should be sleeping on my back, flat. Not like this."

The radio wakes him at 8:13. He's had a second dream. This one's about being late for work. George doesn't want to think about it. He lies and waits for the ecstasies of the sports announcers, and then sits up, dresses, and heads to the kitchen to make coffee. It's Sunday, thank God. 

Ride report

Rode to Altona, then to Morris (for Steak'n'eggs at Burkes) with JS. Steven started out with us but 13 ks in his derailleur hanger broke and he called for a ride (and generously encouraged us to ride on). It was a good ride, though we'd misunderestimated the wind direction and speed - it was from the NW and so we had to ride into it for a good bit. Otherwise the temperatures were right, as was the breakfast and the company.