she didn’t want her husband to be taken away from her. she broke free from the crowd that tried to hold her back. she jumped onto the back of the train. she called behind her that she was to be left alone for three days, then they could bury her. she slipped into the first carriage and rushed through, searching for him. he wasn’t there.
the train arrived in erosion. it melted as it landed, and all the pieces of the train were pulled away by the scavenging men and women among the strip mines. She lost most of her clothes. She had to wrap a cloth she found around her body like a toga. It was probably for the best, because she was quick to find herself among the centurions of rome, constantly training for the war that sent them there. she called out her husband’s name, and pushed beyond, where the endless hungry dead pile in makeshift tents and caves along the hills. three days, she had said, and once here, she knew it would take a thousand lifetimes just to find one man…
i closed the book, in the dream, determined to check it out of the library. it was by someone named andrew g____ from the sixties, and i knew it would be grotesque and beautiful. the librarian frowned at my selection. he told me i should get something good. he couldn’t allow me to check out this garbage book. we shouted at each other. a crowd formed. eventually, i won the argument. not before he looked up at me with a mad gleam in his eye, like he had already won, and i was a fool for challenging him in this.
the alarm buzzed beside the bed. i woke up before i could take the book from his hands. the dream melted like wet paper, and i can only barely remember the story, the author’s name.
andrew goldau? andrew gollancz? andrew geldaur? what was that man’s name? he was writing in the sixties, and he’s mostly forgotten now. his books are rare, and difficult, and strange.