Ideas and nightmares

In answer to one of those perpetual questions, "where do your ideas come from?". While usually best left unanswered, or rationally explained as the natural process of digesting the sensorium one soaks in, sometimes, just sometimes, one has a nightmare. I have learned, overtime, to embrace them, though I may wake clothed in sweat, visions of places I've never been fading from my mind as if they were never there. When they happen they are often some of the strangest thoughts, the most bizarre twistings of my waking reality that one tries to remember as much as one can. Nightmares are not rational, not afterwards anyway. The following dream was quite narratorial and I hope one day to develop it further into a story of intergalactic warfare. I wrote this straight after waking and, as is becoming common for me, much of the wording passed through my mind as the dream progressed, internal monologue style.

The first explosion didn't shake us.

I noticed a curious zephyr of orange-coloured dirt fountaining into the sky. This was joined by rocks and I pointed for my lover to watch. The rocks grew bigger, one by one, and the dirt stopped and only blocks rose and flipped up. It started about 200 metres away, behind some trees and a row of two-storey shops. It seemed to slow and we, along with the crowd around us, thought it would stop before it reached us. Of course, it did not. The slowing was only relative, each block became distinct from the source; landing and crushing what was beneath it. We started to run, but a flyover was crumbling above us, we did our best to dodge the fall of its fractured pieces. I held her and shielded her as I do when she is cold.

That part ended and we looked back from whence it had begun. A rattle spread out, fast as an explosion, a clackety metal sound that came at us and went past before we could react. There was no reaction that would have saved us. I wanted to whisper, "don't move," but doing so may have meant my death. I tried to communicate this though, by squeezing her tightly, making it clear I wouldn't let her go. I wanted to whisper, "traps," so she knew what was happening.

I recognised the attack, we had simulated it happening many times; although I couldn't be sure what restrictions the traps would impose. They merely lay themselves through me, one filament at a time, cutting without cutting and threading their tension over my organs.

It seemed Earth had, at last, come to reclaim us.