Words TOM RANSLEY
Spooked, the unreal drifts away. Reality fills the void. Blasted beyond recall, my dream dissolves as deftly as it appeared. It’s been shooed out of grasp by the persistent alarm. I roll over and reach for the phone. Abstract forms jump and dance. Gradually, the orange numbers come into focus. I dumbly struggle, thumbing the screen wildly until it stops. I roll back into bed, snug under the warm covers, where again I succumb to the dreamy darkness.
Slip. Grip. A subconscious reflex snaps my palm shut, the fingers don’t quite catch the falling phone and the alarm restarts, as if startled by the sudden animation. I reach to the floor and pick up the phone, and fatigue washes through me even as the alarm screams. For the second time I hit the snooze button but this time I get out of bed and into an unfamiliar setting. I think I’m in Africa. How did I get here?