I had a disturbing dream last night.

We were in a deserted high school building, a mutant version of my old high school (who knows what sort of unresolved issues that represents).

“We” was me, my wife and our boys, plus Lauren, a young lady that I’ve come to think of as a daughter and Mikayla, her baby sister, all of six years old. An Asian man on a motor scooter had a nuclear device. We were told that if we could get a few miles away, we would be alright.

Mikayla chooses that exact moment to throw a huge fit at the notion of being inconvenienced and runs off. We spend all of our escape time searching for her, so that by the time we find her, there’s no point in running. We go to the roof of the building. I kiss Lauren. I take Malcolm, my youngest, into my arms and take my wife’s hand. She’s holding my oldest and Lauren is holding Mikayla. Then the nuke goes off and everything goes white.

The whiteness slowly dissolves into blackness and I remember thinking “At least now I get to see what comes next.”

A voice tells me to “wake up.”

It was still night time. I woke up in a pool of sweat, heart racing, and so weirded out that I didn’t go back to sleep. The thing is, the dream doesn’t seem that scary in the telling. I’d like to blame my sense of unease on the idea that this is what happens when I die in my dreams. Yet, that doesn’t do anything for my feeling so completely disconcerted, having this sense of living in a state of unreality. Then there are the questions. Did I die? Am I dead now? Is reality a dream? Am I still dreaming? Am I dead? Is this heaven? Hell? Why am I so scared right now?

Maybe my fear is that one day that voice won’t remind me to wake up.

Anyone want to ask me why I write horror?

Comment on this bit of rantus interruptus anyway you want (I don’t know where you’re reading it from) but if you want to guarantee me seeing it, do so at my message board.