The light filtered down eventually to the floor in catchments, a stream of filtration of clouds, tree leaves, and sun roof angle, finally falling onto the open page of Zansky’s latest sci-fi/fantasy novel, laid across his lap as he sat, head tilted back and snoring softly on his sofa. This latest sci-fi/fantasy thriller was just in the midst of describing the interrelations of Zanorgs with their dragons, when Zansky’s mind wandered to a lunchtime conversation with receptionist Janice about whether life on earth began from organic matter carried on a meteor, or if some intelligent designer, aka God, crafted man already complete.
“If there was a designer, than we’d better call the motherfucker to account. Trial of the century,” Zansky had said.
“Wasn’t there a Dostoevsky story about that one already?,” Janice said.
Zansky was about to correct her, but then realized that it was a good corraboration, even if it didn’t fit exactly.
In his dream, Zansky saw a place that was like the park near his apartment except that it also was like the playground at his elementary school. They were being attacked by UFOs that were dropping rotund bombs which would explode after 1 minute of hitting the ground. So he was running around with an unknown friend and they either had to grab the bombs that fell near them and try to lob them back up into the sky at the UFOs, or run away from the ones about to explode. They also had an arsenal of thick rubberbands which they were using to attack the hovering spacecraft, but they were hard to use without hurting their own thumbs when the band was released. Zansky awoke laughing yet feeling strangely nostalgic already about the dream world. It had been heroic and action packed and it kind of made sense still when he woke up, as opposed to most of his dreams, which were relegated immediately to the wastebin of memory upon waking up, because they were just too weird to make any conscious sense.