In 1988 I exerienced a series of dreams about nuclear annihilation. The first one was situated in New York. The sirens sounded the alarm and thousands of East Villagers headed to the subway for shelter. There wasn’t room for all of us. Someone pointed to the sky and I spotted a black missile falling earthward.
White flash.
The next dream was situated in Moscow. The populace filed into trains with calm order and got off at the next station to allow other passengers to repeat our hopeless exodus to safety.
White flash.
The third dream occurred at a Siberian airfield. I was making love with a Red Air Force female pilot. The sirens sounded once more. The Comrade Pilot excused herself from my embrace and ran to the bomber parked outside the dacha. I watched her take off moments before mushrooms clouds rose over the tundra.
White flash.
I liked the last dream best, but I always thought that you weren’t supposed to die in your dreams.
Guess I was wrong.
But I woke up to survive on all three occasions, because luck asleep or awake runs in my family.
We’re half-Irish.