As he often did during warm summer nights, Emmett was sitting out on the front porch in his rocker. The battered notebook that he used to doodle out his novice lines of alliteration was on his lap, but his muse was somewhat quiet this evening, so he had turned off the porch light and taken to stargazing — frustration from writer’s block aside, he didn’t mind the lack of attention the darkness offered from the local insects. He was rocking gently to and fro, careful as always to use the toes of his good foot, never allowing the traitorous left heel to so much as touch the wooden deck. "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?" whistled through his pursed lips. He, of course, would have
preferred
if Judy had been here with him, but otherwise, he was about as content as could be.
The White Flash originated just to the left of the Little Dipper. The display was actually less dramatic than accounts to later generations would suggest, but it was still a sight to see. The tune dried up between Emmett’s lips as his eyes widened. It was like something out of a science-fiction movie, like the Death Star blowing up at the end of
Star Wars
... no, wait, that wasn’t it. It was like that
other
sci-fi series,
Star Trek
. In one of the films, the opening credits had climaxed with the explosion of a Klingon moon. There had been a flash, and then a shockwave of pure energy shooting outward like a ripple in a pond.
That’s
what this was like. Just to the left of the Little Dipper, a
pulse
of brilliant light, then a wave of energy shooting out three-hundred-sixty-degrees. The wave spread from the point of origin to the edge of the horizon in less than five seconds.
A lot of people panicked that night, but for some reason, Emmett did not. He was captivated by the sight of what the White Flash left behind: What before had been a relatively clear portion of sky was now a new, very prominent star. Or at least, Emmett
thought
it was a star at first. Upon closer scrutiny, he realized that it was in fact
several
stars.
Seven
, if he was counting correctly. They were clumped together in the tightest constellation Emmett Morris had ever seen — people around the world would soon be referring to them as The Seven Stars.
Emmett sat there for several long minutes, staring intently at these Seven Stars. He paid no attention to the sirens that began wailing in the distance. Somewhere fairly close by, a woman screamed, but he paid no more attention to this than he did the sirens. He simply gazed up at this fascinating new constellation, his breath tight in his excited chest.
Then he saw something else.
It’s not that it obscured his vision — he could still see just fine. It was more like a double image, some sort of
overlay
that he had again seen in the movies. His
eyes
still saw the sky and the Seven Stars; his
mind
saw a motel room.
In this motel room, a man lay upon a bed. He grunted and flexed and panted and humped. Emmett did not know this muscular, dark, thirty-something man.
Also in this motel room, a woman knelt upon the man. She also grunted and flexed and panted and humped. Emmett
did
know this woman, knew her very well.
Emmett watched in numb, nauseating, growing horror as his wife rode the younger man and rode him
hard
. She pulled his hands to her breasts and urged him on and showered him with lewd compliments that she had
never
offered to the man she had vowed to honor and cherish for the rest of her life.
Allowing a whimpering sob to escape him, Emmett shut and covered his eyes; he only succeeded in blinding himself to the celestial display — the vision of the motel room remained.
Judy was having an affair.
Emmett forgot all about the White Flash, the Seven Stars. He forgot about his bone spurs as he reopened his eyes and clamored to his feet. The double image of visual and mental caused him to stumble and bump into things as he found his way back into the house.
He ascended the stairs, hoisting himself hand-over-hand along the railing, and he nearly fell over backwards at the top as he saw ... no, not "saw,"
witnessed
... as he
witnessed
Judy move off of the younger man and onto all fours, encouraging her partner into a position that she had always told her husband she did not care for because it was too awkward.
Finding his way into the bedroom, some small part of Emmett that was chiefly self-respect and preservation realized what the majority of the shocked and shattered Emmett was planning to do. That small portion began pleading with the rest of him: She wasn’t worth it, not
this
. Didn’t he want to know what had happened in the sky tonight? Wasn’t he
enthralled
by this new ability, regardless of what it had unfortunately selected to show him first? Didn’t he want to explore the possibilities, try out what promised to be an all-new and different life?
Didn’t he?!
It didn’t matter. None of it did. Maybe he didn’t feel like going out with her anymore, and maybe he didn’t lust for her like he once did, but the inescapable
fact
was that Emmett Morris loved his wife dearly, and she was
rutting
with another man in a motel room even as he ...
witnessed
from home.
Emmett pulled the .45 caliber pistol from the shoebox on the top shelf of the closet. He confirmed that it was loaded, pulled back the hammer, and placed the barrel between his teeth.
For God’s sake
, pleaded the little voice one last time,
aren’t you
worth
more than
this
?!
In the motel room, Judy Morris screamed with orgasm.
In their bedroom, Emmett Morris pulled the trigger, and the vision, mercifully, ceased.
SARAH
Sarah Baxter was asleep the Night of the White Flash.
Sarah was a kind woman, a gentle soul probably doomed to die an Old Maid thanks to a defective thyroid that left her nearly four-hundred pounds overweight and gaining. Her youngest sister — an eternally petite goddess whom everyone adored — had borne five children to three different husbands, and come what may, every single one of the little angels considered Sarah their favorite Aunt in the whole wide world.
On the Night of the White Flash, Sarah had agreed to babysit the children while her sister went out on a date with the man who seemed increasingly likely to become Husband Number Four. The youngest of the bunch, David, had been having serious nightmares in the last few weeks, so all adults and the three-year-old himself were in perfect agreement that if the Sandman chose to be cruel again this night, then it was far better for David to scream his way straight into Aunt Sarah’s all-encompassing arms than those of just any old sitter.
All the children, except for the oldest, were already in bed when the White Flash occurred, and she was upstairs about to fall asleep in front of her favorite video game. Sarah sat upon the loveseat with David nestled upon her considerable lap — the sofa which normally seated two comfortably was just enough for Sarah’s girth. She planned to stay awake until David’s mother came home ...
if
she came home this evening. But a day with a little too much excitement for her vying heart had drained her more than she realized, and she was soon snoring so loudly, it was a wonder that she didn’t wake up poor little David.
Both aunt and nephew entered REM sleep at the same time. David’s dream began as it had over and over again: He was in the backyard, playing in his sandbox. The sun passed behind a cloud, and the wind acquired a bit of a chill. David shuddered against the cold for a few minutes, then decided enough was enough and headed in to watch some TV. The part of David that was observing the dream rather than interacting with it dreaded what he would find inside, but he was helpless to prevent this horrific drama of his subconscious from playing itself out.
Sarah dreamed of a beach in Mexico. In reality, she had appreciated the salty air while sitting fully dressed on a bench overlooking the hundreds of shapely tanned figures, male and female alike. In her dream,
she
was one of the shapely figures — perhaps the shapeliest of them all — and she did not sit upon a bench perched on the pier above, but lay sunning herself in the skimpiest bikini the beach would allow, and this was not a conservative beach.
Sarah had dreamed of this beach periodically over the years since her actual visit. In spite of the pang of disappointment she inevitably suffered upon wakening to her usual, bloated physique, Sarah always considered this a
good
dream, a pleasant vacation from
herself
that she was otherwise incapable of experiencing. She had decided long ago to treasure the good over the bad, and enjoy it for what it was.
And that was how she continued to feel, until the Night of the White Flash.
A whimper slipped from David’s tight lips and a smile played across Sarah’s as the Seven Stars pulsed into view overhead, the White Flash stretching out over the dome of night.
In Sarah’s dream, an Adonis of a surfer was approaching her. Sometimes she played coy with him — sometimes she gave in to his lures, and on those nights, Sarah’s dream had been known to turn a bit more to the erotic. She waited for him, casually deciding if she was in the mood this time.
Her first clue that something was changing was in the sounds. Almost before she realized it, the crashing of the surf, whistling of the wind, and calling of the seagulls had given way to something else. A television broadcast, she decided. It sounded, of all things, like someone was watching an old episode of "Family Ties."
The surfer stopped before her and spoke, but no words came from his lips. She stood and cast about for the source of intrusion.
A sharp breath escaped her as she spied the gateway. There was a rippling in the air before her ... no, not in the air, in the very
fabric
of her dream. Like water splashing back and forward at a vertical angle, heedless of and perhaps even mocking gravity’s laws. Over the din of Michael J. Fox’s dialogue, she could hear another voice. It was not speaking per se, more that it was
quivering
, but she knew it regardless, knew it with the heart of a favorite aunt.
David
was in there, and he needed her.
Without instruction or intellectual understanding of any kind, Sarah Baxter stepped forward and crossed the bridge from her own dream into that of her nephew’s.
She found herself in a strange living room, a large spacious setup that was both unknown and yet vaguely familiar. The television to her left did in fact offer a viewing of "Family Ties," and to her right sat David on a couch, his bottom lip trembling as he sobbed.
"David?" she said.
He looked at her with a mixture of surprise and relief. He did not seem to recognize her at first; he had never in his life seen his aunt as a Size Three.
"Aunt Sarah?" he asked, the incredulity and comfort still dancing a balanced tango upon his features.
"Yes, David, it’s me," she assured as she approached and knelt before him.
"You’re
skinny
!" he observed.
"I know," she smiled. "David, are you all right? Why are you crying?"
"Cause it’s hapnin’
again
, Aunt Sarah!"
"
What’s
happening again, David? Tell me."
The same instincts that allowed Sarah to use her dream bridge without prior experience now informed her that this was David’s recurring nightmare she had entered, and she did not bother to question the root of this knowledge. Her nephew was upset and needed her help — she would deal with the rest later.
"I never ‘member when I wake up, but I ‘member now," he told her. "It hasn’t started yet, but I know what’s gonna happen."
"What, David?
Tell me
," she insisted once more.