I sat with him at the table. He offered me bread, a goblet of wine. After I partook he gave me a quill, some parchment, his smiling eyes encouraging me to write. Somehow the quill took over, gliding across the surface with ease. Before I knew it I was looking at a line of words I didn’t recognise. I looked up at him, his kind countenance pitying my ignorance. “Try reading it again,” he said. I looked down — suddenly the script made sense. “Reading what I have just written, I now believe.” A gentle smile was pursing his lips.
In another dimension a science fiction buff might be prized. Both generations of Star Trek, scripts known verbatim, dramas wrought from billions and parsecs, all sheer make-believe: I cannot abide it. So which side is up in space? I’m passed the Van Allen belts