The Book of Josiah - Chapter 18

    It wasn’t his fault. Not really. He was afraid of his dreams and so he fought the darkness. What had happened to his beautiful dreams? Once he had dreamt of other worlds and other times, when a man could be a hero, where he was free to live out his fantasies. But he had squandered his infinite dreams and now was left with only two.
    In one, he watched a cup of tea fall to the floor, so elegant, so graceful, and shatter into a thousand pieces like a drop of rain as it hits the ground; and an inhuman screech filled his ears as brakes burned, tires slid and a car, all too close, collided with a brick wall. It was inevitable and he was bound to watch, over and over again.
    But relatively speaking that was the good dream. In the other, he woke up in his bed to find Ammi lying beside him, worn by the passing of years but as beautiful as ever. And he would wake her up and tell her about the strange dream he had had, and how he had imagined the crash, and her funeral, and his sorrow, and she laughed and said “what a funny dream” and they both laughed together until Dinah came to find out what was going on; and she was so beautiful it ached his heart, and he told her about his strange dream, and how she had died and he had gone to her funeral and been unable to say a word, and he laughed because she was so full of life - they all laughed.
    Joe felt himself falling asleep again and drove his nails harder into his leg - he had to stay awake. it wasn’t his fault that he kept falling asleep in this meeting. How could he go to sleep at night knowing what waited for him in the shadows?
    His head jerked backwards and he knew that he couldn’t help himself. In a few minutes he would be asleep, and there was nothing he could do about it. No, he wouldn’t accept that.
    Eli was still talking but it was just a senseless drone, like an itch at the base of Joe’s mind. He did not understand a word that was being said but couldn’t ignore it. He had to seem interested but to do that he had to stay awake. Rising from his seat in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner, Joe went over to the water machine and poured himself a large cup of water.
    ‘I need something stronger than water,’ Joe thought but then was immediately angry at himself for thinking it. He did not drink any more.

The Book of Josiah - Chapter 6 - JOE

   A soul-tearing screech. Everything flew everywhere. Blood exploded in a fountain of crimson. They had to get to the hospital. Everything would be alright! They had to be alright! Her skin grew pale, all life fled from her eyes. Her breathing slowed, slowed, and stopped.
    Joe woke up slowly, his bones aching with the remembered pain of decades. It had been the same bad dream he had had for twenty years, and it no longer chilled him the way it had done. Over the years, he had grown accustomed to the images, expected the visions to come. It was a spur to action, a call from the past that came to him each night. He badly needed a drink.
    Joe peeled back the bed-sheets and rose carefully to his feet. His right knee was troubling him, as it often did at night, but he ignored it and headed for the stairs. The red wood of the bannister was dark with use; Joe gripped it firmly as he stepped down. The pale carpet was discoloured, the textured wallpaper torn and ragged. The house needed serious work, thought Joe. One of these days, I must get around to it. One of these days. When I have more time.
    The withered carpet felt like sand beneath his feet as Joe crept down the stairs. He switched on the light and rubbed his eyes to clear away the sleep. It smelt damp and old, a thick layer of dust covered everything and heavy cobwebs hung from the ceiling, drifting slowly in the draught. Pictures hung from the walls but everything blurred together into shades of grey. In the end though, it hardly mattered.
    A single bulb lit the kitchen, and it swung relentlessly to and fro like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. Each swing measured a moment lost to time, a unique, singular instant that was unrepeatable. Second by second, time leaked away. But each swing had an echo in the swing that followed, action and reaction, motion and counter-motion. With the right energy, Joe could soon make time itself recur, moments long-since passed return. Or so he hoped. Sighing, Joe turned from the light and filled his limescale-ridden kettle with water.
    The clock told him it was five to six in the morning. Hardly worth going back to sleep. He never slept well anyway.
    The kettle took exactly a minute to boil. Joe threw a tea bag into a chipped mug and poured vaguely clear water over it. Part of him wanted something stronger, even after all this time, but he didn’t touch alcohol any more. Now he had his time machine to finish.