The Martians

Back in the 1960s, when the excitement of space exploration was still at its peak, a young couple from America were shuttled to Mars. It was a one way trip to colonise the Red Planet and to begin laying the seeds of infrastructure that might allow more settlers to move there in the future. They were a happy-go-lucky couple, content in their own company, passionate about their mission, and quite reconciled to the fact they would never see their home planet, or another person, again. The trip was successful and they formed a modest agricultural homestead, However, with no way to keep in touch, the world promptly forgot about them. Until now.

Using cutting edge probe technology, the BBC successfully made contact with the pioneers and was able to film a documentary on their lives. Living alone for almost 50 years with no outside contact, the couple had naturally undergone significant changes, yet no one could have foreseen what the probe uncovered. Both the man and the woman still sported long tangled manes of hair, they had been hippies in the 60s and, isolated from changing fashion trends, they had remained thus. Their hair had not turned grey, and they had not visibly aged to the extent one might have expected. The woman was by all accounts a midget and her voice was high and squeaky, sounding like she regularly huffed on helium. Other than that, she was the more normal of the two.

The man was another story. Somehow during his sojourn on Mars, he had lost both of his legs. The low gravity on the planet meant that this was not as much of a handicap, and he still enjoyed good mobility. More shockingly, his head had detached from his body, rendering him a living torso. His head was connected to his neck by a long hose, passing vital nutrients and oxygen back and forth. Most amazingly of all, he had not only learned how to play an electric synthesiser type instrument, but his severed head was still able to sing. He cut a horrifying sight, his ghoulish, legless torso perched on a chair whilst his hands played the keys, a haunting, otherwordly tune. Meanwhile, at the end of his winding nutrient hose, his head would sing lustily into the stars, a groaning, guttural refrain.

The documentary then went onto showcase the couple's bizarre sex life. Despite lacking legs, genitalia, and a head, the man had lost none of his libido. His chipmunk voiced wife chirped animatedly about how she would lube herself up in oil and slither and slide over her husband's torso, stimulating him in new and unorthodox ways. The documentary was too much to bear, and I turned it off in disgust. I awoke with a foul, nauseous taste in my mouth, and was queasy for some hours after. Beware the Martians, for they have transcended our mortal ways.

Cliffside Retreat

This dream had a distinct sense of deja vu. Many of its elements have already appeared in previous dreams. The cliffs surrounding a rocky cove, a horse ride, sea lions in the surf, a predatory polar bear. It was a private sanctum known only to myself, which I visited on occasion for quiet reflection and for riding my black stallion, Bucephalus, named after Alexander the Great's horse. On this occasion, I had invited my friend Darren to join me, eager to finally share the location and show off my horse. I seemed more excited by the fact that the horse was black, thinking this would be its main selling point. Darren turned up with a few beers which we drank together on the rocks, watching the pounding waves. I suggested a few times that we should ride Bucephalus together, but he seemed wary of the venture and declined. Eventually he left and I was alone again.

I mounted my horse and galloped along the tops of the cliffs, feeling the wind in my hair. When I grew weary of this, I climbed back down to the cove and sat watching the sleek forms of sea lions gambolling in the water. I couldn't get a good look at them as they were farther out than usual. It was cold, and the water was a steely grey. I decided that if the sea lions wouldn't come to me, I would go to them. As I started to hug the narrow path along the base of the cliff, heading towards the tip of a peninsula that would bring me closer, I heard a bone chilling roar and a waterlogged polar bear came charging towards me. I turned and ran, turning into a narrow gulley carved into the cliffs. I used overhanging trees and ledges to pull myself up, but soon realised I was trapped with nowhere higher to climb. The polar bear made a concentrated effort to reach me, but it was unable to scale the cliffs. I realised I would have to remain here until somebody found me, or the bear got bored and left.

Plane Crash

I hate flying. Really I loathe it. I've flown a lot of long haul over the years, so it has become associated with boredom and discomfort. My long legs can no longer handle the confines of economy, or risk the gamble of securing a bulkhead seat, so now I must fork out large chunks of money for the comfort that business class brings. Even then, I find it impossible to relax on a plane, much less sleep. After a number of hair-raising experiences in the sky, my dislike eventually evolved into fear. One too many forced landings, emergency returns to port of origin, and extreme turbulence have made me into a nervous flyer. Imagine my relief when COVID-19 broke and I was no longer required to fly anywhere. But that restriction is almost at an end, and with it came a dream highlighting a prevalent fear. May it not turn out prophetic.

I was on a small plane, flying out from one Chinese city to another. It was a similar aircraft to the TransAsia prototype model that crashed into the Keelung River in Taiwan in 2015, resulting in the deaths of 48 passengers. Most terrifying of all, I had my young daughter with me, her safety of which is of greater importance than my own. We took off from a small runway hemmed in by skyscrapers, and no sooner had we cleared it than one of the wings scraped the side of a tower and twisted the plane sharply out of its skyward trajectory. The pilot informed us that we did not have time to gain enough altitude, so would be forced to make an emergency landing. My nails dug into my sweaty palms as I held my daughter close and struggled to control my breathing. The pilot managed to align the plane along a main road, bearing low towards the ground, searching for a place relatively devoid of traffic where he could touch down. The wings were too broad for the narrow pass however, and their tips received another scraping from the flanking buildings. Sparks flew, traffic screeched out of the plane's path, but we ground to a bumpy halt with no more damage than our frayed nerves and some buckled wings.

We were shuttled back to the airport on a coach, then it was a long and tedious layover period whilst a replacement plane was sourced for us, during which time I lolled around the terminal lobby with a bored child. When it was finally time to board, many of us were dismayed to discover that it was exactly the same plane as before. We were reassured that it had been fixed and deemed flight worthy, yet once onboard, it became apparent that the pilot himself was far from convinced. It was another long wait before we were eventually able to take off. In that time, I got to know a lot of the other passengers, including a Muslim man who kept frantically praying and chanting. I returned to my seat as we climbed into the sky, and after a smooth ascent, I began to feel at ease. The flight continued without mishap, until all of a sudden, an alarm from the cockpit started blaring. The cockpit was visible to the rest of the plane, and I saw the pilot breaking down into a panic, screeching a distress message into an intercom. The plane shuddered and began to tip. Everyone screamed as we began to pick up speed and hurtle back towards the ground. I hugged my child close and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the end. Then I woke up.