darkening dreams

My grandfather said to me, “His name is Icarus.” There was a boy sitting on his knee. A shining boy, a golden boy whose face I was afraid to look at.

And then I realized it was a dream.

“Telemachus. Apollo. Lugh. Leo. Is it true?” my grandfather said, but I wouldn’t look at the boy. “You should give him my name, but that would make it real. Give him the things that are not real.”

“That’s not fair.” I replied.

“No, its not fair. Then give him the things that are real.”

For the first time I looked around. In the cargo bay, again. But there was sunlight.

“Ask him. Ask him what he wants.” My grandfather’s voice was so real, saying things I had never heard him say. I still wouldn’t look at the boy, for suddenly I knew whose face I would see. “Ask him.”

I couldn’t speak, and I heard the light laughter of the child suddenly joined by the low chuckle of a man.

“Icarus. Icarus Truman Front. Give him all the names.”

“He’s not real.” I said.

“But he could be.”


I don't understand. I woke up troubled. It won't stop lingering, and I can't understand. Its not real. But it could be.