It was nuclear war. The missiles were flying. We were in a bunker of some sort, with many others. Already two bombs had hit–I saw the second mushroom cloud rise, over Vermont in the distance. A third was headed directly for us. Even with the shelter, we were doomed. Everyone was screaming. Here it comes–it’s about to hit–
And it did. But there was no mushroom cloud. No explosion at all. We crowded around to inspect it.
The missile that had hit us was not a missile, but a rocket from space filled with alien technology. Far from being the end of humanity, we were on the brink of a space opera era.
My dream got me with a plot twist. And not like a dream logic twist. Something you could actually put in a story. My own subconscious plot twisted me.
Today marks the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima.
I think the atomic bombs were the natural culmination of World War II. The War was the worst thing that has ever happened, the single most terrible event in human history. To read its million-page history is to discover depth after depth of the human condition, endless subbasements of evil, and every time you think you’ve hit the bottom, it gets worse. Horror upon horror, abomination upon abomination, piling into a tower up to the blood-red sky. Of course it ended with a great advance in human evil, a revolution in human evil. It’s only appropriate.
The question “Should the United States have dropped the bomb?” misses the point. The war was Gehenna. From the very first day, it was Gehenna. Gehenna is the natural home of abominations, and there abominations multiply.
The Bomb was the gangrene gift of the war, the death egg. It’s like such unspeakable horror had to give birth to some token of itself, some breakthrough in human evil that would stay hanging over us always. As if the work of World War II is incomplete while a single human lives, so it reaches out with tainted arms into the future to destroy everything.