Jillian R.
I'm starting to wonder how big a nerd one has to be to dream of H.G. Wells.
Or maybe I just watch too much TV.

It was one of those third person perspective kind of dream.


     In the midst of the chaotic streets during the second world war, people ran into alleys, closed their doors and windows, some peeked behind dirty curtains; the General's black car was approaching, going over puddles and splashing muddy grime on the pavement. Seeing the General's car was never a good sight. It could be their turn to have their attics and cellars searched for people in hiding.

     The car stopped at a restaurant, in the heart of town - once only rich dwellers could afford to dine. There, children would be lectured on the importance of using the right fork over meals served on fine bone china. It was a spacious restaurant, with a large dining hall in the center and smaller, private rooms used for, well, private functions of those who could afford it. When the war began, the families who could, fled the country, some simply had to be contented with eating a piece of stale bread per day; if they were lucky, with their bare hands.

     Besides the two waitresses in French maid's uniform standing at the very far end of the room, the restaurant was empty. The Dictator sat in the middle of the large dining hall. He was smoking a pipe, seemingly enjoying the taste of the tobacco, puffing out thick clouds of swirly smoke while at it. The General walked in, followed by a stern woman officer with 
thick black hair cut short; she wore bangs and tall black boots. She was beautiful, but the kind of beauty which were both captivating and intimidating.

     As the General took a seat, the woman officer promptly handed him a leather-bound journal. It was worn and was shiny on the parts where it had the most contact. The Dictator took it and read it silently.

     "What do you see, Sir?" asked the General after several moments of complete silence.

     "Why wasn't it burnt along with the others?" came the curt reply.

     "Sir, what we have here may be plans for a, a -- machine, it seems"
    

     The Dictator did not answer. He simply leafed through page after page of complicated diagrams, scribbles and various scrawled calculations which didn't seem to make sense. Finally he said "This is nothing but some math calculations and drawings of a mad man. Jibberish!"

     "I'm very sorry to waste your time then, Sir. I will bring it to the bonfire immediately" said the General as he began to stand up.

     "It's alright. I'm sure you have matters to take care of. Houses to search -- that kind of thing. I will take care of this. Thank you General"

     The Dictator left with H.G Wells' notebook, on those pages indeed, were the illustrated plans for The Time Machine.

The dream made me realize that I need to read up on my world history. My timeline's all wrong.
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