bad dreams

Verian Thomas



A lonely hill on a windswept afternoon. The two of us, hand in hand, heading for the hayloft in the distance. No, I would be alone, that would make more sense, wondering if you were waiting at he hayloft in the distance. It should be night, lit by a fat moon. No, better to be pitch black, thick cloud suffocating the moon, more dramatic that way. There should be a forest and I am lost, having wandered off the winding path in my desperation to reach you. Calling your name over and over again. Feeling pursued. I must find you before the pursuer finds either of us. Rain, there must be rain, stinging my face. The hayloft is out, replaced by an abandoned hut in the heart of the forest. I run in and call your name but there is no reply. A sound outside. The pursuer has arrived. Then I awake. Back in control. Never having allowed myself to lose it.

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