Listen to me. 

Listen to me.

Listen.

Listen.

Listen.

You’re asleep. This is a dream.

And you need to wake up.

You’re dreaming, do you hear?

Can you hear me? 

I don’t know, but you need to wake up.

Wake. Up.

Ok, look at your hands. They don’t look like they should, do they?

They look like reaching branches of a long dead tree. 

They look like popsicle sticks taped together by shaking hands....

The thing in the doorway is backlit.

It, they, are tall and thin

With just the wrong number of limbs

The wrong number of eyes

Lit up,

despite the lack of light

He advances.

It advances.

You try to turn on the lights,

Fumble for the switch.

Where is it?

There—

Just to the left

Flick it on and see.

Oh god, it’s so much worse when you can see it....

The grey walls are unadorned. The windows look out on nothing but more of the same, grey concrete, occasionally marked by suspiciously dark stains. The floor is grey too, with a drain in the middle. On the left side of the room is a lamp. It has a post-it by the switch: “Are you sure you want to turn this off?” I’m not sure. This is the only source of light—the only thing pushing back against the ...

The wings were broken—in the fight, probably, but maybe after. She started it. That’s what they all say, put down her whiskey and punched him in the face. Then she made some rather impolite remarks about his mother, wife, and bloodline. Apparently, she forgot that any agility she may have relied on was all but nullified by the poison coursing through her veins: a mix of alcohol, spite, and bravado...