W.S. George
writer composer

The Demon at my Bedside

This begins with a memory of a dream this morning. Whatever circumstances led to the present situation are unclear. I remember a room, or some other confined space, grey or rusted. Uninviting. I remember someone, probably Asian, standing in front of me, or before whoever I happened to be at that moment. He must have been tired, sweaty. I remember a white long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves folded up. There must have been blood.

He was leaning forward, one hand on a knee, another holding some weapon. I remember a large, metal beam. Sometimes it appears to be a cutlass, or a rifle. Whatever it was was meant to kill me. Perhaps that was his intention - to strike out and kill me. There was enough hostility in the atmosphere. A spark could have provoked any one...


© 2020 William Saint George