by John Polselli

Better watch that imagination

     Once, before the horror began, I saw a tiny butterfly go flitting above the stones in my back yard. I imagined that the butterfly was a tiny airplane transporting tiny people to a magical mountain where blue waters flow between fields of green, bathed in light from a sun foreign to our own.

     I do not know from where they come, those visions that are superimposed over prosaic sights and objects that are indigenous to Earth. All that I am sure of is that, when night arrives, my dreams assume a realness that is difficult for me to deny.

     The shadows in my room lurch in the corners of the walls like magnified centipedes whose intentions are to horrify me. I become apprehensive, and my actions become erratic. I begin to breathe heavily and rapidly. I know that I am not alone in my bedroom. No, the people—the tiny people—they are watching me, mocking me, trying to have me believe that I am losing my mind.

     Yet I know that they are there. I know that they are real.