A Dream of Moths

Last month, the Sandman audio release was hosting a contest where if you told them your dream they might illustrate it. I’d just had a rather surreal one that morning and decided to enter.

I woke up this morning to find mine was picked!

Please enjoy a little trip into my brain where everything is made of moths.

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Sabrina visits The Dreaming: Walks through an old farmhouse with moth-covered walls. llustrated by @maxfiumara #DrawnFromTheDreaming #TheSandman

A post shared by Drawn From The Dreaming (@drawnfromthedreaming) on Aug 9, 2020 at 7:02am PDT

For fun, I’ll leave you with one of my short horror stories out of And They Lived

Cold.

The room should be cold as an untended grave, more silent than the finger of death. That’s what they say to combat insomnia. Still I lay here, counting something…

I tried to focus on my breaths, but I can’t hear them anymore. They’ve faded as my mind stubbornly clings to the waking world. The hours for witches and the dancing dead pass as I flip over. Time is different in the ink of the night; each heartbeat lasts for a nanosecond or a day. It is impossible to discern the passing of minutes into hours, or hours into day.

The glare of sun, proof that I failed, cracks the drawn blinds of my tomb, never reaching my partially opened eyes. Daylight, another struggle for unreachable peace as I rise from my shroud of twisted sheets.

Lonely. Am I lonely? I am alone, but does that make me lonely? I can’t remember.

When did I last sleep? Was it before? Have I ever slept? Can one go her life without sleep? It’s on the cusp of my…no, it’s gone. It was never there, not in the ethereal daylight. Only when the sun slumbers can my memory return. Only then am I alive.

I stand before the bed — my untended bed. The last drops of light from a lonely world spill across the dilapidated carpet. I am lonely, but all I can be is lonely. A form lies on the right side, my side, curled inward as if reaching its knees could have stopped the inevitable. The eyes eternally flutter open from the mummified skin with wisps of hair fanned across the molding pillow. Days to months to years; she is forgotten, abandoned, lost.

Sleep. Sleep will never come. It left me behind. I am alone.