There were torch-red eyes in the moonlit jungle, and the distant, bitter howling of beasts. There were the pulsations of soft, plump bodies that thudded on my cheeks, at my eyes, against my lips. And the whir of moths was as loud as thunder in the dawn, loud enough to cover my screams as I began to choke on glistening wings.
With a cry, I jerked to full awareness, brushing wildly at my face and chest, feeling the quiver of feathery legs and antennae tickling all over me.
Nothing was there.
Sweat ran. My chest heaved. I sat up.
Nothing was there! No eyes, no wings, no ribbon tongues l*****g at raw wounds.
But something had been there. I remembered well the reality from which this “dream” had sprung.
hadPushing away a coverlet that seemed quilted of soft, cool moss, I rose stiffly from
