Today’s post is by John Bryant, a writer with a compelling voice.

The dream hunter waits while he listens to whispers. He stalks. There! He unlocks a dream.

—

They’re hardly to be found anymore, not out there, in the land where sun and moon are paired.

But here, where all that can be imagined folds, transforms, and keeps watch; let’s see.

Let’s wait awhile, upon this hill, this shattered hill.

Let’s bring the midnight air to heel; let’s listen to its whispers.

A snapping of twigs, a scrape, a pause.

See, there, a unicorn, skittering into a dream.

A dark dream.

I’ll unlock it.

Ah, the dreamer is old, and the nightmare richly black like worm-fed earth. Such a long life she’s had, so many memories, so many vaults in which to hide.

How do you trap a unicorn? Not with thick-fingered fumbling, hooks or grapples, but finesse.

Here, I’ll unravel the nightmare; tug on its frayed edges. Pull, pull, pull. A fine long thread, coiled like vengeance.

Now make a loop, flip it once, flip it twice, tighten the ends — a lasso, light as an angel’s soul.

But the unicorn sees the darkness that should be light; it hears the quivering silence of the beasts. It knows I’m here.

They’re so brave, so noble. Or is it pride? Or vanity?

No matter, the bait’s the same.

Dreamer, old woman, I’ll send your fear as an emissary.

I’ll rummage here, rummage there. An image of sudden loss. No? Your heart has healed.

This one, then? So, you remember this one: panting, struggling, gasping.

I’ll pin it behind your eyes.

Groan, old woman, groan; groan your dream across the plain. What unicorn can ignore your plight?

And here it comes. Clip-clop, nose flared, head held high. Oh, and that horn; that beautiful horn. How many hopes can I impale with that?

Wait, now. Patience. It draws closer, closer.

I throw the lasso upwards, let it blossom, fall, slip around the neck. And tighten.

You’re strong, but I’m stronger. The rope bites deep.

So angry, so proud. Yes, rear up, shake your head, and slice the air. Dash forward: no, not in there, none go there. Run for cover; thrash in the iron-tipped thicket.

You sing; yes, yes, in your fear you sing. You are the source of so many songs, so many lamentations.

Sing loud, make the ground tremble, shake the stars from the sky.

I’ll give you more rope, let you turn circles, play you for sport. What could be better?

Eating’s better.

Time to end the game, I think: lead you closer, tighten the leash, tighten, give a little slack, and — snap!

All quiet.

What to do?

Flay. Yes, there’s a start.

Shall I use my knives, my sharp, cunning little knives that nick and probe, and find the smoothest path into meat and marrow?

No.

Merely uncurl my finger; ancient bone, worn to a fine edge. Unknot sinew, liberate slick slabs of flesh, heave coiled innards: hardly a wearisome chore. Hum, hum, hum. There’s pleasure in work done well.

Now to bank the fires.

Come, old woman, come: swelter under those blankets, draw them over your face, mouth sealed like a window on a hot, muggy day. Build a fine, smothering heat. A baking heat.

I’ll wait. Wait for the feast to be ready.

Wait by the hour, the day, the year.

Wait amid these peaks. Reach up, up, pull down the sky and snag it on the spires, these mountain spires. Draw close the horizon and funnel all light, all sound toward me.

Listen to the universal dream, the nightmare of humanity. The sigh of failed ambition. The wail of chances lost. The cry of hope swallowed by a hidden future.

The song of unicorns.

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John Bryant is learning the art of writing fiction. He lives and works in the Pacific Northwest. In his spare time he likes to hike in the Cascade Mountains, and his favorite reading genre is horror.

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