Nightmare Season

Clara Sheridan-Bryson


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Someone, somewhere, is watching the snow close in on them, with terrified eyes.
There’s no charm in that.

Somewhere the snow is running light fingers down someone’s shoulders, but there’s
no softness in that.

Just falling ice, creeping and creeping with chilling detachment, inching with every
frosted breath deeper into the thin folds of the sleeping bag that someone has to call

Somewhere, this is someone’s worst nightmare, much less their fondest dream.
Somewhere, someone has been mulling over their perfect picture of hell all season,
and with no means of preparation to fight it, it roars through these streets with
horrifying disorder.

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