Issue 300, Volume 28
November 2024--

Snake Dreams

by Matthew J Hewitt

I awoke within a nest of restless snakes whose slippery-coiled bodies coated me with their slime; I was cold, naked, and hungry. I yelped and moaned for food in a hissing unexpected unknown language to myself, and they eagerly obliged feeding me with drops of venom from their wickedly sharp fangs, open mouthed I drank greedily and every drip, drip, drip of venom relieved my stinging parched throat, relieved my aching mind, and slowly I began to feel weightless as if in the midst of a deep dream, I felt lifted up and suspended in a dizzy higher state of consciousness. And vivid hallucinations flooded my mind for all of a sudden I found myself standing next to who I could only describe as the good lord Jesus and he was beckoning, encouraging me as a doubter to place my dithering hand into his gashed open side, so slowly, tentatively, cringing, but having too, almost as if drawn by a strong magnetic force I placed my hand into the gaping bloody side wound of the risen lord, but to my horror something from inside grabbed my hand in a steely grip, and began rapidly to drag me inwards, this was greeted by woops of derision from behind me, from which I could only imagine to be emanating from the lords disciples , so I turned to them pleading for their help, and my eyes were greeted by twelve velvet robed snakes with faces like those of the ugliest rats, they cheered for my pain and my anguish to continue, my arm my head now slurped into this hideous gaping cavern, drawn in as if trapped in some merciless machine, completely inside now and small furry animals scurried around me within the coppery smelling dank darkness, and something still dragged me on and on as the woops of derision slowly faded into the distance. Eventually after what seemed like an eternity I was laid to rest beneath a breathtaking ruddy sunset ,the most beautiful sunset that I had ever set eyes upon, but this sunset was like none other for now it began to drip and dribble clotted thick chunks of blood that splattered all around me in great globules exploding with ear popping blasts like thunder cracks , and from these large clots of blood stumbled massive ants, long stick like legs, with sabre like fangs that gleamed menacingly beneath the ruddy ,bloody dribbling sunset, they shook themselves free of the sticky pus and instantly scurried off scrambling rapidly for cover to be shrouded by the loving, hugging darkness, for they seemed to be terrified by where they had finally materialised. And at the site of these hideous new beasts my entire body began to shake from utmost fear, my bowels loosened, and I wept and sobbed for release from this awful nightmare.

Then unexpectedly and Remarkably sleep insatiably gobbled me up, and deep within I dreamt of a furry ripped faced ugly animal who approached me and spoke to me in a tongue that I could easily understand, telling me that now to my disbelief I rested not within the lord of lightness, but within the lord of darkness who according to this small merry creature usually stripped humans of their skins and thus gnawed and sucked upon there weeping bloody wounds relishing and adoring the bitter taste, but apparently for me there was to be a more suitable end, and that this very morning I would be dragged to a cross by the dark ants ,and slowly, deliciously, I would be crucified.

"Noooooooooo" I screamed into the darkness, "nooooooo, this can not be true", and I begged this ugly creature for a key that would enable me to escape from this nightmare, but all it could then say to me was that there would be no key ever granted to the son of snake, and so I pleaded my innocence but to my grief this ugly foe would not believe me, and eventually he floated away with invisible flapping wings chanting over and over from far above my head "crucify the son of snake, crucify the son of snake, crucify the son of snake," and I howled after him with derision "I am not the son of snake, please believe me I am not the son of snake” but he never listened and he would never listen and he was right for that morning I awoke to be greeted by the foul breathing ants who mulled around me in hordes, they picked me up effortlessly with their stick like limbs and marched me to my cross, which was situated within a forest of luscious red roses that gave off a revolting scent of fresh faeces, of which the ants seemed to be drawn to as afresh source of sustenance because they gobbled them down , and I wept again at the madness of this whole episode and also at the site of these incredibly gorgeous drooping red roses and my tears I could see now settled upon the petals and glimmered like pearls. A wooden cross made of a jet black wood they nailed me too with sharp gleaming icicle like spikes which they embedded with their powerful jaws through my wrists to the greeting of violent spurts of my crimson blood.

A spike from one of the ants was then painfully thrust into my side and eventually I was just left there in the silence and the darkness alone and afraid, and while waiting for death to arrive I thought of my beloved mother and father who I would never be able to set eyes upon ever again and this hurt me far, far more than any of the pain that I had thus far endured and very slowly, and peacefully I began to slip away and my rich dark blood bubbled from my side revealing the two familiar unexpected heads of the emerald eyed snakes that I had met earlier who now flopped out limply waving within the fading light, and with this site my heart nearly burst with joy for at least one last time could I see the faces of my beloved mother and father, they peered up at me tearfully, and as death dragged me to my final resting place I could hear them singing to me fond unforgotten hissing lullabies from my younger days, and sweet everlasting goodbyes and I wept for them not to leave me alone, not to leave me to be feasted upon by that hungry beast death.

Matthew J. Hewitt is one of the much acclaimed cemetery poets, and is spoken of in the press as the new king of British dark poetry, born in 1968 this young poets critical acclaim are as follows:
The great poet Bruce Boston says, "Hewitt's work has potential and emotion". Simon Clark, famous British horror writer, tipped as the new Stephen King, says of the poem The Fire Of Insanity, "This is a piece of real power, rich in imagery, sure to be published," of the poem Pan, Clark says "incredible vivid imagery," and of the poem It Came From The Swamp an intensely visual piece in a style that you seem to be claiming for your own." Andy Cox editor of T.T.A. press says, "Hewitt’s poetry is brilliant, the best I have ever read." Hewitt’s writing has also been compared to author Lord Dunsany by Australian magazine Redsine, and also has been considered as the new Dante. Hewitt collected second prize in the first Fiction Inferno short story competition, and he is the winner of the best poem competition on the Demonminds site. Several of Hewitt’s poems are due out in an anthology published by Double Dragon publishers this will be available through W. H. Smiths, Borders, Amazon, Barnes and Noble bookstores etc.