black hands of hell

As the black hands of hell encompass multitudes of children, tiny hands stretch forth toward me. I reach out to them frantically screaming for them to grab my hand. Our finger tips almost touch and I can feel the heat boiling toward me burning my arms, but yet I stretched my arms further toward the little hands. They begin to recede further into the abyss as the forces of hell reclaim them.
With all hope gone I stare into the darkness. The sounds of terror still bleeding through the blackness. Soon, mercifully the sounds begin to fade to a deafening silence.

I open my eyes and sit up, dripping with sweat and shaking uncontrollably. The dream still lingering, I feel hopelessness and loss. As my eyes begin to clear and the dream fades an image appears at the foot of my bed.

There stands my sweet daughter bathed in luminescence and exuding the essence of innocence. As the dream begins to clear from my mind. I hear my daughter softly whisper, "Mommy? You have bad dream"?

I stretch forth my open arms, beckoning her to me. Our finger tips touch then I pull her to my chest and whisper a small prayer. I then lay her down with me with my arms wrapped tightly around her tiny body. I smell her hair as I stroke it. I listen to her breathing as it begins to slow down as she falls safely asleep inside my arms.
by Dianne Lowe-Breakfield