THE NIGHTMARE by George Yesthal

Intro by Renfield Rasputin

It is no secret that in the last few months I have become a fan of George Yesthal’s work. I believe that he captures the true essence of “fear” with this short piece. I encourage all readers to read it slowly, as each time that I review it, I notice something new. There is a certain something in the words that exemplifies a feeling of dread, of a nightmare, of a fearful situation that I, (and I’m certain you as well) have found myself in at one time or another when you raise out of bed and ask yourself “Was that a dream? That is one of my fears and it was too realistic to not be.”

I encourage you dear reader to explore more of Yesthal’s work, but without further ado, I bring you…



It’s 4:15 am and I’m sweating. Awoke from a night terror a few minutes ago and my hands are still trembling. The dream was a manifold compression of nightmare images and situations that would not release it’s hold; dragging and pulling as some subliminal part of my consciousness kept interjecting that fail-safe mechanism that told me it was a dream…only that…wake up.

No good. Every meager and flaccid rationalization failed me as the horror escalated. One cannot feel, taste or smell in a dream I am told. I’d like to know what self professed quasi-pundit put forth that dictum.

In my throes I would awaken, seemingly, to be thrown mercilessly into another tableau manifested by and populated with demons of such horrific countenance and habit as to threaten any semblance of sanity that remained to me.

Half corrupted clutching talons of the dead would tear at me. Guilts of my past that I’d thought long laid to rest would smite me anew.

And then I’d awaken. Or so I thought. Get up, stumble to my bedroom door, step out and tumble again into a pit of endless torment. That shock alone of thinking that I’d encountered the hell that I’d always rationalized did not exist was anathema from which I cringed and fled inward. The shock awakened me again.

Now, at last awake and free of that endlessly cloying and reopening miasma, I find my hands steadying enough to relate this in writing. Certain at last that I am awake an…


It’s 4:15 am and I’m sweating…



For more of George’s literature and tattoo art,