A crowded city square, each of its four corners guarded by a statue of a large golden owl. My head hurts. I stagger on the verge of passing out.

A woman stops to help. I try to speak, but the words are stuck, so I point to my forehead instead. She reaches out, takes hold of a black twitching talon protruding from a pin-prick hole between my eyebrows.

The woman pulls. The inside of my skull vibrates with a violent fluttering. The pain is unbearable now.

She yanks harder and my head explodes, a huge blood drenched owl bursting free from the wreckage with an ear-splitting shriek. Bystanders gawp at the sight of it taking flight into the city sky.

As I lose consciousness in the dream, I wake into the world. It is a cold November morning. A soft golden feather lies on the pillow next to my face.

James Glossop works for Calderdale Libraries, and holds a BA in English Studies from Huddersfield University. He has previously been published in Popshot, and currently has writing exhibited as part of the Calderdale Grid Project.