That night, I dreamed of cyclopes. There were two of them lazing on a grassy hill. Huddled in a ragged ball in front of them was a young boy with blood red hair. His eyes were a light gray. The color reminded me of a snowy, winter sky.
"Dance for us, boy!" the cyclops on the left ordered in guttural common.
The boy rose on shaky legs and grimy bare feet. It was at that moment that I realized his only covering was a large, tan, male's shirt. It was caked and stained with dirt and riddled with holes and so big on him that it came down to his knees. The boy's whole body quivered as he tried to do a jig for the two monsters.
"That's not dancing! Dance!" the cyclops yelled angrily. Spittle flew at the boy and my insides churned in pity and anger. How many times had this actually happened to real people?
"He needs a rhythm." the second cyclops laughed. He began pounding his right fist into the dirt making the ground shake as puffs of debris bounced up into the air.