A seagull appeared in a field. Its head bobbed through the green as it walked. It stared for a moment at the people, then became uninterested.
When it finally flew it was majestic, wings sweeping the air in broad strokes.
The people smiled their radiant smiles. One man’s cheek was peeling. There were lumps on another’s neck. Something black rested on a woman’s unblinking eye.
They would continue to stare at the highway, which had long been overgrown by weeds.
The seagull would not return.
There were no cars in the parking lot.
A man stood in the bus shelter, out of the rain, which had begun to pour. He faced the highway with his phone in his hand. His hat was damp on his head.
Something landed on the back of a truck. The truck drove onward, indifferent to the added weight. The man watched the truck leave, but the creature was still there.
It was thin and black. A set of translucent wings folded against its back. The man blinked. The bug was on the glass.
It was hiding from the rain just as he was. The man smiled and reached for the bug with a finger. The bug climbed higher. It did not seem to be able to use its wings.
The man was not smiling now. He reached again and picked up the bug. He pinched its wings between his thumb and index finger, paused for a moment to watch its legs kick, then bent down to a puddle.
The tips of his fingers that had touched the water in the puddle were red and sore. The man took off his hat. He did not have any hair. There were red marks around his skull where the rim of his hat touched skin.
He stepped over the puddle and exited the shelter.
The rain had stopped.
The bird is back.
He watches from the fence as I approach the door. I slide it open.
This time he does not fly.
He looks at the shapes in my strange cave. It is a stale vision.
I open the light and he is gone— scared off by the impossible world, just on the other side.
A woman enters the restroom of a busy café. Eight minutes later a man steps out.
“Out of toilet paper,” he says to a girl.
She nods and turns to the other door.
The man orders an iced latte and pays in cash. The barista takes his money without touching his hands.
“Dirty nails,” he says to his co-worker once the man has left.
Five minutes later another customer uses the restroom.
Five minutes until the scream.
Dead bird(1) spins(2) on a Smiths(3) record(4).
- There are infinite layers of waking, infinite layers of sleep. Peeling inward, mock-flower blooming in the mind.
- The Kaleidoscope is NOT a time machine. It is suspension. Come Spin With Us In The Disco Realm: not all movement is pro/re/gression.
- Sing me to sleep (level T5)
- Silence is louder than white noise. R e p e a t.
My IT tattoo & shirt
I love Stephen King. I am always talking about Stephen King. I am notorious for being a Stephen King fan. I have an ‘IT’ tattoo. I have an ‘IT’ t-shirt. I could go on, but you get the picture: I adore Steve King.
And he is finally, after years, coming to my city.
I get to see the King himself, in the flesh, and I do not have the words to capture my elation.
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