pestilence
08 November 2012 @ 05:28 pm
NaNoWriMo  


 Shadows are stealthier at night.
 
The darkness is an underground culture one must prove their worth to be accepted in. The air does not cling to everyone the same, if suffocates some, liberates others. The lights do not bend their beams for just anyone, averting slightly to mask features on film or cast a formidable shadow of a smaller structure. No, one must seduce the darkness, impress her. Chose a task deemed impossible and do something grander. One must be impulsive, but controlled, predictable but untraceable. 
 
The night is a world of self gratification for recluses who use the media as a chat room. A message can be expressed various ways each accompanied with specific intents. Such as 'your next', is often relayed as a minor article beneath the obituaries. Subtle enough to send chills a certain someone's spine. Or 'I respect your style', can be stated in a bizarre ad on the last page. Usually accompanied by another warning. 
 
So needless to say Dustman was skeptical when he spotted an ad on the third page. A respectable shadow only posts on the third page as a last resort. He was even more suspicious to see it directed towards him in such a blatant manner. He stares it, dissecting each and every character on the page, until seemingly without reason he discards the paper and begins walking. His eyes trained on the highest skyscraper in the city's skyline. 

The lamp posts flicker as he passes beneath them, each one humming a greeting as the bulbs struggle to remain on. 
 
He approaches the base of the building and retrieves a thin box from dumpster parallel to the backdoor. Tearing the cardboard off he withdraws a piece of a mirror. He glances around the alley way, vermin being the only living thing for a half mile around. Taking off his sunglasses, he tucks them into his jacket pocket and looks directly at the mirror.

A rat pauses from nibbling on some sort of meat.

The mirror falls the to the ground, unbroken. He is gone. 

The rat continues scavenging along the edges of the dumpsters. It halts, disturbed once again as shards of glass showers the ground. 
Papers flitter through the air like tattooed butterflies as the suction rips them from places within the room on approximately the twenty fourth floor.

He appears once again, standing on the mirror. He watches the papers cloud the sky for a moment and then walks off. Disappearing into the shadows.

The rat scurries over to a pile of fallen papers and sniffs the edges. Deeming it suitable for it's home that rat claws at the pages.

'The contamination was...'     'Early trials failed....' 

 
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How does that make you feel?: anxious
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: My room
Music;: Merchant of Death; Ramin Djawadi