Sunday, March 05, 2006

I'm not sure where this is going

Nigel Foxfire trudged home through the late evening mist. It eddied and swirled around him as if somewhere in the concrete depths below, some hidden creatures prowled.
He ignored it and kept on walking.
His sneakers made a muffled pounding in the sidewalk, each step sending up more of the mist—tiny eruptions of smoke thinner than sweat. Somewhere, off to his left there was an even more muffled echo of his footsteps bouncing off the stone wall.
He ignored it and kept walking.
The sounds of the city screamed at him somewhere in the distance. Horns roared and tires wailed, and sirens sang a tuneless dirge.
He ignored it and kept walking.
From a cut below Nigel’s eye and one above his other eye blood trickled. The cut below his right eye ran down his check, tickling slightly before falling somewhere below the mist, leaving a trail that would never be followed. The blood from the cut above his left eye ran down, dodging the metallic stud in the corner of his eyebrow, and near enough past his eye that he could see it.
. . . If he tried.
He ignored it and kept walking. At one point, he stopped and raised one arm to wipe the blood too near his eye. Slowly, he turned to glare at the sanguine trial he was leaving, the thing metal chain at his hip clinking as he did. He turned back and resumed his trudging march.
Across the empty street, three shapes watched the dark figure making his single-minded way down the street. Dark hair, dark eyes, and dressed all in black, he was difficult for the casual observer to spot. He moved with the eddies of fog, or perhaps they moved with him. In the dim glow given by the streetlights it was hard to tell. The only things that stood out from the shadow and mist were the glint of sickly light from the small metal adornments he sported and the rather garish eight-ball design on his shirt.
A crippled wind blew, pulling back the veil of shadows across the three. They could now be identified as humanoid, and female, but only barely, for the fog rose back up quickly, like a child pulling the sheets over it’s head in the night.
One of them spoke—it really didn’t matter which. “Is he the one necessary.”—It wasn’t so much a question as a recitation—a memory of a ritual played out a thousand times before.
Another spoke—as indistinguishable as the first. “He is.”
The last spoke. “It always seems such a waste of time to have to use mortals.”
The other two nodded in agreement before the mist rose up once more—higher and thicker than ever. When the crippled wind returned, it was surprised to find that it could sweep away that patch of fog completely. Feeling very good about itself, it legged itself away down the street, chasing more patches of mist.

When Nigel got home, he was relieved to find that his father was not. Kicking the trash on the floor on his way to his room, he paused. Staring out the window, he ran a hand down his face. He must be seeing things—for a second he thought he saw three figures dressed in white watching him. Shaking his head, he stepped into his room.

I don't know where it's going either but I like it and would like to know. You're an amazing and expressive writer Jason. I wish you'd publish so I'd have a good book to read for once!
And I'm not just saying that because I'm your friend!
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