Chuckling to himself while he watched the fog sink and thicken, Cheshyre decided he’d seen way too many horror flicks as a kid.
The warning lights winking atop skyscraper-perched antennae slowly obscured, hidden, forgotten.
The elevated train swallowed, sound and all.
Streetlight’s lamps final curtained, no encore.
Finally, settling, collecting at street-level…massing, massing.
Read. Set. Go.
Roiling grayness gamboling along the roads, boulevards, streets, alleys, until outside of Cheshyre’s windows seemed like a wall of liquid pewter.
Cheshyre went to bed bemused at his own whimsy, confident that the dawn would burn away both the fog and the remnants of his own childhood apprehensions.
Morning came and went and came, but daybreak never came again.
And the screaming began and continued for a long time.
Then stopped.
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©2011 Acquanetta Sproule
Tags: Acquanetta M. Sproule
