Story Part Eins
He walked down the sidewalk, cigarette in hand. Taking a draw with each breath, street lights spotlighting each black cat that crossed his path, he thought in peace.
The next day, a stranger knocked on his door, disturbing his production of a paper airplane. "She's dead," he said with some compassion. Launching the aircraft out his window, it glided with expert practice down the vent in the neighboring building he'd not yet visited. The makeup caked around his eyes glittered brightly as the street light from below spotlit the tears he tried to hide behind a mass of black hair and a high collar.
Walking down the hallway to the stairs, this time the knock came from behind door number nine. He opened it, finding it unlocked, to another stranger's face who knew his name. "I am Mister Cigarette," he said. "We've met many times before, though only just recently. I hope I find you well."
"Well enough," the hero replied, then acted upon his instinctive manners. "And yourself?"
"The lipstick that will wake the dead," the man replied as he offered the item. "But you must use it, before the sun rises again." And then he was gone.
The hero entered the brick walled bathroom and shivered in the glow of it's warm yellow light. He freshened up his makeup, but the crack in the mirror grew wider until he saw the passageway behind it. He had to remove his jacket to slip through, and the glass cut the pale skin of his stomach as he did.
The comfortable drone of automobiles passing overheard soothed his senses as he inched his way down, ahead, then up beneath a linoleum tile in the building next door. He froze in momentary fear as the brilliant light flooded his eyes, that the day had already come. But the illusion passed as he found himself in a giant room with no shadows, filled with people asleep, eyes closed, yet still yelling at each other.
The next day, a stranger knocked on his door, disturbing his production of a paper airplane. "She's dead," he said with some compassion. Launching the aircraft out his window, it glided with expert practice down the vent in the neighboring building he'd not yet visited. The makeup caked around his eyes glittered brightly as the street light from below spotlit the tears he tried to hide behind a mass of black hair and a high collar.
Walking down the hallway to the stairs, this time the knock came from behind door number nine. He opened it, finding it unlocked, to another stranger's face who knew his name. "I am Mister Cigarette," he said. "We've met many times before, though only just recently. I hope I find you well."
"Well enough," the hero replied, then acted upon his instinctive manners. "And yourself?"
"The lipstick that will wake the dead," the man replied as he offered the item. "But you must use it, before the sun rises again." And then he was gone.
The hero entered the brick walled bathroom and shivered in the glow of it's warm yellow light. He freshened up his makeup, but the crack in the mirror grew wider until he saw the passageway behind it. He had to remove his jacket to slip through, and the glass cut the pale skin of his stomach as he did.
The comfortable drone of automobiles passing overheard soothed his senses as he inched his way down, ahead, then up beneath a linoleum tile in the building next door. He froze in momentary fear as the brilliant light flooded his eyes, that the day had already come. But the illusion passed as he found himself in a giant room with no shadows, filled with people asleep, eyes closed, yet still yelling at each other.