Yet another story
This one was inspired by Fever Ray's Keep the Streets Empty.
I've started taking walks at night. Time was, my job at the department of public works left me completely exhausted. However, as I grow older I sleep less and less, and the nights can get long when you're sitting inside, listening to the great nothing. I've tried reading, but seemed a shame to turn on the the lights. Like my little reading lamp disturbed something immense, quiet and beautiful.
One night I decided simply to go out. It was around two in the morning, and sleep seemed impossible. I'm not sure what exactly brought it on. It may simply have been boredom.
It was a summer night, hot and humid. Walking through the streets of my neighborhood was like swimming with the current in a vast, warm ocean.
Nothing stirred, not even a breeze. The town I live in is on the small side, and the streets were absolutely empty of people and cars. I imagine that they don't get nights like these in the bigger cities.
I walked past the convenience store, where a sleepy street lamp flickered. Past Jim's Tavern, where the dusty windows looked like blind eyes. I met a calico cat, and it seemed to enjoy the night as much as me.
This is what I've discovered from my nightly walks. The night is magical. I can hear my own footsteps like I've never heard them before. Calmer and freer then during the busy daylight hours.
And the town dreams itself new. It dreams buildings and plazas I've never seen during the day. Here a storefront full of urns and grinning ceramic skulls. There a great apartment building whose facade is adorned with the faces of goatish men sticking their tongues out. Maybe we're too busy to see them in the daytime, but at night the buildings blossom.
One night I met another man. He was walking on the sidewalk opposite me. He looked at me shyly, and I think I had a similar expression on my face. It was as though there was an agreement between us that the night silence was not for breaking.
However much I enjoyed these night walks though new and familiar streets, they only became my true life when I met Cecilia. I call her Cecilia as it is a beautiful name and it fits her, but she has never told me her real one. Cecilia will always be Cecilia to me. It is for her I am doing this.
I met Cecilia one night in the fall. The air has acquired that thinness about it that I love so much. When summer leaves it feels as though I am finally being allowed to exhale.
I was walking through a plaza where twisted trees grew from large Grecian vases. When I walked past a particularly tall one, a woman stepped out from behind it. She startled me, and from the look on her face I would say that I must have done the same to her.
She was beautiful. I have never been able to guess her age, and I've come to believe that Cecilia lives forever in in the night. Her hair is red, and her skin is like porcelain. Comparisons seem insufficient when it comes to Cecilia. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
We walked together that night, and she let me know her joys and sorrows. We did not talk, as the night would not allow it. Still she told me so much about herself without the need for words.
She was alone in the night, she told me. There had been parents once, but they had gone out into the day and had become one with it.
Cecilia feared the day. The people, the noise of the cars, the dizzying light. Most days she tried to sleep through it, but the noises kept her awake, leaving her staring in to the ceiling, heart pounding. She does not understand the day and its people. She is to innocent for the noises and compromises of the daylight hours.
She had been lonely long and was shy at first. So was I. I do not have many friends outside of work, and they have become distant to me now.
I have walked many nights with Cecilia, through streets where moths swarm and where night flowers blossom under the moon. She taught me to dance the waltz under the blind eyes of Jim's Tavern. Every morning we part with kisses under her under the Doric columns of her house. Then she darts up the stairs, her long dress billowing. I go home sad and tired, with the angry hum of the garbage truck in my ears. Another day has begun, and in a room which I have never seen, Cecilia lies unable to sleep for fear.
I have decided to make a world for Cecilia. A place where she will not have to live in fear of the day.
Yesterday the foreman took me aside and asked me how I was doing, He's never done that before. I said that I had felt depressed lately, but was getting better. He nodded and offered me some time off. I knew that he was trying to let me go gently, so I nodded like I accepted. I did. I'm not coming back.
In the evening I drank with the guys at Jim's Tavern. After the third beer Frankie Bonham said that it was nice to have me back. I felt a bit sick. It felt like a wake.
This morning I said goodbye to Cecilia, and both our hearts were pounding. I had broken the night silence and promised her a life without fear. She was happy, even if she did not entirely believe me.
After we had parted, I walked briskly up the street towards the sound of the garbage truck. It was idling by the hardware store, and the driver was busy hauling out one of the heavy garbage cans. In my head I'd gone over this moment many times. How I would strike up a conversation with him and catch him off guard. Now none of that was necessary.
I walked up to him, pilling out the large spanner I had stolen from work out of my waistband. The first blow made him stagger and drop the can. He groaned. The second broke the skull and the spanner sunk deep into the softness beneath. I tried wiping it off on his work shirt. Then I walked over to the truck and killed the engine. All was quiet again. I exhaled.
Now I am lying in wait for the mailman. The spanner is slippery, and my arm still hurts from the last blow. I hope I can keep this up. Keep the streets empty for Cecilia.
I will do my best.
I have no idea if I write horror or not.
I've started taking walks at night. Time was, my job at the department of public works left me completely exhausted. However, as I grow older I sleep less and less, and the nights can get long when you're sitting inside, listening to the great nothing. I've tried reading, but seemed a shame to turn on the the lights. Like my little reading lamp disturbed something immense, quiet and beautiful.
One night I decided simply to go out. It was around two in the morning, and sleep seemed impossible. I'm not sure what exactly brought it on. It may simply have been boredom.
It was a summer night, hot and humid. Walking through the streets of my neighborhood was like swimming with the current in a vast, warm ocean.
Nothing stirred, not even a breeze. The town I live in is on the small side, and the streets were absolutely empty of people and cars. I imagine that they don't get nights like these in the bigger cities.
I walked past the convenience store, where a sleepy street lamp flickered. Past Jim's Tavern, where the dusty windows looked like blind eyes. I met a calico cat, and it seemed to enjoy the night as much as me.
This is what I've discovered from my nightly walks. The night is magical. I can hear my own footsteps like I've never heard them before. Calmer and freer then during the busy daylight hours.
And the town dreams itself new. It dreams buildings and plazas I've never seen during the day. Here a storefront full of urns and grinning ceramic skulls. There a great apartment building whose facade is adorned with the faces of goatish men sticking their tongues out. Maybe we're too busy to see them in the daytime, but at night the buildings blossom.
One night I met another man. He was walking on the sidewalk opposite me. He looked at me shyly, and I think I had a similar expression on my face. It was as though there was an agreement between us that the night silence was not for breaking.
However much I enjoyed these night walks though new and familiar streets, they only became my true life when I met Cecilia. I call her Cecilia as it is a beautiful name and it fits her, but she has never told me her real one. Cecilia will always be Cecilia to me. It is for her I am doing this.
I met Cecilia one night in the fall. The air has acquired that thinness about it that I love so much. When summer leaves it feels as though I am finally being allowed to exhale.
I was walking through a plaza where twisted trees grew from large Grecian vases. When I walked past a particularly tall one, a woman stepped out from behind it. She startled me, and from the look on her face I would say that I must have done the same to her.
She was beautiful. I have never been able to guess her age, and I've come to believe that Cecilia lives forever in in the night. Her hair is red, and her skin is like porcelain. Comparisons seem insufficient when it comes to Cecilia. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
We walked together that night, and she let me know her joys and sorrows. We did not talk, as the night would not allow it. Still she told me so much about herself without the need for words.
She was alone in the night, she told me. There had been parents once, but they had gone out into the day and had become one with it.
Cecilia feared the day. The people, the noise of the cars, the dizzying light. Most days she tried to sleep through it, but the noises kept her awake, leaving her staring in to the ceiling, heart pounding. She does not understand the day and its people. She is to innocent for the noises and compromises of the daylight hours.
She had been lonely long and was shy at first. So was I. I do not have many friends outside of work, and they have become distant to me now.
I have walked many nights with Cecilia, through streets where moths swarm and where night flowers blossom under the moon. She taught me to dance the waltz under the blind eyes of Jim's Tavern. Every morning we part with kisses under her under the Doric columns of her house. Then she darts up the stairs, her long dress billowing. I go home sad and tired, with the angry hum of the garbage truck in my ears. Another day has begun, and in a room which I have never seen, Cecilia lies unable to sleep for fear.
I have decided to make a world for Cecilia. A place where she will not have to live in fear of the day.
Yesterday the foreman took me aside and asked me how I was doing, He's never done that before. I said that I had felt depressed lately, but was getting better. He nodded and offered me some time off. I knew that he was trying to let me go gently, so I nodded like I accepted. I did. I'm not coming back.
In the evening I drank with the guys at Jim's Tavern. After the third beer Frankie Bonham said that it was nice to have me back. I felt a bit sick. It felt like a wake.
This morning I said goodbye to Cecilia, and both our hearts were pounding. I had broken the night silence and promised her a life without fear. She was happy, even if she did not entirely believe me.
After we had parted, I walked briskly up the street towards the sound of the garbage truck. It was idling by the hardware store, and the driver was busy hauling out one of the heavy garbage cans. In my head I'd gone over this moment many times. How I would strike up a conversation with him and catch him off guard. Now none of that was necessary.
I walked up to him, pilling out the large spanner I had stolen from work out of my waistband. The first blow made him stagger and drop the can. He groaned. The second broke the skull and the spanner sunk deep into the softness beneath. I tried wiping it off on his work shirt. Then I walked over to the truck and killed the engine. All was quiet again. I exhaled.
Now I am lying in wait for the mailman. The spanner is slippery, and my arm still hurts from the last blow. I hope I can keep this up. Keep the streets empty for Cecilia.
I will do my best.
I have no idea if I write horror or not.