you were waiting for the bus in the rain - don’t you remember?
I thought… I don’t… Perhaps… The bus pulled up so I put my phone in my pocket and pulled out my ticket. It was raining the normal kind of rain that is hot and thick and black and only falls in canon ball sized dollops. The rain is nice. It peels off the top three layers of your skin so that you feel so clean. In fact, after her fourth husband disappeared, Mrs Racnid stood in the rain for hours and she told me from the jar they put her gooey remains in that she’s never felt cleaner.
But I didn’t have time for the rain that day so I had my green umbrella. It only has three sets of eyes but it’s still a good umbrella. The bus came. I got on the bus. I got off the bus. I got on the bus. The bus had exactly 15 and 7/9 steps.
The driver took my ticket. I’d paid for a one-way fare because everyone knows you don’t need to go two ways at once. That’s how you end up in the dog park. The dog park is lovely and one of the best places in the city but of course you never go in the dog park. The one-way fare was one half a pint of blood which seemed reasonable considering the price of gas.
There was an angel on the bus but angels, of course, don’t exist.
He waved at me as I sat in the seventh row. Everyone knows only fools sit in the sixth row. I’d wanted to get a book but I didn’t want to deal with the Librarians and the doors to the pawn shop are still buried.
So I pulled out my phone instead. Possibly the strangest thing about this town is how great the wifi is.
The bus seemed like it had been driving for hours. Clock hands only tick backward on buses so it’s hard to tell exactly what time it is unless you’re an expert in tumbleweed tracking time. I’m not. Cecil’s pretty good. I should ask for lessons. There’s nothing interesting to watch during the drive. Just roads and desert and the tumbleweeds that let you tell time if you know how.
Just me and the angel on the bus but angels don’t exist.
The bus veered right and I got an idea. I started typing. I don’t know where the words came from, we know not to ask those questions, but there was a light breath on my neck and that feeling you get when you see a peeled lemon curling in the pit of my stomach. Lemons, of course, have large pits so this seemed an apt metaphor.
The thing hovering over my shoulder didn’t like it.
It doesn’t like deviations.
The words are powerful. So powerful. Do not change the words.
Words have power.
So I wrote, thumbs clenched over the tiny keyboard until they cramped and then I kept writing. This is what I do. This is my job. You do not ignore the breath on your neck. When it gets hot and heavy you type faster. The words do not come as words but they are words just the same. They creep through your pours and wiggle in your head until the smallest worm wiggles out your ear.
That how you know you are done.
I named today’s worm Lenny The 931st. The bus stopped. I got off and tripped on the 7/9 step. You always trip on the 7/9th step. It was raining so I pulled out my green umbrella and sat down on the bench at the bus station.
The bus pulled up so I put my phone in my pocket and pulled out my ticket. It was raining the normal kind of rain that is hot and thick and black and only falls in canon ball sized dollops.
It was raining the normal kind of rain that is hot and thick and black and only falls in canon ball sized dollops.
The rain is nice.
this is what happens when you answer my Carmilla/Nightvale post with a Nightvale answer ;)