he’s a pc!
in reply to my request for requests [hipsterkitsch, /2]
There in the yard, no more than fifteen feet away, stands the matte silhouette of a humanoid figure.
door opens up (wind kicks up again), scrambling around house, goes upstairs, looks out back window, figure
in reply to my request for requests [hipsterkitsch, 1/2]
All power to the house had been leached in a single second, the walls seeming to sigh and sag with the weight of darkness. An incremental pop of light failed to persevere and the neighborhood, the town itself, was swallowed whole. Gales of wind snaked through trees, cracking bare branches, cycling down to beat on saturated turf and wallop the exterior walls of the newly candle-lit home. The inhabitants were hard pressed to discern the difference between natural and unnatural noises, one remarking that so-and-so must not have yet left the house only finding moments later that the bedroom was empty. Floors creaking, unrhythmic pounding, and hollow inhalations held them in an amused and uneasy grasp.
An individual soul rises up from his perch on the sofa, his curiosity forming a marionette-like string, and leaves the waxen glow of the den to pass into the receiving area of the house. He leaves, stepping onto the patio to survey the neighborhood, and carefully closes the door behind himself to avoid the wind’s penetration of the house’s cozy interior. Taking in the darkened splendor of all things domestic and suburban, he intuits that these are dark shapes of homes full of beds and desks and items just like his with, inevitably, people just like him who are living their private lives in darkness just like him. He likens the image in his mind to what he knows – what is known – of the depths of the ocean; while things seem dormant, there’s still activity down below. The wind has died down for a moment, stopping it’s atmospheric pushing and scraping, and all he can feel is its feather-like caress on the high point on his cheek. Something shifts in his periphery near the line of tall shrubs.