Blind Man in the Broken World
Caw! Caw! Caw!
Cries from a multitude of black observers echo throughout the deserted streets, their gazes trained on a single figure as He slowly and meticulously sifts His way through a large pile of garbage on the side of the street. He picks up a piece from the pile, runs his hands over it, and then throws it to the bottom of the pile. Unopened cans of food, first aid kits, and various pieces of navigational equipment lie dejectedly at the bottom of the pile, the observers gaze's grow quizzical, if they could speak they would surely ask the Man.
"What treasure could be more important than all that you have found?"
As if in answer to their silent question, the Man triumphantly holds His prize in the air, displaying His treasure to an audience observing with baited breath. The sound of flapping wings and indigent caws sharply splatter themselves over the cityscape as the black entourage takes their leave, disgusted and confused.
"Don't just leave like that!" The Man shouts at the the observers who have long since left.
"As if birds could ever understand the greatness of John Fogetry." He mutters as He climbs down from the trash pile, clutching a filthy CD case in his hands, written on the CD case in faded sharpie are three letters, "CCR".
"Down on the corner, Down in the street-" an old CD player is cranked to maximum volume for an audience of one, filling the small but tidy apartment with more noise than was appropriate for a building with such thin walls. The Man sits at a small table smiling and tapping a finger on the table, never missing a beat.
Tap tap tap,
ta-tap tap tap
As the song comes to an end the man pops the player open and gently lifts the disk out of the player, placing it in an empty sleeve and then onto a shelve full of similarly packaged disks.
Crick Creek Crick Creek
Sitting on a windowsill is a small solar powered plastic chicken with a head that moves back and forth, making a quiet creaking noise with each hypnotic bob of it's head.
Crick Creek ..Crick ..creek ...crick
As the sun dips below the horizon the little chicken slowly stops moving. The man looks up from his meal of a cold can of baked beans and a bottle of water, a small frown appearing on his face. He sets the empty can and bottle down on the table before slowly easing himself out of his chair and walking towards the door, avoiding every creaky board on the way to the front door. He takes a black trench coat from a hook on the back of the door and reaches for the handle. The frown on his face deepens with each step that takes him closer to the place that he visits every night.
"If only there was someone as unfortunate as me, to take my place doing the things only I can do." He whispers to no one, for there is no one left to hear him, nor are there any creatures to humor him. For they are all in hiding, both animals and people alike; darkness has taken the streets and only he who knows no day can drive it out.
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