A radio in the forest.
Splusck..sh- the sound of my foot step into a ravenous, scampy mud puddle. The forest was a huge bank of floating silt, and the air that hit it rustled sounds similar to rabid weasels. A huge canopy, and more of less light that soon stalled in its way in time. I knew nothing. Extremely blank. Amnesiated. The ghost of a highly mitigated, fearful machinist, who was lost in a deep forest. My heart beat in extreme short bursts, it belched out squirmy sounds that phased into my sweat ridden forehead, and eventually the brain. I swallowed hard at every self owned uncertain misstep. Clueless to cry at myself, or the dead.
I whispered, “Help. Help. Help. Help….,” I whispered.
A wall full of leaves rustled, they did however without the aid, and sync with the wind, it did not. I twisted my head, effortlessly convincing myself of the rather to be taken lightly circumstance in the just future, but for that future there was still time. I waited, and just as the corner of my eye sought a glimmer of good nature, there was this collapse of life that I felt.
I had been a Machinist. Fixing radios, unbroken ones. Screwing, and unscrewing, screwing then again. The flaps of a windmill that rotate in the perfect breezy chills of a late cool summer, and I was a hard bargained child rotating the nuts off of a clock. Living life– without the lull of effort, not the single hum, but radio silence.
A black hole midst and behind the leaves, and in the receding of light, a true sadistic killer of light looked as if looking at me.
“What.. are you?” I asked.
The radio, a perfectly good piece, that lent its license to death for a few days every then and then, had begun letting off of nuts, getting naked, and a tryst occurred to me as i ripped of the antenna that remained unmoved, and left it untouched for a day or so hoping it would turn itself alive. I had been a machinist.
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The next day, I hoped people found the loud music unnerving, but I knew better of which no person dared near the lush green meadows that jittered by hands of air, and the machinist. And behind the civilized greens, and windmills, there was a forest, a deep dark perennial one. A one that breathes like a being, and prides in unseamless.
Then people came by, needful by their radios, their machines. However none worked like it did for mine. And latter dejection was only deafening.
The black mass did not reply, for it simply was not there. As had the earth constructed around, leaving a void to be filled unfilled. Yet I perceived danger. I slowly backed away knowing it would be as imperative as stepping on a soft mine. I shot down saliva into my stuck throat, as I prepared the gun against it. The gun cocked and goosebumps rose on my skin feeling hot and high.
BAAAM!!
The shriek of the bullet tore into ester ripples in the sky, as the black mass responded finally with a sudden light trodden to my face. It yelled in familiar yet unfamiliar language of namesakes, and forced me down by the clutches I couldn’t forsee. I yelled, and remained mute.
“‘ Local serial killer– who kills for a living has been caught with an exhausted clientele. The person has been pled for illness, and proclaimed All people had appeared as machines, and when the machines bored him, he couldn’t see them at all. Allegedly–’ squeaked the radio.’’
“Sorry, Ma, Pa.” I said turning off a bad radio, stuttering and repeating noise, but which appeared pristine in the water puddles of the previous day’s rain.
–Local man, living at the end of the town, found dead. —
The end.
