There is a man in the shadows. His clothes are rags heaped on top of rags, layers of coats and scarves and dirt. Quantity over quality, trying to keep out the biting wind. But the wind is clever. It finds gaps, kisses his bare neck, tasting his skin. It wants him. Wants to drag him down into its domain, where frost-covered faces stare out from endless halls of frozen souls, their fingers blue.
The man doesn’t mind being outside. He couldn’t see before, but now he sees the monsters, the tamers, the masters, the holders of the strings.
LOW LOW LOW, the store calls. A siren luring sailors to the rocks. Sometimes he sees people go in and doesn’t see them come out. The items on the shelves never change. Always the same cans of soup, the same cheap plastic spades, the same ill-fitting bright gloves. And yet the people come out with bags upon bags, plastic fluttered in the wind.
And there is the man in the orange jacket by the door. Every day, the same jacket, the same chair. But a different man.
Sometimes he tells people the things he sees, but they never listen.
Word Count: 197
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction.