What happened to them mobster gangsters and that shooting you witnessed, I hear you ask. They were a real threat, weren't they? How did you escape, Bromford Bibble?
I take a deep sip of a very bad drink.
I don't have a crime story. I don't have a story at all. I just have fleeting thoughts and ideas. And a very bad smelling drink on a roof terrace.
That's not so bad after all. Who needs crime and excitement when you can have security and a view. Look down in the streets of Bromford, Bromford. And tell me what you see.
The railing seems very low tonight. Just a little skip and I could try to sail down below.
Who are you again, I ask. And what should I see?
I am one of your neighbours, you remember? One of the other inhabitants of the apartment house on 666 Whitaker Lane.
Excuse me, but I think I've never seen you before.
But I cannot take my eyes off the Bromford skyline. Lights, I see lights. Lights in the windows. Streetlights. Lights from cars in the streets and on Bromford Bridge on the horizon. The canyons of Bromford are lively and vivid tonight. Maybe I am missing one of the grand anniversaries again.
And as I turn to look at my visitor here on the roof of the house on 666 Whitaker Lane the slender, unearthly figure is gone.
What is more frightening? Pale, white people standing silently on a hill or some pale, white figure or creature disappearing on a roof in a warm summer night?
Life is no adventure tale. Life is no ghost-story…
No comments:
Post a Comment