go, and you're gone.
deserted, isolated, alienated. 12:00.
Quiet now, the road is sleeping. It is asleep, without a breath, without warmth, with no indication of life. Say it’s dead. There.
It’s dead.
It’s so dark. Pay gratitude to the street lamp. If it hadn’t been for its light, the road would’ve been swallowed by the darkness.
That cannot happen; She’s still there. She’s right there.
Lascivious Layla lying by the lamp, looking like a luminescent lure under the light. One would find it hard to ignore her, for her skin was white, white to the extent that it didn’t allow any further description beyond the fact that it was, just, so, white. When you’re blank on a dead road, everybody stares at you. If there was anybody at all, that is.
There was. There. A man walks by.
He stops. He notices Layla, looks at Layla, turns around, and then restarts walking. He stops again. He approaches the lamp where Layla lies. He kneels down.
He asks Layla,
“Are you ok? Are you plastered?”
Layla replies,
“I’m ok. I’d like to be feathered.”
The man is confused. He feels obtuse.
Layla continues,
“…just like you.”
A sudden heat overwhelmed the man’s throat. If this heat was considerably lower in temperature, it could have been convenient, comfortable even, pleasant even, in this penetratingly cold air. It was the absolute contrary. The heat down his throat was no comparison to any hard liquor he had ever poured into himself. It was starting to burn. It was burning. Now.
It was on fire.
The kind of fire he could actually literally visually see. If he were in less of a panicking state, the picture of his throat flaming would have appeared shockingly absurd to him. His mind was, however, too busy in the attempt to escape from the situation, he didn’t mind a bit about its absurdity. He was shocked though.
Fortunately, soon enough he reaches a solution: the idea of extending his neck long enough so he could blow the fire away on his own. It was no concern to him whether it was possible or not. He had no time for hesitation. He places his hands on both of his ears, grabs his head strongly, and lifts it up as high as he could. It was not painful as he expected, or perhaps he could not even tell since his sensory attention was fully directed to the burning. His head became distant from his body, though connected by the soft, unhealthily long shaft he just made for himself. After fixing his malleable neck into a large arc of flesh, he faced his own burning throat.
It didn’t take long for him to notice the next oddity occurring to his body; as he sent an army of carbon dioxide from his biological air pumps, in other words, lungs, he could see that the shape of his lips, along with his jaw, were morphing. This time he could concentrate on the confusion of how this was happening, rather than saving himself, for he knew he could find no salvation. So he saw. The lower thirty percent of his face seemed to exclude itself from the rest of it. But it didn’t quite reach complete detachment, so it stopped at one point where it became an extremely acute protrusion that looked like a beak.
Behind the superficial panic that overwhelmed his consciousness, subconsciously he pondered. He thought pondering was a conscious function, but he subconsciously pondered. He could find no cause, no relation or no causal relation between his past and what trapped him in this apprehensively apparent nightmare. He was horrified of his expectation that this change was going to continue. Despite his discomfort, it actually continued.
Perhaps exhaustion was one factor that contributed to the lack of power in his legs. When he looked down at them, all the way up from his towering neck, he realized there was another contribution. His trousers fell down to the ground, due to the lack of thickness, or the lack of meat, in his lower body. His legs resembled nothing but twigs.
Perhaps this was more embarrassing than what he would have exposed before the morph.
No longer being able to support his torso including his protruded jaw and his prolonged neck with the unproportionally emaciated legs, his arms decided to become wings. At this point it seemed that it was better for him to not even become aware of the surreal reality, otherwise he would be too caught up in why it happened, and forget thinking about what to do after it has changed. His eyes closed themselves, so he was unable to see what looked liked the final stage of his transformation.
Layla speaks her final words,
“Like a crane like you.”
Layla freezes to death. So the man flies away. No longer feeling the need to be lit, the lamp turns itself off.
And the night swallows the road.
Quiet now, the road is sleeping. It is asleep, without a breath, without warmth, with no indication of life. Say it’s dead. There.
It’s dead.
It’s so dark. Pay gratitude to the street lamp. If it hadn’t been for its light, the road would’ve been swallowed by the darkness.
That cannot happen; She’s still there. She’s right there.
Lascivious Layla lying by the lamp, looking like a luminescent lure under the light. One would find it hard to ignore her, for her skin was white, white to the extent that it didn’t allow any further description beyond the fact that it was, just, so, white. When you’re blank on a dead road, everybody stares at you. If there was anybody at all, that is.
There was. There. A man walks by.
He stops. He notices Layla, looks at Layla, turns around, and then restarts walking. He stops again. He approaches the lamp where Layla lies. He kneels down.
He asks Layla,
“Are you ok? Are you plastered?”
Layla replies,
“I’m ok. I’d like to be feathered.”
The man is confused. He feels obtuse.
Layla continues,
“…just like you.”
A sudden heat overwhelmed the man’s throat. If this heat was considerably lower in temperature, it could have been convenient, comfortable even, pleasant even, in this penetratingly cold air. It was the absolute contrary. The heat down his throat was no comparison to any hard liquor he had ever poured into himself. It was starting to burn. It was burning. Now.
It was on fire.
The kind of fire he could actually literally visually see. If he were in less of a panicking state, the picture of his throat flaming would have appeared shockingly absurd to him. His mind was, however, too busy in the attempt to escape from the situation, he didn’t mind a bit about its absurdity. He was shocked though.
Fortunately, soon enough he reaches a solution: the idea of extending his neck long enough so he could blow the fire away on his own. It was no concern to him whether it was possible or not. He had no time for hesitation. He places his hands on both of his ears, grabs his head strongly, and lifts it up as high as he could. It was not painful as he expected, or perhaps he could not even tell since his sensory attention was fully directed to the burning. His head became distant from his body, though connected by the soft, unhealthily long shaft he just made for himself. After fixing his malleable neck into a large arc of flesh, he faced his own burning throat.
It didn’t take long for him to notice the next oddity occurring to his body; as he sent an army of carbon dioxide from his biological air pumps, in other words, lungs, he could see that the shape of his lips, along with his jaw, were morphing. This time he could concentrate on the confusion of how this was happening, rather than saving himself, for he knew he could find no salvation. So he saw. The lower thirty percent of his face seemed to exclude itself from the rest of it. But it didn’t quite reach complete detachment, so it stopped at one point where it became an extremely acute protrusion that looked like a beak.
Behind the superficial panic that overwhelmed his consciousness, subconsciously he pondered. He thought pondering was a conscious function, but he subconsciously pondered. He could find no cause, no relation or no causal relation between his past and what trapped him in this apprehensively apparent nightmare. He was horrified of his expectation that this change was going to continue. Despite his discomfort, it actually continued.
Perhaps exhaustion was one factor that contributed to the lack of power in his legs. When he looked down at them, all the way up from his towering neck, he realized there was another contribution. His trousers fell down to the ground, due to the lack of thickness, or the lack of meat, in his lower body. His legs resembled nothing but twigs.
Perhaps this was more embarrassing than what he would have exposed before the morph.
No longer being able to support his torso including his protruded jaw and his prolonged neck with the unproportionally emaciated legs, his arms decided to become wings. At this point it seemed that it was better for him to not even become aware of the surreal reality, otherwise he would be too caught up in why it happened, and forget thinking about what to do after it has changed. His eyes closed themselves, so he was unable to see what looked liked the final stage of his transformation.
Layla speaks her final words,
“Like a crane like you.”
Layla freezes to death. So the man flies away. No longer feeling the need to be lit, the lamp turns itself off.
And the night swallows the road.