None so Blind – by Ash N. Finn
Insignificance provides a perfect shield from scrutiny. Perceived insignificance that is. Be honest now, do you pay a lot of attention to the beggar sitting cross-legged on the pavement outside your local convenience store, or his muttering hunched shape stumbling along the sea promenade asking have you got some change? You might throw a few coins into the plastic cup in his outstretched arm, maybe even give him a cigarette or two, but do you really look at him? Of course, you don’t. Or do you, Kirklin? Does anyone?
No, all of you carry far too much purpose in your minds and too much baggage on your shoulders to pause and look. Laughable, isn’t it, that the professional watchers don’t watch what their collective subconscious deems insignificant.
He says thanks for one of your black cigarettes, Kirklin. You even light it for him, but if I asked you what he looked like, whether his eyes were brown or blue or green or grey, cold, sparkling or dull, would you be able to tell me? Was his voice feeble or strong, deep or high-pitched?
Unrecognizable in his ragged guise, doesn’t he look the part so well that any trace of familiarity remains unseen. You’d know him if he wore his aftershave and tailored suit, stiff and stern in the tower of secrets.
Maybe you don’t really see him there either given your and your friends’ lack of respect for his barked protestations inside the hallowed building. He’s hungry for power and thirsty for blood, would not hesitate to kill his father if he wasn’t too shrewd to understand that this could lead to his discovery. Oh, how he hates him though. How he hates you and Cas and that bold Irish lass. You’ve already hurried along, Kirklin, and don’t see him crushing the cigarette with his foot and spitting in the direction of your dwindling shape.
A candle inside Evelyn’s window spits out its last feeble flicker illuminating the crystal wine glass and her unblinking gaze one last time before it dies. In the distance, someone’s dog howls. It’s a full moon tonight, and Caswell keeps himself concealed in the impenetrable shadow cast by the sycamore tree. He’ll have a dog himself when he retires.
No, we are not enemies, Caswell. We are bound by empathy, not enmity.
Evelyn smiles and gently presses her hand against the window pane. I’m not him, Caswell, go home now.
The Art of Drowning – An Ethereal Mystery
3 writers, no destination – What could go wrong?