The Mime

It was a dark, and rainy day. A thick, lazy fog rolled over the lush green hills. The air was thick with a heavy mist, a mist that soaked you to the bone, then came back for another go. The streets were nearly empty, for visibility rates were no farther than a few body lengths away. When a few stubborn cars did try to brave the rain slicked streets, they were travelling so slowly it defeated the original purpose. It was the kind of day when your pets disappear for no reason, and you know in your gut that there's no way there coming back. For on this day, the mist was tainted a crimson red: the colour of blood.

It was his favourite kind of day. Tall, and dressed in a grey trench coat and thick rubber boats, he was almost invisible. The rain washed away his footprints, not that they would be noticed soon enough to be of any hindrance. Many a man he knew had been caught because they had chosen the wrong day to do their work. He smiled grimly as he thought back times long gone, before he had been shipped over to Canada. Across the sea, and into Europe he had operated until, the incident. It had left him without a voice, and with a large demotion. In his heyday he had been responsible for choreographing bank heists and wide scale explosions. Now he was left in a specialist group in the middle of nowhere.

He turned the corner of the street, slowly walking around a tall formal looking building, with pristine pillars and an odd looking pair of statues guarding the entrance. He glanced casually at the sign on the front of the door, noting the curling script and flowing strokes that made up the lettering. In the side of his vision, he could just see his target, a small steel bridge, with a winding path of gravel running up to it. Some sparse pink flowers were planted along the gaping entrance, making a reasonable attempt to entice pedestrians to stroll along its pathway.

A dark shadow, its edges blurred by the weather, appeared over a hill across the river. It vaguely resembled a man, but in the fog, it was impossible to tell. It was moving quickly, and in less than five minutes would reach the bridge. As it came closer, it appeared to be carrying something, yet only it knew what. The man smiled, it was time to begin his work.

Ducking into a small alleyway, created by two neighbouring buildings, he glanced quickly around. As he had expected, no one was in it, excluding him. His slim, black gloved hand reached up towards the buttons of his damp coat. Undoing the buttons with one hand, he reached into his pocket and produced a small cap, similar to one a painter might wear. But he was no painter, merely another type of artist. Without the coat, his black and white striped shirt and black pants held up by suspenders showed through to any who may be watching. His face, now visible, was artificially white, covered in a water proof facial paint. Some of his features, his eyebrows and lips, were highlighted in black, as an actor might do. He shoved his clothes in a nearby garbage bin, and without a glance back, returned to the street.

Once he was on it, he resorted to a brisk walk. Daintily, he held one hand in an open gripping form, up next to his head. It looked as if he were holding a super long walking stick. Strangely the rain that would fall on him, redirected itself in the air, and rolled away from him. A dome of rain around his head soon formed, dripping around, but never directly on his body.

On the bridge, the person who he had earlier watched had set up on the edge of the bridge, and appeared to be fishing. Every so often they would reel in their line, and cast it out again after checking if the bait was still present. They hadn't had much luck, but looked to be doing it recreationally, and enjoying it as well. The ease in which the line was cast spoke of experience and skill. His position on the bridge was a good one, near the centre, with the river beneath him and the highly sloping banks to his either side.

The mute man had almost reached the bridge. At last minute though, he suddenly changed directions and headed straight for the bank. The slope would present challenge to any experienced climber, as it currently was muddy and eroding. The man was unconcerned. He just kept walking at the same pace, even after reaching the edge. On his first step over, instead of falling, his foot appeared to find solid ground. Enlightened, he continued on his invisible pathway, headed for the form of the fisherman.

The fisherman failed to notice the figure coming towards him in the fog. In fact it wasn't until he had lost the fish he had been reeling in that he looked up. The first thing he did was see the man sitting beside him, who was pretending to be copying his activity, holding a nonexistent fishing rod which he nonchalantly reeled in as well. The next thing he did was scream, releasing the shock he felt inside him. His silent copycat's hand flew to his mouth and his eyes widened with false horror. Third and finally, the fisherman let out what would be his final word.

"Mime!"

The mime, for that's what he was, threw his hands in the air in fake disbelief. The shock shown by the fisherman was almost humorous in its intensity, but was completely genuine. With another ghostly smile, the mime put two hands in front of him, like a double policeman's stopping motion. By now the fisherman had jumped to his feet, and had started to run the other way down the bridge. He had made it a metre when he hit an unseen wall, created by the mime. A step the other way revealed his fears, he was stuck in an invisible box. As he frantically felt along the wall, the mime raised his hand, shaped in a finger gun. A jerk of that gloved hand was all it took, for the fisherman's skill exploded where the bullet would have hit, spraying blood onto the sides of the wall. His hand grabbed the front of his shirt, where the bullet had excited. Turning around, his last sight was of his killer, head cocked, waving at his stooping figure.

A few minutes later, the mime was walking through the small town once again, his mission nearly accomplished. He reached into his pocket, and fished out a slim metal detonator. The casing was plain, with a single red button on its cover. With flourish, he pressed it. In the distance a large boom sounded, as the bridge exploded into an inferno. With a final smile, as he thought of how the piranhas he had realised would finish his work, the mime reached out his hand, and opened a door tangible only to him. Stepping through it, he disappeared from sight.

Alexzander Mason awoke to WHAT

Alexzander Mason never suspected his graffiti would kill someone. He never even suspected he would abducted by aliens because of it. To be honest, he never even expected to get caught. But here he was, flying in a space ship over the earth, and he hadn't a clue why.

His day had started off normally. The fifteen year old had slept in late, as usual. When he finally woke up, well into the afternoon, his parents had already left for work. His bedroom had been the same, hadn't it? His large brown bed had been in the centre of his room, with his desk pressed up to his bright red walls. His closet had been just as messy as the day before, threating to explode on contact. His window had been closed tightly, and his green curtain drawn shut, so that wasn't the problem. But he just couldn't shake the feeling that something had been different. Of course! His secret spot had been open. Under his black bedside table, was where he hid his spray paint and gloves. He had hollowed out the legs of the table last year, using his father's drill. As a result, he could just fit his supplies in them where no one but he knew where to look.

But this morning it had been open. To get at it, Alex normally had to slide the base of the leg out, and then tip the table up. But this morning, the base had already been slid out. At the time he had thought that he had been careless, but now he realised that someone had tampered with his equipment!

Alex tried to recall the rest of the events of the day. He had had grabbed his tools and ran downstairs to eat breakfast. It was the middle of summer, and so he hadn't had any school to go to. He had put some toast in the toaster and gotten dressed in his favorite black T-shirt and blue jeans. The jeans had a few holes in them, but they still stood up pretty well. Then his toast had popped and he had hastily eaten it.