Chapter 1 #Fact or Fiction
A Fresh, cold breeze pushes back his unruly dark curls, cool on his heated, sweat dripping brow.
A night like any other, it would seem as he pushes and pulls his broom in a familiar rhythm along the littered grass and dirt.
His wandering eyes spot remaining nomads of a once overwhelming stream of tourists and overexcited family's.
Not one was alone, which in his opinion was a good idea, you could never be too careful.
Clinging lovers passing through, hobble too close to him as he sweeps lazily by the light of an iron forged lamp, without looking where they were going the two almost trip over his moving broom, they give him a once over and move on.
Not much to see, he concludes.
He picks up his full garbage bag sitting propped up against the last glowing lamp in his vicinity, and drags it towards the big blue bin next to the community centre nearby.
An abandoned community centre he observes from the rotting wood boarding up the windows and the only entrance.
The small building appeared to be very old, but not classically old, just brick and peeling paint jobs, a room no longer with a purpose.
He could try to be poetic but it just didn't seem worth it.
To his left stood the blue metal dump, specifically put there to make his and his co workers job easier, a short sharp rustling sound distracts him momentarily and he flickers his eyes to an empty corner where the noise originated from.
He was warned about the rats.
They swarmed the shadows and took what they wanted, to get in their way would be suicide.
If he chose to be dramatic.
He carefully lifts the lid above his head and swiftly drops the bag inside.
As soon as his well filled trash bag hits the bottom of the extra large disposal unit, a cloud of dust assaults his unsuspecting face and clings to his permanent bed head.
He should have remembered that.
Each week a new town, but he is still yet to see a new more sanitary way to dispose of garbage.
Not that he ever learns from past experiences with these bins, because he doesn't. He steps back from the bin and coughs up what seems to be half of it's contents, he then shakes his hair to be rid of the clinging dust shower.
A few more shakes and he lifts his head up, the once sunset sky had become pitch black with a dusting of bright stars.
A cold gust of wind circles the trees and seeps frostily into his skin.
It's times like this that he feels very much alone.
Logically he knows he is not, his work mates and the performers were just around the corner, most likely helping themselves to an unhealthy amount of alcohol and pudding. The only recipe their cook gets correct every time, no accidental salt swapped with sugar mishaps that occur to his morning coffee every other day, he is still yet to confirm whether it truly is an accident, or something far more sinister.
He turns his face in the direction of their camp, a soft orange glow in the distance engulfed in deep blue.
If he tries really hard, he can almost hear the music. But as he was once told,
the knowledge and the feeling of being alone, are separate and dangerous things.
It's the darkness that surrounds him.
YOU ARE READING
Missing Parts
Fantasy"A cold gust of wind circles the trees and seeps frostily into his skin. It's times like this that he feels very much alone. But as he was once told, the knowledge and the feeling of being alone, are separate and dangerous things."...
