Kyle Bradley @StaticInShadows

It tells me that there is still much work to be done, and I believe it. I watch as it unfurls before me in a manner my pen and paper are inadequate to describe. There is another world under the surface, it says, and I must let it out. My hands shake with every word I transcribe.

Rumour spread of a new tenant, a surprising development given how expensive the apartment was listed. After the moving van departed, and the scent of fresh flat pack furniture settled, Rebecca watched the city from her window. “Guess who’s back?” She smiled.

I have too many notes scribbled in too small handwriting across paper that’s too wrinkled and too yellowed. Half of these interviews seem to be misremembered artefacts and the other half are mundane. That’s not to say I won’t keep them. Mundanity is a part of life after all.

Telescopes can illuminate the deepest sections of our night sky. My editor tells me that anyone who claims to know what lies beyond is lying and I’m disinclined to believe him when this pale eyed creature darkens my door. She doesn’t understand what she sees and knows only hope.

Kit Starling @StarlingFlicker

6 months ago

Telescopes can illuminate the deepest sections of our night sky. My editor tells me that anyone who claims to know what lies beyond is lying and I’m disinclined to believe him when this pale eyed creature darkens my door. She doesn’t understand what she sees and knows only hope.

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This feeling of ice cold fingers gripping flesh and hair is…is all too much. They want me in one place, still, prone and…and I long only for…for escape. The words get stuck in…in my throat. Like they’re being pushed down and forced back. I crave only song…and kisses…

They come here most days hoping to catch another glimpse of the creature. They say it promised to return but all I see is a salty haze hanging above an unforgiving sea. They stand here alone in the bitter cold spray thinking they are remembered and that a promise will be kept.

They tell me I’m closer than I think. To me it’s still all smoke but they carry on. Says to look at the why and not the who or how. I clock a certain education to their drawl. Something about their choice of words makes me nervous. Checking in reflections for secret stalkers.

I come back to the trees once in a while to revisit the sight of the vanishing. From the corner of my eye the mind plays tricks. My editor enjoys this story as it’s cheap to rent a car and cheaper to stay in a motel nearby. I like this story because it never ends. They stay away.

I need time. There’s never enough time. Each word I write may as well be the tick of a clock and every page another wasted hour. I write words I know my editor will remove. I tell stories I know will be scrapped. I watch the others go about their days oblivious to the world.

He tells me the ship is sinking. I ask whether that’s a metaphor or literal. He laughs at me and apologises. It’s true, he says, before adjusting his tie. His eyes remain fixed on the sky scanning for imaginary invaders. At the end of the day, he says, it’s always business.

I remember…pain. It was good for a time when it was all I could feel. It reminded me I was still real and that once it was over the light would shine brighter. I remember creatures studying and toying with me. I remember running through fog and emerging unscathed.

We’d crossed some invisible border and ended up in the so called “God’s Country”. Every radio station threatened us with damnation if we didn’t donate, and I watched my drivers incredulous reactions to each Hallelujah. I watched the crosses by the roadside grow in number.

My name is…Kit. I’ve opened my eyes to find myself in the world of the living. A million thoughts are crashing through my mind and above all two stand out. Who are you? And what do you want from me? With arms outstretched and a faltering smile, let me be yours. Join me…

What are you looking for, I ask. They don’t reply, letting the static do the talking. Maybe they have a point. Sometimes looking for shapes in the shadows is more fulfilling than asking questions. In the starlight there looks to be an immeasurable amount of life. They watch me.

It’s a question of money sometimes. The flights cost too much and the gas isn’t enough to cover the cross country journeys. I begged my editor for a solution but in return he begged me for better stories. It’s hard to find the truth on a budget. These people want rewarding.

I tell him the image is old fashioned and people don’t employ travelling salesmen anymore. He tells me that’s the point and suspicion is key. As he hunts in the night he wants to be noticed and to stand out. He wants the reports to feature his description. He enjoys the fear.

The idea of “Lost Cosmonauts” was absurd and I refused to engage any further with the subject. Their voice screamed down the phone line that I was just like the rest. Between ominous static crackles and prolonged electronic beeps they begged me for more time. The silence howled.

When the phone rings I ignore it, knowing whose voice will taint me on the other end. Sometimes she laughs. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes they speak together in a strange harmony. Always the promise secrets and entice with lies. I let it ring. It’s shrill tone brings me comfort.