I swear this is mostly a true story.  I’ll leave it to you to decide which part is fact and which is fiction:

I’m standing in the kitchen, washing dishes, and there’s a man standing on the back lawn. He shimmers, shivering, doing nothing but standing on the lush green grass, watching me with a mindless smile tattooed on his face. The same eyeless prophet standing outside my kitchen window.   Tonight, every night,

This man, he’s everywhere, I swear it.  I see him every place I go. At the market, at the movies, in the coffee shop. Behind the door or on the stair, No mere reflection in the mirror glare. No matter where I happen to be, impossibly, he’s there and I sense this seemingly sane man would speak if given the platform to do so, but he never utters a word. Not one. Not once. Not of grievance nor gratitude; he offers only silence as reward for concern.

But I digress. His appearance is making me feel nervous and somewhat fretful. Prophet he may be – he told me once in a dream, where we were sipping cocktails on the Vegas strip in the middle of the road, that Prophets aren’t in it for Profit. I told him he was a weirdo and then I woke up – he was human then and maybe he still is, I’m not sure.

He doesn’t frighten me. I’m no mewling kitten afraid of its own shadow.  Frail woman I am not, and fight I can and will, should the need arise. I suppose I have reason to be worried a smidge.  He seems so unaware of anything but me, and his empty sockets never leave mine.

In the dimness of dusk, with every light in the kitchen glowing, I stand here making fists in the soapy water, The Prophet’s mouth is moving, and he follows me as I let the water run down the drain, flip off the lights and leave the room.

I feel sad for him, but he doesn’t frighten me … not nearly as much as the naked, knife wielding maniac sneaking up behind him.



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