Haven’t felt much like working since Waspgate 2014. It’s hard to concentrate when your ankles feel like water balloons filled with the essence of itching. For some reason writing provides more relief than drawing, it’s like the itch centers and the word centers of my brain have a hard time working in parallel. So I’ve been writing e-mails, comic script, part of two short stories, and this exercise thing that I’ll post here because I’m not planning to do anything else with it. Someone on dA posted a writing prompt that read “I was the kid who…” and this is what oozed out:
I was the kid who went missing.
They think I was snatched from the schoolyard on my way home, by a succession of suspects in nondescript cars. A man may be sitting in jail, blamed for my abduction. I don’t know.
The truth is that I got lost. I turned a fraction of a degree too far, slipped on a quark and here I am. Just the slightest bit out of touch with reality.
I’m a ghost. I haunt the neighbourhood where I’ve always lived. I used to go home, but a few years after my disappearance my parents moved away and I didn’t go with them. I got bored of watching my mom cry. Strangers live in the house now. My room is someone’s home office.
Later I hung out at the school, watching the drama until my friends graduated. These days I wander the streets and houses, a shadowy flicker out the corner of your eye when you’re sure nothing’s there.
You can’t see me but I can see you. I follow you home. I sit on your couch and freak your dog out. I look into your fridge and read over your shoulder. When you go upstairs for that hit of porn or booze or to simply lie catatonic in bed watching the tube, I’m right there with you. I know everything but what you never let leave your head.
I can’t wait until I figure out how to get back.