Mordax et al

allons-ytobakerstreet:

• The wind blows through the boats in the port. It makes a low sound, and, if you listen closely, you think you can hear voices.
• The seagulls have been gathering more than usual. In car parks and on lamp posts, telephone wires, chimney pots and in the streets. Their voices fill the air with bloodcurdling screams. You make sure not to meet their gaze.
• There’s an island about a mile offshore. You’re sure it wasn’t there yesterday, but you’re also sure it’s always been there. Faint memories come to you on the wind of picnics there long ago. You frown at what should be a familiar landscape. By morning, the island is gone.
• The arcade is bustling, noisy, penny machines and the smell of hot dogs an attraction for the tourists. Colours and sounds entice them in. You never see anyone come out.
• Every street you turn onto has a charity shop. They are staffed by little old ladies with teeth longer than you think teeth should be. Donations Wanted, claim the signs in the window. Donations Wanted, Donations Wanted, Donations Wanted.
• A sea mist rolls in, hanging over the coast like a blanket. It moves on the air like streams. Familiar landmarks become obscured and then completely disappear. When it recedes, nothing feels quite the same. You’re sure there wasn’t a pier there before.
• The fog horns are bellowing in the shipping lane, the low roar echoing over the water. There is no fog to warn of. You hurry inside and lock the door.
• Your train is delayed. A mechanical voice apologises for the delay. A train to a different location arrives. Nobody boards yet when it leaves the platform is empty. Sorry for the delay to this service, blares the voice, louder this time. Your train is never coming.
• The sea is grey. It has always been grey. Except for when it turns shades of vivid crimson. Nobody mentions when it turns inky black.