The Walkers; a high pitch whine that emits their coming.
Strong as they get close now; a guttural tearing sound no longer heard but felt.
Fleshmetal ripping; reformation and mutation in every stride.
Static objects; now animated against their very nature, no wonder they scream.
We’ve been hiding from them for three years now. Always on the move. They sense us. We are quicker but they are unrelenting, they never stop.
The keening crescendos once one of ours is caught. Cacophonic battles between some poor devil who tripped up or slept too long.
I’ve seen it happen; stuck in death-squabbles the subject seems to disappear granularly from the inside middle, the brain and the toes the last thing to go.
Of the twenty four that appeared none have been scratched. We poured millennia of technological deluge upon them but they sist to cease.
That’s what turned the Sky.
Is this our punishment?
Found text, April 2018.
Written on the walls of a suburban house, Warners Bay, Australia.
Author not present
Photomedia project ‘Surreal’. I would have liked to work more with these images but due dates mean letting go at points… which is probably a good thing.
Abando on Hunter st Newcastle. Front panels had been ripped off so I went ‘splorin.
Dirty, filled with pigeons their shit. Bed, fire place in an old rice cooker, needles.