There's a city somewhere by the coast, formerly overcrowded and now only ever occupied by one resident at a time. They wake up in the city square and spend their life wandering empty streets, working in an empty office for a nameless, faceless employer who communicates via post-it notes left of the communal fridge.
This instils a sense of vague paranoia in the resident who will spend most of their free time searching for their employer in every conceivable and inconceivable location until their either exhaust all possibilities or themselves. Usually the latter occurs before the former.
Sometimes they will hear footsteps or a lone car echo through otherwise blank streets and they will feel compelled to chase this sound, to chase the possibility that they are not alone. They will both anticipate and dread meeting another living being - the city doesn't even have birds flying overhead or insects flickering in the corners of rooms.
Sometimes the pure silence will drive them to the tallest roof before isolation does. They never find the answers they've sought like how they came to be there and by whom and why their job consists of nothing but noting down faulty streetlights and traffic lights when there isn't even any traffic to control.
Sometimes they catch glimpses of their ever-illusive employer reaching through a crackling rip in the air, hands as hairy as they are multi-jointed and constantly twitching as if they are scenting their air. They place the latest post-it note down with surprisingly delicate motions before retreating as silently as they arrived.
The residents rarely last a day after seeing the employer and none have lasted a year. Their blood feeds the city, feeds the things beyond the crackling rips in the air that gently pick their body up and take them to the other side to join all the former residents at the timeless feast where they are always served fresh.
This instils a sense of vague paranoia in the resident who will spend most of their free time searching for their employer in every conceivable and inconceivable location until their either exhaust all possibilities or themselves. Usually the latter occurs before the former.
Sometimes they will hear footsteps or a lone car echo through otherwise blank streets and they will feel compelled to chase this sound, to chase the possibility that they are not alone. They will both anticipate and dread meeting another living being - the city doesn't even have birds flying overhead or insects flickering in the corners of rooms.
Sometimes the pure silence will drive them to the tallest roof before isolation does. They never find the answers they've sought like how they came to be there and by whom and why their job consists of nothing but noting down faulty streetlights and traffic lights when there isn't even any traffic to control.
Sometimes they catch glimpses of their ever-illusive employer reaching through a crackling rip in the air, hands as hairy as they are multi-jointed and constantly twitching as if they are scenting their air. They place the latest post-it note down with surprisingly delicate motions before retreating as silently as they arrived.
The residents rarely last a day after seeing the employer and none have lasted a year. Their blood feeds the city, feeds the things beyond the crackling rips in the air that gently pick their body up and take them to the other side to join all the former residents at the timeless feast where they are always served fresh.
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