The Voice MailBox is Full

He stands atop the tallest building he can find, facing the sunrise, cigarette at his lips, too-blue eyes staring out against the mix of colors that signals dawn. Some freakish salmon, an indigo, a weird greybluebrown, soft lavender, and pale gold, first seeping up from the horizon, fading out the stars as the sky begins to smolder. Clouds ignite, and soon the heavens are made of color that burns.

There was something he was supposed to keep track of, something he was supposed to do, and when he catches those colors at the sunrise, he almost remembers. It reminds him of something, someone, but he can’t quite catch it, can’t quite put it to name. He’s spent the last few years trying to remember, chasing ghosts, following rumors, grasping at shadows, but it’s led him to the top of a parking garage he’s not even sure is the right one, and even if it were, he’s pretty sure he’s too late.


He exhales a dragon’s breath of tobacco smoke, and flicks the cigarette off the edge with one hand, pulling out his phone with the other. The voicemail box is full, has been for months —

— but he doesn’t remember the code to open it.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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