Stage Coffin
untitled
I expect no thing is true ever since I missed the cue
to tear after the staged, filmed, and fixed sliced sheer black-and-white recorded fear of the clock ticking left by itself as the killer lurks near.
My character hid behind the kind man's corpse in a musty closet garden shack wearing a mask of an emotionless face, fleshy, pale, and disgraced.
T'was young Macie Trace, daughter of unforgiving Pastor Hector, father and protector. Standing still I felt her childhood shelter sitting behind the holy alter sneaking communion crackers and grape juice-blood, intently listening to 'Noah and the Flood'.
Footsteps came; I maintained steady breath, tame as a shadow peered through a thin cracked window frame. He inhaled the smell of death to uncover life, a fresh exhale of mine caught in its flight.
As crazed, blood-thirsty maniacs might go, this one had articulated his moves to flow, as menacing and taunting, to I, last victim he'd be haunting, shuddering to hear his sighs now inside my silent confine.
Director schemes clever, decides to change the setting, betting an audience to prefer a misleading place, so the fear can be faced behind the first assurance of false security. Now a murderer can soil the purity of a family-friendly five-star assail on any seven seas.
He's right! And the caught eyes seem pleased to witness horrible Master Massacre, dreamboat Disney Cruise, a kill he's currently after.
- <<
- <
- >
- >>
