There’s someone else in here.



Endless fucking rain.

I can hear it outside my window. The world has been reduced to shades of grey. A black cloud looms large over the city’s landscape. The City of Promises and Desultory Dreams. The City where Shadows of our future selves will eventually come to die. The Genius of the Hole. That old, familiar feeling of foreboding.

Water is endlessly falling from the sky in tiny droplets that splatter on the pavement and whisper in a million voices. The rain is trying to tell us something. Something sinister that only heavens know but can’t openly share with the world below. Some dark, unforgiving truth. Perhaps something only birds understand, that whenever it rains, makes them not want to sing.

It was never meant to end like this. But then again — this isn’t the end. It’s not even the beginning. I just can’t tell you where it all began. Not yet.

I’m a writer. At least whatever passes for a writer these days. There are pages scattered all around me, a dead avalanche of creative false starts. Incomplete lives robbed of meaning. Sentences lost in a maze of self indulgence. Black snakes of pretty curves, neatly engraved into faded-white paper. Not all of them are mine. The pages came from an old, leather-bound notebook. The notebook came from her.

I want a cigarette.

There isn’t a soul on the street now. People huddle together around their TV’s, glued to whatever junk happens to be on air. Some are making dinners, others eating. An old man reading a worn copy of his favourite book, memories mingling with the narrative. A silent ghost of his dead wife lingering on the fringes of his psyche. A young couple having sex — fingers gripping tightly, bodies intertwined in a futile attempt at absolution, an escape from loneliness — not noticing that the world outside’s gone quiet. Just not for them.

The city always falls silent when it rains. Most cities do. People that inhabit them know better than to keep yammering. It’s only when it rains that everybody feels like they finally don’t have to say anything. Never ending circular reinforcement of opinions of all parties present, boring conversations about the menial — they all wither and die. People stop trying to fill the always unbearable silence with pointless banter and just listen to the sound of rain. Endless fucking rain.

It started with a dream. A nightmare.

Sincerely — writer.

The Plague, The Stranger, and The Fall. Read the first chapter.

This was posted as part of the extended storyline for our first experimental short film Sometimes We Talk available on Vimeo at