by Richard Lee
“Hello.”
Dean vanished.
Part Eight
Someone bumped into him. “Sorry mate.”
The city was alive. People crowed the sidewalk. A line of busses picked up passengers. Car horns blared. The sky was darkening. There were no Sparrows.
“Hello, Dean?”
“Yeah,” he muttered but closed the phone. His eyes were on the sky. “Oh shit.”
Part Nine
Where had he gone? What happened? What was that device?
The steps shook.
A large rumble came from the black tower. A thousand cracks tore the walls open. An explosion of colors spewed toward him. Through the air, red, greens, blues and yellows sped toward him. They curled around the steps serpent-like gripping the cold, damp concrete before rolling onto the steps and like a slinky in reverse, moved up toward the waiting old man.
The Old Ones were coming to finish him off.
He welcomed them with a scream.
The pain was total, yet thankfully short. And as his eyes slowly closed, he saw the colors sweep up into the air and plunge into the green sky. Their departure left a gaping hole and through it, the ocean crashed down.
END
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Richard Lee
About the Author
Richard Lee is a displaced New Zealand writer of the weird, wonderful and grotesque. Since 2001 he has made an impact on the genre world and thrives within its limitless boundaries.
Over seventy short stories have slammed his name on anthologies and magazines across the globe. Five novels impacted humanity and two novellas were the icing on the cake.
He still sends his books out to independent and legacy publishers, looking for that elusive million dollar cheque.
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Website: http://richardleewrites.com