Sunday, September 2, 2012


Forgotten City

The painting had been moved, he knew it.
“How do you know?” the police officer asked.
He tilted his head left and right slowly, trying to find an answer but the painting looked untouched.
The situation was rather unusual, he had to admit. When he got home from work, he had the impression that there was someone in the house. Then, as he walked through the rooms to make sure there was no one there, he stopped in the office, in front of the painting. He looked at it carefully. It was straight, as always. He was very picky about paintings being straight. It was not damaged. It looked as it had always looked and yet he felt that someone had touched it.
“Was the front door open, when you got home?” asked the police officer.
“No, it was closed.”
“Does anyone else have the key to your house?”
He shook his head; he would never give the key to his home to anyone.
“Is anything missing from the house?” the police officer continued.
He shook his head again.
Then he remembered. He had seen this documentary on television about objects coming to life. Apparently it was something scientists had recently discovered.
“Perhaps…” he started.
“Well, perhaps the… painting… came to life…”
The police officer looked at his colleagues and back at him.
“To life…?”
“Yes, I watched this documentary…” As soon as he had started talking, he regretted it.
“Sir, I seriously doubt an object would come to life,” said the police officer. “I think our work is done here. Is there anything else we can do for you?”
He shook his head and everyone left. I am imagining things, he thought, I am getting old. He went back to the office and looked at the painting. There was something different about it; he just couldn’t figure out what.
As he walked to the kitchen, he heard a loud thump coming from the office. He hastily grabbed a knife and walked back.
The whole office had turned blue, and a mass of sackcloth coming from the painting quickly wrapped around him, dragging him, pulling him. Confused, he tried to free himself… to no avail.

“Hello? Police?”
“Yes, Ma’am. How can we help you?”
“I am Mr. Foster’s neighbor. I haven’t seen him since that day when the police came over to his house. I am kind of worried about him…”
“Ok, Ma’am, I’ll dispatch a unit to Mr. Foster’s house to check if he is alright.”

The door was closed, no one answered. The police officers had to knock it down. They walked throughout the whole house. It was empty.
Mr. Foster tried to yell for help, with no success. He was now part of the blue. The painting had come to life and taken him. The documentary was right. Progressively, the objects all over the world would make humans feel fragile, very fragile, once more…

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