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holdingacatCecil's breath felt like a solid thing in his chest - a heavy, ragged chunk of desert rock lodged between his ribs. His heart beat too loudly. So loud, his pulse hammering in his ear. Too loud.
Too loud.
He could not name what he dreads. He really couldn't. This dread fell without a reason, capturing him as neatly as a Librarian's tentacle.
Cecil sat, frozen in his chair, straining to hear around his drum-beat of a pulse. Is it coming?
What is it?
Why isn't it going?
He longed to run but his muscles stayed tight, still as a deer that has stepped into the headlights of an oncoming car in the late hours of night. He longed to hide, but he was sure any movement could lead to death.
Slowly, slowly, the fear eased, draining away like water out of a bath once the plug was pulled. His joints ached, but that was par for the course today. Finally released, he slumped back into his chair, and morosely contemplated his coffee cup. He might have time to make another cup before the start of the show, if he started now, and if the Station Management didn't want to bring up the ongoing negotiations again.
Later that day, as he huddled underneath his desk, curled around his microphone - he supposed the warm-up from the Creeping Dread that had attacked earlier was helpful. At least this time he wasn't stuck in his chair. Considering that would have left him out in the open for Station Management to eat and/or subsume, this was all to the good.
Ah, Weather was ending.
"Hello, radio audience?" He whispered, his voice rough with terror that he could only be thankful had a proper cause this time.
Too loud.
He could not name what he dreads. He really couldn't. This dread fell without a reason, capturing him as neatly as a Librarian's tentacle.
Cecil sat, frozen in his chair, straining to hear around his drum-beat of a pulse. Is it coming?
What is it?
Why isn't it going?
He longed to run but his muscles stayed tight, still as a deer that has stepped into the headlights of an oncoming car in the late hours of night. He longed to hide, but he was sure any movement could lead to death.
Slowly, slowly, the fear eased, draining away like water out of a bath once the plug was pulled. His joints ached, but that was par for the course today. Finally released, he slumped back into his chair, and morosely contemplated his coffee cup. He might have time to make another cup before the start of the show, if he started now, and if the Station Management didn't want to bring up the ongoing negotiations again.
Later that day, as he huddled underneath his desk, curled around his microphone - he supposed the warm-up from the Creeping Dread that had attacked earlier was helpful. At least this time he wasn't stuck in his chair. Considering that would have left him out in the open for Station Management to eat and/or subsume, this was all to the good.
Ah, Weather was ending.
"Hello, radio audience?" He whispered, his voice rough with terror that he could only be thankful had a proper cause this time.
