The Man From The Painting

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
Short story about a man in a painting.

Submitted: July 06, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 06, 2017




The seemingly endless rain was refusing to stop its ambush

The final splatters of water moistened the ground, debouching

From the clouds to the streets below.

to force the next discourteous person that treads its paths perform an unorganised slideshow.

The early morning hours of winter nights are cooling, peaceful but mostly consuming;

consuming the mind and soul of every delightful creature: charming.


That is where I saw him: the man.

The man with the slick black top-hat and long swaying, swishing trench-coat. The Deadman.

The blackness was devouring the street along with him in the process.

 The looming houses were like a gigantic gargantuan army of noblesse

looming, ‘to attention’ to the man on the street. In a loud and deadly silence.

All lights are out, not a whisper for the house, such prudence.


The smog and mist were surrounding him, as it seemed at a first glance.

On a further inspection the continual mist was marking the way for the man, in a casual trance

then following him like the good obedient soldiers they so clearly are.

He could not have been the bogyman,

for the bogyman does not own the mist and smog, this man does. Is that all part of his plan?

The man stops abruptly as if sensing my silent presence, moving his sleek walking stick to one side,

but keeping a hand firmly upon it as if ready to strike ready to turn in one swift glide.


Closing my eyes in a sheathe of fright,

I realise I was actually alright.

He is just the man from the painting…

© Copyright 2018 Ann Morse. All rights reserved.

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